The Great Trouble Read online

  “The consumption.” Charlie nodded knowingly. “I had a cousin went that way. How ’bout your mum, then? She gone too?”

  “Less than three years after my father. Last September. Just about a year ago now.”

  “Broken heart, was it?”

  I didn’t answer. Though that wasn’t a bad guess. Not a bad guess at all.

  Charlie and I loaded coffins onto the cart all that long, hot day. Once the cart was full, we headed over to the undertaker’s to unload and to pick up more empty coffins. Charlie was careful to mark each coffin with the name of the dead person.

  “Don’t want to get ’em mixed up, though some would say it don’t matter,” he remarked. “But I don’t hold with that. If I go to visit a grave, I want to know that I’m talking to the right person.”

  The sweat ran down my face. I’m not ashamed to say that it got mixed with tears more than once. The cholera had struck Broad Street hardest of all. But we also went into houses on Poland Street, Hopkins Street, Peter Street, and Berwick Street, where Florrie and her family lived.

  It was dusk by the time we stopped. I felt worn out and sick at heart. I barely had strength to move. Charlie gave me two shillings for my work, and said he guessed he had a cousin who’d be able to help him the next day.

  I looked at the shillings greedily. I’d already spent the pennies I’d gotten yesterday on a roll and a bit of cheese. I hadn’t felt much like eating all day. But now, suddenly, I was ravenous. I imagined biting into a hot meat pie or a piece of bread spread thick with butter.

  No, I told myself. I should save these shillings to give to Mrs. Miggle.

  “You done good,” Charlie was saying. “You’re such a thin, shadowy lad I feared you might scare the little orphans. But when you smile, you light up, like moonlight. And the kiddies took to you, they did, after all.”

  He brought out a small basket that had been sitting at his feet in the cart. He opened it and held out a bottle of ginger beer and a large meat pie.

  “I can’t eat till the end of the day in this job, but then I gets so hungry I can’t make it home without a nibble,” Charlie admitted with a grin. “My wife packed more than enough. So here—you’ve earned it, lad.”

  I’m sure my eyes were as round as saucers by that point. And when I took my first bite of that flaky crust, I didn’t think a meal had ever tasted so good.

  After Charlie left, I tiptoed up the stairs at 40 Broad Street. As I was about to knock, I looked over at the door to the room Annie Ribbons shared with her parents and baby sister, Fanny. I hadn’t seen Annie since yesterday. I wondered if the Lewises had decided to leave, as so many other families had. At least Charlie and I hadn’t had to go in there.

  Florrie opened the door and stuffed her little sketchbook back into her apron pocket. She stuck her pencil into the top of one braid. “Where have you been? I thought you’d come by earlier.”

  “I’ve been helping the coffin man,” I said. Then I closed my mouth. That was all I would say. I could never tell Florrie, or Henry, or anyone, what I had seen and heard and done.

  Dilly pushed past Florrie and flopped at my feet, grinning the way dogs do. Her tail thumped wildly on the worn wooden floorboards with a loud swishing noise. “Quiet, girl,” I said, scratching her ears.

  “How … how are they?” I whispered.

  “I don’t know. It’s awful scary, Eel. They’re sleeping now, even Betsy,” Florrie said. “I never seen the cholera before.”

  “How about your family?”

  “For now, everyone’s fine. Nancy’s out helping neighbors, same as me. Pa’s working. Danny brought over some meat pies Mum made.” Florrie paused to take a sip of water from a jug. “My mother ain’t so good with sickness herself. Just faints away and is no help to anyone.”

  Mrs. Griggs stirred and moaned.

  “I’ve made up my mind, Florrie. I’ve decided to ask Dr. Snow to come see Bernie and Mrs. Griggs. He’s been out on doctor business all day. But I’m going there tonight,” I promised. “And I’ll sleep in the shed if he’s not there. I won’t let him leave in the morning until he hears me out. He’ll help them, I know he will.”

  “Will you still ask him to help you with Mr. Huggins?”

  “It’s too late,” I said, shaking my head. “Mr. Huggins won’t believe anything I say now. I can’t go back. Besides, this is more important.”

  “Everything is different now, ain’t it?” said Florrie softly. “It’s like the whole world changed.”

  Florrie glanced over at Betsy, who lay curled up a bit apart from her mother and brother. Betsy’s cheeks were flushed from the heat. At least she still looked healthy and pink, not blue and pale. Maybe Betsy would be lucky.

  Florrie patted the sketchbook in her pocket. “I’m not sure if it was the proper thing to do, but I made some drawings of Bernie and Mrs. Griggs today. If the worst does happen, Betsy will have something to remind her of the way they looked.”

  “The worst won’t happen,” I said fiercely. “It can’t.”

  The stillness was suddenly broken by an odd sound. I realized it was coming from me. The meat pie had been so delicious it had made me hungry for more.

  “That’s your stomach,” said Florrie, stifling a smile.

  She went to a basket by the wall and took out a slice of bread, spread thick with butter. “Danny brought this too. I can’t eat it,” she said. “You take it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dilly stared up at me with soft, begging eyes. I broke off a piece, and she snapped it out of the air. Florrie grinned. “No wonder they call you Eel. You’re as thin as one.”

  She gestured to a bucket in the corner. “Want some water?”

  I shook my head. “No, thanks. The coffin man just gave me a ginger beer.”

  “Lucky you. Ginger beer is my favorite,” said Florrie. “You could’ve saved me some.”

  “Next time,” I promised.

  I sat with Florrie for a while, then bid her good night and set out. It was dark now. I was extra careful on Regent Street to watch for pickpockets. When I got to Sackville Street, I gave the creatures in Dr. Snow’s menagerie more water. The rabbits’ eyes glowed in the silvery moonlight.

  The lights in Dr. Snow’s house were out. It was too late to knock on the door. I’d have to try in the morning. I should go to the river to sleep, I thought. But I couldn’t move another step. I felt tired from the inside out. I curled up in a corner of the shed and used my cap for a pillow.

  The animals rustled and moved restlessly. They weren’t used to me being there except to feed them. I tossed and turned too. I squeezed my eyes shut against the pictures that filled my mind, but it didn’t help. In the end, I’m not ashamed to say, I cried myself to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In Dr. Snow’s Study

  Sunday, September 3

  “Yes? May I help you, lad?” A pair of keen brown eyes gazed at me curiously.

  Dr. Snow himself!

  “Uh … uh, yes, sir.…” I snatched the cap from my head, which sent a lock of hair spilling into my eyes. I tried to brush it away, which made me drop the cap.

  I hadn’t expected Dr. Snow to answer the door himself. I’d almost forgotten his strange voice, hoarse and husky. Maybe this was a bad idea, I thought as I picked up my cap. He probably doesn’t even remember my name. What makes me think he’ll come to help Bernie just because I ask?

  Finally I planted myself before him, cap held respectful-like in my hands as Mum had taught me. “Please, sir … I need …”

  The words stuck in my throat. I glanced down at my dirty left toe and felt my face flush red. I was sure I still smelled like the Thames.

  “Go on, then,” he urged. “Is there a problem with the animals, lad?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Nothing like that. It’s Broad Street.”

  “Broad Street?” He held a napkin in one hand. I groaned inwardly. I was interrupting his breakfast. Then I thought of Bernie, who was too sick to eat.

>   I pulled myself together. “Sir, it’s the blue death. The cholera has come to Broad Street.”

  The doctor threw down his napkin and grabbed me by the shoulders. His voice came out huskier than ever. “Are you sure?”

  “Y-yes, sir. There can be no doubt of it,” I stammered. He shook me a little.

  “Your name is Eel, as I recall. So, Eel, how can you be certain?” Dr. Snow queried. “Do you have any idea what the symptoms of cholera look like?”

  “Yes, Dr. Snow. I do now,” I told him. “I saw one man die of it, and now his wife and little boy are struck. And many more besides.”

  “You’d better come in,” he ordered, letting me loose.

  My mouth fell open. But he was already beckoning me inside. “Yes, yes. Come in while I get ready. I have more questions for you.”

  I stopped to pick up his napkin and trailed behind him, walking on tiptoe. Where was Mrs. Weatherburn? I could imagine her appearing, taking one sniff of the air, and declaring, “A mudlark is here!”

  We passed through a small dining room, and Dr. Snow nodded toward the sideboard. “Have you eaten? Help yourself to toast. If, that is, you can eat while you talk.”

  I placed the napkin carefully on the sideboard. I didn’t want to be accused of stealing it. The sideboard had dishes with enough food for a half-dozen people, not just one man. There were eggs and tomatoes and late-summer strawberries. The toast was warm and buttery. I snatched two pieces, folded them, and stuffed them into my pocket for later.

  I looked longingly at the little pot of raspberry jam. No sense in taking the risk of dropping a big blob of jam on Dr. Snow’s rich green carpet. Mrs. Weatherburn would want to lock me in the Tower of London for that.

  Dr. Snow had gone through to the next room, a small study that faced the street. I stood in the doorway. I could see shelves lined with great, fat books. There was a desk and two large tables piled high with papers. On one sat an instrument I recognized as a microscope.

  “So, where did you say it was again?” Dr. Snow was wrapping some cloth around glass vials and packing them into a large black bag.

  “In the neighborhood of Broad Street, sir. Not far north of here, across Regent Street, just past the Golden Square.”

  “Ah yes, I know it,” he said. “Go on. When did it begin?”

  “Well, I suppose, sir, it was Thursday,” I said. “At least that’s when Mr. Griggs got very ill.”

  “And who is Mr. Griggs?” Dr. Snow glanced at me. “Come closer, lad. I can barely hear you if you stay there on the threshold and mumble.”

  “But, sir, I don’t like to. My shoes …” I looked down. “Mrs. Weatherburn …”

  “Ah, quite right. I’m a trial to the good lady myself.” He smiled. “Fine. Stay where you are, then, but speak up. You were telling me about Mr. Griggs.”

  “Mr. Griggs is a tailor at Forty Broad Street, sir. He lives upstairs from his shop with his family,” I said. It was hard to talk loudly. These weren’t the kind of rooms where a body could feel comfortable shouting.

  “That is, I mean to say, he did live there,” I went on. “He died on Friday, a bit after noon.”

  “How do you know this?” Dr. Snow’s eyes bored into me.

  “I visited him Thursday when he was sick. And also the next day when … it happened.” I swallowed. “You can ask Reverend Whitehead. He was there too and told us it was the cholera.”

  I couldn’t tell if Dr. Snow believed me, so I plunged on. “That’s not all, sir. After that they hung up a yellow flag to warn folks not to come near. They spread out lime too. Nasty-smelling stuff, that is. But they say it keeps the cholera from spreading and helps to clean the air. You know, from the miasma.”

  “Hmph! Miasma. Cleans the air!” To my surprise, Dr. Snow shook his head in disgust. Then he went on, talking more to himself now. “Cholera. A few blocks away. And I’m just hearing about it now. Well, no wonder. I’ve had so many cases that I’ve barely been home these last two days.

  “Keep talking, lad,” he commanded over his shoulder, still busy with his bag. “Is this Mr. Griggs the only death so far?”

  “Oh, no, sir.” I thought of all I had seen while helping Charlie the coffin man. “No. It’s more like a spark that has caught and now it’s a roaring fire.”

  I hesitated. “I think …”

  “Go on. You think what?”

  “Sir, I believe there must be tens struck down by now, maybe a hundred or more. Folks have gotten sick in the neighborhood all around Broad Street,” I said in a rush. “At least, that’s what the coffin man and I saw yesterday.”

  Dr. Snow straightened up to face me, leather bag forgotten. He caught me in a gaze so firm I couldn’t get away. But his voice came out soft, as though I were a dog he was afraid to spook. “What made you talk to a coffin man?”

  “I did some work for ’im, sir. To earn a few coins.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Helping load the coffin cart when ’is mate got faint and couldn’t stomach it.”

  “Did you touch the dead yourself?” Dr. Snow rasped, coming closer.

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” Dr. Snow was close now. He reached out and took me by my shoulders.

  “At first we had wooden coffins for the bodies,” I explained. “But those ran out. So then the coffin man had to use burlap sacks. But Charlie … he didn’t make me touch any bodies. He said that wouldn’t be fair, me being just thirteen. He did it himself. Usually the family helped.”

  “Promise me,” said Dr. Snow, gripping my shoulders more tightly. “I want you to promise me that you will never do that again. And if you go into the houses where the sick people are, try not to touch anything. Most of all, do not drink the water.”

  Why was he telling me this? I wondered. Wasn’t cholera spread by poisons in the air?

  “Sir, about the sick people,” I said quickly. I’d have to ask more about the water later. “That’s why I’m here. Mr. Griggs had a wife and two children. Mrs. Griggs and little Bernie are both sick. Bernie has lasted more than a day. That’s a good sign, isn’t it, sir? I mean, does everyone die of it?”

  “Many do,” said Dr. Snow, who had let me go and was walking back to his desk. “But not all.”

  At least that meant Bernie might have a chance. “Dr. Snow, please, you have to come.”

  Dr. Snow no longer seemed to be listening. He finished packing his bag and beckoned me to follow him—this time heading for the front door. “Come along, then.”

  “That way? Through the front door of your house, sir? I … I couldn’t. I don’t think Mrs.—”

  “Now!”

  I rushed on tiptoe after him. I glanced behind me. The house was still quiet. It was Sunday. Perhaps Mrs. Weatherburn had gone to church.

  I hoped she had, and that she wasn’t strolling down Sackville Street on her way home right now—in time to see a mudlark coming out the front door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dr. Snow’s Patient

  Dr. Snow walked briskly, snaking through the crowds on Regent Street. I had to hurry to keep up. My mind was working almost as fast as my legs.

  I’d done it! The great doctor was on his way to Broad Street. He’ll be able to help Bernie and Mrs. Griggs now, I thought. Maybe Dr. Snow can save everyone.

  We veered off Regent Street and passed through the Golden Square. Usually the small park was crowded with courting couples or workers stopping to have a smoke. Now it was empty, except for a pigeon on the statue’s head.

  The statue depicted a fine-looking fellow, strong and proud. Once, Florrie and I had happened upon Rev. Whitehead sitting in the park. He’d been reading, but when he saw us, he closed his book and greeted us with a friendly smile.

  “I like to sit and watch the pigeons enjoying the view from George the Second’s head,” he remarked, pointing. “Do you know who he was?”

  “He was a great king from ages ago, weren’t he?” s
aid Florrie.

  “Indeed he was, though I am afraid history tells us he had a reputation for being rather mean.”

  “He seems nice enough,” said Florrie. “I think it would be awful to be made into a nasty-looking statue and have to stay like that for hundreds of years.” She laughed and reached into her apron pocket for her sketchbook. “Don’t move, Mr. Pigeon! I’m going to draw you.”

  I watched her work. She had a way of frowning when she was concentrating hard, and tossing one braid over her shoulder when it got in her way. “I’d better be careful to smile around you,” I said, “or you’ll put me into one of your sketches with a big frown on my face.”

  “You draw well, Florrie,” remarked Rev. Whitehead.

  “Thank you, sir. I just do it for fun. It would be lovely to make something out of stone or marble, though … something that would last,” she said thoughtfully, studying the statue. “I’d like to do one thing in my life that would keep on for a long time.”

  Rev. Whitehead smiled. “Not all of us can make statues. But I believe the actions we take and the kindnesses we practice endure beyond our own lives.”

  I hadn’t seen Dr. Snow put any medicine in his bag. I did wonder what those glass vials were for. Maybe he would draw blood from Bernie or ask him to spit into one. But as we got closer to Broad Street, Dr. Snow didn’t seem interested in Bernie. Instead he wanted to discuss details about the epidemic itself. “Tell me more.”

  I paused, trying to sort out everything that had happened over the last few days. Dr. Snow seemed to sense I was a bit muddled.

  “Just start at the beginning,” he suggested. “You mentioned that Mr. Griggs was probably the first to die. Was he also the first to show signs of the disease?”

  “I believe so, sir,” I answered slowly. “At least, Reverend Whitehead didn’t mention anyone else being sick first.”

  “Go on, Eel,” said Dr. Snow. “Can you tell me more about seeing Mr. Griggs after he got sick? What was his condition?”