The Great Plague Page 6

  Poppet hardly knew what to make of it all and trotted beside me in a most subdued manner. We passed two dead cats which puzzled him and a small piglet running from an irate man whose language bears no repeating. Poppet perked up and would have given chase but I held tight to his lead, wrapping it once around my hand to shorten it. I was determined, should we meet a dog-catcher, that I would carry Poppet under my arm until we were safely past him.

  When I reached Old Street I at once met with a defeat. The pesthouse was a dismal building but I marched right in, refusing to be cowed. The man at the desk listened to me with indifference. Finally he took out a clay pipe and filled and lit it. Paynton? The name meant nothing to him.

  “But you must have a list,” I insisted, coughing from the loathsome smoke. “You will find my father’s name. Edmund Paynton.”

  Shaking his head, he sucked noisily at his pipe.

  “He works for the Navy Board. He was brought—”

  “He might work for King Charles himself – it makes little difference to me!”

  I longed to shake him but somehow kept a civil tongue. “Then who can help me?”

  He shrugged. The regular man, he said, had fallen sick and was admitted less than an hour since. I pitied that poor fellow with all my heart. I would not leave, however, until I had news of Papa. An hour passed. Poppet grew restless but at last a physician appeared and he produced a list of deaths. Finding a name among so many took more time and my heart raced with a frightful anxiety. But at last I heard the best news possible. That Papa was not among the dead. He will leave on the 4th September.

  “You cannot visit him, but you can leave a note if you wish.”

  I tore a page from my diary and wrote that I was going to Woolwich. I decided the news of Aunt Nell’s death must wait until he is stronger in mind and body.

  I went home, weary to my bones and slept long and deep. Today I shall go to the Old Bailey and collect my Certificate of Health. Then I must hire a horse or find a carter to take me to Uncle John’s farm.

  Time to get up.

  Later

  Another long and fretful day. The sun is setting and I am still at home. At least I have my precious certificate. The line of people outside the Old Bailey numbered a hundred or more when I arrived. I was struck at once by the number wearing mourning bands. Hardly a soul but had lost a loved one. It brought tears to my eyes to think on the grief this plague has brought upon the good people of London.

  The clock struck ten as I took my place behind a large man with a ravaged face and eyes red from weeping. Turning to me, his first words were, “Can you read?”

  When I nodded he thrust a letter into my hand. ’Twas written by a Doctor Molloy, confirming health and fitness. His face lightened with relief as I deciphered the spiky handwriting.

  “I trust nobody,” he muttered. Kissing the letter, he carefully refolded it.

  Thinking to while away the time I tried to strike up a conversation but he had no further use for me and kept his mouth resolutely shut.

  I had left Poppet at home for fear he would grow restless or run off. No such thought had entered the head of the woman who took her place behind me in the fast growing line. She had brought a green parrot which chattered ceaselessly within its wicker cage. I realized that it uttered the most profane words. Perhaps my shock showed in my eyes for the woman gave me an anxious glance.

  “ ’Tis French the bird speaks,” she told me.

  “Indeed?” I said. “I know nothing of that language.”

  Which seemed to reassure her. She then told me with no prompting (she was a talkative soul) that she had spent five hours in the line yesterday only to be turned away when they closed. She was tenth in line by that time. Others had spent days trying to obtain their certificates. My heart sank. If I am out of luck today, I vowed, I must rise earlier tomorrow.

  I told her of my loss and the miracle that I had not taken the disease. She, it seemed, had had the plague and recovered. Her mother, father and sister had all died. Her father’s parrot was all that remained, she said, and she would not be parted from it.

  “But God spared me!” Her eyes shone as she made the sign of the cross.

  She told me she was determined to go to her brother who lives in Bromley and raises each year a vast flock of geese. These he brings up to London each December for the Christmas trade – a journey taken on foot and lasting many days. The thought of these creatures waddling slowly towards their fate troubled me. But then I remembered the fine bird we had last Christmas with chestnut stuffing and bread sauce, and I hastily put the thought aside. I tried to imagine our next Christmas dinner and failed. With God’s help Papa will be with us, but without Aunt Nell the celebration will be a sad affair. I brushed tears from my eyes as the guilt flooded in again. I had brought about my aunt’s death and nothing could ever be the same again.

  Just before six I was ushered inside the building and made my way to an ornate desk where the large man waited his turn, his fingers crossed behind his back. The clerk seated at the desk read his letter carefully and then he frowned.

  He said, “Doctor Molloy? The name’s unfamiliar.”

  I saw the large frame tremble as the man behind the desk scanned a sheaf of names.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked. “We have no Molloy listed. This letter is a forgery. Worthless. How did you come by it?”

  The man stared at him open-mouthed, seemingly struck silent by his dismay.

  The clerk handed back the letter. “Whatever you paid for it, you have been cheated. . . Next!”

  Until this day I had not seen a grown man weep as that man did but I could not pity him. Had he been fit a doctor would surely have confirmed it. So was he ill of the plague? I had stood behind him in the line for hours. Or was he still recovering? Had he broken out of a locked house? I drew back from him in a fright as he stumbled past me. He muttered incoherently beneath his breath, rubbing at his tears with his sleeve. The man behind the desk shook his head in despair.

  “A rogue or a fool. The latter I pity. The gullible are easy prey for quacks,” he told me as he searched his list for my doctor’s name and finding it, nodded. He filled out a certificate, signed and sealed it. “Next!”

  I smiled at the parrot lady as I left and we wished each other well. I came home and came to bed. Now my writing is done I shall pray most earnestly. I missed seeing Master Winn. Doubtless, now that he is no longer needed here, he is guarding another house somewhere in the city.

  August 16th

  It is half past six and I have decided to visit Maggie before I set off for Woolwich. I have been to her house once and hope I may find it again. I cannot leave London without discovering how they fare. If I see Will I shall tell him of my flight to the country. . .

  Seven o’clock the same evening

  I ventured into St Giles with a posy of herbs at my nose and spoke with Maggie who was pleased to see me. She looks very tired but has so far survived. She, Will and one sister are all that remain of her family but Will is thrown into the Fleet Prison for stealing from an abandoned house. She begged me to enquire after him before I go.

  “If the plague does not claim him he will die of gaol fever!” she insisted.

  So, with no great liking for the errand, I set out for the prison. On reaching it I saw an iron grating through which a motley collection of arms waved. A small crowd had gathered and many conversations were taking place so that the noise was appalling. From further inside voices called for food in tones of great desperation. I entered the gate and found a warder – a scrawny man wearing clothes too big for him. He said he had no one there by that name.

  “But he is here!” I insisted. “I have a message from his sister and must speak with him.”

  “Then ask for him outside.”

  I returned to the grating and fearfully pushed a way through the crowd. I ask
ed for Will and after an interval his cheeky face appeared. He seemed not one whit dismayed by his situation and his grin was as broad as ever.

  “Come to get me out, have you?” he asked.

  Such a thought had never entered my head, but now it seemed I must try to help him. Not only for Maggie’s sake but for the good he had done me. I owed him a favour. A young man said I would have to bribe the warder, so back I went. I found the wretch gnawing at a chicken leg. I suggested that Will might be released to make room in the prison for a more serious offender. The man laughed in my face. Seeing how few good teeth he had I wondered how he could eat the chicken. He asked what I should give him and I was stumped for an answer.

  “A pewter flagon,” I suggested. Papa would be angry but I would face that when it came.

  He argued for more but I was adamant that we had nothing else. Tossing the chicken bone over his shoulder he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Fetch it.” I hurried home and took the smallest of the two flagons. Then I had a better idea. I took the flagon to a money lender who lent me two shillings on it. I told him I would repay the money after the plague and he swore to keep it for me. When I reached the prison I offered the warder one of the shillings, saying I had sold the flagon for him. He held out his hand but I withdrew it.

  “I want to see Will first.”

  He spat to show his disdain but went away. I heard his footsteps as he went down the stone steps and minutes later he returned with Will. As I held out the shilling Will snatched it from my hand and sped away out of the building. I stared after him openmouthed. The gaoler was livid but there was nothing to be done without revealing the bribe. Foolishly I lingered to apologize but, furious at being duped, he gave me a push which sent me sprawling. As I tried to stand he cursed me soundly and kicked me so hard that I fell again. I curled into a ball and prayed he would not kill me. The appearance of another man saved me. I scrambled shakily to my feet and set off after Will.

  He was waiting for me at the corner of the street.

  “What happened to you?” he asked.

  I told him and he looked suitably abashed. He returned the shilling saying he had no need of it. There were rich pickings wherever he looked.

  “But you may be caught again,” I protested.

  “Not me!” he laughed. Then looking thoughtful said, “I may try my luck at the Cockpit. A small wager might bring its reward and I do like to see the feathers fly!”

  I reminded him that the cockfighting, like most other sports, had been closed down by the authorities. He tapped the side of his nose. Did he know something I do not? There are ways and means, he told me, then darted away and was lost to view. Sadly, I must accept that he is a born thief. I uttered a short prayer that he may not come to an untimely end.

  I pondered whether to redeem Papa’s flagon but decided I might need the money. Somehow I had to find a horse and start the journey to Woolwich. I passed several livery stables but none could help me. Their horses were booked for days to come. I saw a carrier’s sign but was told by a neighbour that the carrier was dead. The previous day he was set upon by two men who stole his horse and cart and left him lying senseless upon the cobbles.

  I gave up and returned home where Poppet greeted me ecstatically. We spent a quiet evening. I vow to do better tomorrow.

  August 18th

  Today I am black and blue from the beating at the prison. I am stiff in my right leg but will survive. No time to feel sorry for myself.

  The fires are now lit in the street and I must provide some kindling. I found some small logs in the yard and took them out to the nearest blaze. There is no breeze and the fires smoulder erratically. More smoke than flames. I came back into the house with my eyes smarting. Are the fires burning the pestilence from the air? Why do I doubt it?

  I woke early with griping in my stomach and had no mind to seek out a horse today. I decided to rest and renew my flagging energies, which stood me in good stead for the doctor called on me. He had instructions on how to fumigate Aunt Nell’s sick room, “Lest you return home at the end of the plague to find the disease still lingering.”

  He was pleased that I had obtained my certificate and urged me to be on my way out of London as soon as possible.

  When he had gone I lit a small fire in the yard and burned the sheets from Aunt Nell’s bed. On a whim I looked into her clothes chest and found her treasures, neatly wrapped in paper or cloth. A miniature of my grandmother, a spray of faded lavender, a bundle of letters which I did not read and a single letter that I did read. ’Twas from a man named Justin who wanted to marry Aunt Nell. Intrigued, I read on and then felt truly guilty. Poor Aunt Nell had apparently refused him, saying that she must care for me and Papa since my mother had died.

  . . . I respect your wishes, dearest Eleanor, with a most heavy heart. Had you married me we could have raised the child as our own but since you confess that you care also for the widower I can do no more. . .

  The discovery shocked me for I had known nothing of the romance with Justin. Nor had I the notion that Aunt Nell might have loved Papa. Has he ever known, I wonder? If so I assume he did not love her in return. After my mother’s death he could have married Aunt Nell after a suitable interval. ’Tis strange to consider that I, too, might have had a different life. I might have been raised by Aunt Nell and Justin with the brothers and sisters that might have been born to them.

  I sighed as I replaced the letter. Poor Aunt Nell might have led a very different life, too. I hope she didn’t regret giving up Justin to care for us. How I wish I had been nicer to her.

  I found also a small carved elephant which I shall keep for myself and take with me as a lucky charm. I know Aunt Nell would not object.

  In the afternoon I went to the apothecary and bought amber, saltpetre and brimstone.

  He said, “You are fumigating a room, I take it.”

  I told of Aunt Nell’s death and he shook his head sorrowfully. “I am nearly out of such ingredients. Consider yourself fortunate.” He then urged me to start the process as soon as possible.

  “Keep the window tight shut for 24 hours then drive the smoke from the room with a flapping towel or small blanket.”

  I have done all that I was bid. I lit the fire in Aunt Nell’s room and laid the brimstone, amber and saltpetre upon the glowing coals. It immediately sent out copious fumes which made me choke. I retired, closing the room behind me. I felt as though I was closing a door on my past life when I was happy and carefree. I wonder, will that time ever come again?

  August 19th

  I am writing this with my back propped against a tree about four miles from the city. My horse, Jasper, a grey cob, grazes nearby. He has a wild look in his eyes yet will not go above a snail’s pace. I bought him for two shillings from the wife of a carter. Her husband has died of the plague and she wanted to be rid of the animal.

  “The wretched creature bit me,” she told me, “and would kick me if I go near enough. You are welcome to it. I’ve better things to do than go foraging for hay and oats!”

  I had no money for the cart so I rode sidesaddle for nearly three hours with Aunt Nell’s parasol to keep the sun from my head. My sweet little Poppet trotted alongside, mighty puzzled at first by the horse and my sitting upon it. He whined for the first half hour but was finally resigned to the situation.

  I may be tired and hungry (and I surely am) but I cannot claim to be lonely for the road is full of people making the same journey. We are all torn between hope and despair. All grateful to be among the living, but mostly mourning the dead.

  One young man pushes his aged grandfather in a wheelbarrow for want of something better. Many make their escape on foot – a slow business. At least I am not reduced to that. A large wagon passed me bearing an enormous family. I counted twelve people crammed into it. Unless friends and neighbours are taking their chances together. Several youn
g men of noble birth have also passed me, mounted upon fine horses, presumably their own. Other horses bear two riders, the second clutching the first around the waist. All have anxiety writ large in their eyes.

  As I sit here writing, a few unfortunates are making their way in the other direction. These poor souls have been refused entry for one reason or another. They are full of dire warnings to the rest of us. They insist we will be turned back but I have my certificate safe in my pocket and have no fears on that score.

  Poppet is happy now that I am descended to firm ground again and snuggles close to me. We have both eaten – a lump of bread and some cold mutton which I cooked yesterday. ’Twas hardly tender and I see that I must improve my cooking before anyone will want to wed me. If Aunt Nell told me that once, she told it a dozen times but I paid her no heed. Who now will help me be a good wife?

  Next day

  A few more miles between me and the poor stricken city. I wonder when I will see again the London I once knew, with cheerful crowds and the streets all a bustle. Around me now there is nought but grass and trees – and tents springing up like mushrooms. These belong to folk who have nowhere to go and no relatives to welcome them. They are camping out at what they hope is a safe distance from the contagion. Smoke rises from various fires and the air is full of cooking smells. A church nearby has struck seven but ’tis still as light as day and children run among the tents and play. I envy them. For the little ones ’tis no doubt a great adventure. For myself ’tis almost a torment.

  I think the word for my condition is saddle-sore. How I wish I had taken my chances to ride more at Uncle John’s. I am stiff in all my bones and joints and wish I need never set eyes on a horse again. Jasper truly is a bad-tempered animal, as the owner promised. He frequently stops for no reason and so abruptly that I am sometimes thrown from his back. When I try to climb up again he turns his head and tries to nip my leg. Twice he has stepped on my foot and once he has run away with me. He hates me. Of that I am certain.