The Great Trouble (8 page)

But how did you stop the cholera from getting you? If it was poison in the air like everyone said, there was nothing I could do. We all had to breathe. And I’d been breathin’ the same air as Mr. Griggs.

It must be a matter of luck, then. Or something else. I had no idea. And looking at the folks streaming past me, I didn’t think anyone else did either.

A few minutes later, a man down the road waved to get my attention. “Here, boy! I’ll give you a penny if you help me load this cart I borrowed to take my family out of here.”

I sprinted over, glad of the money. Next Friday would come soon enough, and Mrs. Miggle would expect to be paid the four shillings I owed her, plus the two I’d been short this week.

As it turned out, that penny was just the beginning. There was tin to be had from the panic that struck Broad Street that Friday, and though I didn’t like profiting from misfortune, I was grateful to hear the chink of coins in my pocket.

All that afternoon I ran up and down Broad Street and
the smaller lanes surrounding it—Dufours Place, Cambridge Street, and Hopkins Street. I went down Poland, Berwick, Marshall, and Cross Streets. Everywhere it was the same: frightened families rushing to escape the blue death.

Sometimes I got a penny or two for helping to load a cart. Other times a harried mother asked me to carry a basket down a steep flight of steps. The streets were crowded with people, scurrying in all directions. There were more coffin carts too.

It was nearly dark before I made my way down Regent Street to Dr. Snow’s neighborhood. Sackville Street felt like another world: quiet and peaceful, with just a few gentlemen and ladies out for an evening stroll.
They don’t even know what’s happening less than a mile away
, I thought.

I was so tired after feeding the animals I almost curled up in a corner of the shed. But I didn’t dare risk Mrs. Weatherburn catching me. I’d best go back to the river. I might even be able to troll for coal before going to sleep. The tide was low, perfect for mudlarking. A half-moon would be up soon; the moon grew rounder and brighter every night.

I made my way to Blackfriars Bridge, stopping just once to buy a loaf of bread and the end of a round of cheese. I spotted Thumbless Jake in the distance, his tall shape almost fuzzy in the strange yellowy light. I kept out of his way. I didn’t want Jake being tempted to turn me in to Fisheye.

I found a stretch of river I could work in peace. Most of the regulars had stopped to get bread and a pint of beer with their day’s earnings. Or maybe the stench had gotten too much.

The moon cast a glittery light on the water as I waded through the thick slime, my eyes on the shallows and the edge of the bank. The weather might be warm, but folks still needed coal for cooking. I wouldn’t ignore iron, copper, or even bits of wood, but coal was my first choice. I looked for lumps dropped by bargemen as they heaved their loads to the shore.

After a while I found an empty barge tied up near some of the old tumbledown wooden factories that hugged the river’s edge. I scrambled up a rope and wedged myself between two rows of barrels on the deck. It would have to do.

It was a little more comfortable than the night before, and I was tired enough. But I couldn’t get to sleep. My mind raced from one trouble to another: the blue death and what it meant for folks on Broad Street; Mr. Griggs and the way he’d looked, all blue and dried out; Fisheye Bill; and what the future might hold for Henry and me.

I’d begun to have hope when I was at the Lion. I was proud of my work and had learned a lot. Sometimes I’d even had the courage to make a suggestion to Abel Cooper. Once, after I’d come up with a system for double-checking the orders we sent out, the foreman had patted my shoulder. “Old Jake was right about you, lad. You may look a bit wild,
with those inky black eyes you got, but you notice things. Good work.”

Good work
. If it hadn’t been for Hugzie, I would still be there, with a real job—and, most important, a way to keep Henry safe. My mind ached from too many thoughts, and my stomach ached from not enough food. And then, just before sleep finally took me, I remembered again: today had been my birthday.

Saturday, September 2

“Where is he?”

I came awake instantly. Vaguely I realized that I was stiff, stuffed as I was into the small space between the rows of barrels on the barge. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the voice. I knew that voice.

“Don’t deny it, Jake. That weaselly little urchin ain’t dead,” Fisheye Bill Tyler was saying. “My guess is he’s been out here mudlarkin’. And that means you seen him.”

“Now, Bill, I can’t say yes and I can’t say no,” Jake answered. “All these boys look about the same to me.”

“Don’t give me that. You know Eel—the scrawny one with eyes like a Tower raven,” growled Fisheye. “This is a serious business, Jake. That boy’s got something that belongs
to me. Somethin’ I have a right to. I have a right to him too, if it comes to it.”

“I dunno nothin’ ’bout it,” squeaked Jake. I didn’t dare lift up my head. But I could almost see Fisheye squeezing his arm.

“Don’t expect me to believe that,” Fisheye Bill scoffed. I could imagine his cold glare. Men like Jake didn’t fare well under Fisheye’s gaze. He went on. “Now, my friend, are you gonna tell me where he’s at, or do I have to break off your other thumb?”

“Like I told you before, Bill, I ain’t seen Eel for months,” came Jake’s complaining whine. “I thought the lad was dead.” So Jake hadn’t been the one to rat on me. At least, not yet.

“Besides, ain’t Eel a big lad now? Too old for what you want ’im for?” Jake went on. “That lad’s too growed up to slip through windows like a little snakesman so you can break into houses.”

“You never mind that,” I heard Fisheye Bill say. “That’s my business.”

“Well, Bill, I got business to attend to meself. So leave me to it, won’t you?” Jake said. “Turn your nose up at me if you will, but at least a scavenger’s life is honest.”

I grinned. Jake was holding his own with Fisheye Bill. His voice faded, and I figured he must be wading through the sludgy water toward Tower Bridge. I crouched lower in my hiding place, fighting the urge to poke my head up and
lay my eyes on Fisheye Bill Tyler just to prove this wasn’t a nightmare.

“Come on, Jake. What say you and me take a break from this stinking place and head over to a pub?” Fisheye said. “You can rest your legs. I’ll even buy you some breakfast and a beer to go with it.”

There was a pause. “Or maybe a gin, if you’d rather.”

I froze. Jake might not have said anything about me before now. But if Fisheye lured him to his side with the promise of gin, who knew what might happen? Jake could end up telling him how he’d gotten me a nice situation at the Lion Brewery over on Broad Street.

I strained my ears to catch Jake’s answer. I might not be at the Lion anymore, but I didn’t want Fisheye poking around anywhere near Broad Street. I could only hope that if Jake did talk, that yellow-flag warning of the cholera would keep Fisheye Bill away.

“Another time, Bill. Another time,” came Jake’s voice at last. I let my breath out. I was still safe.

When I got back to Broad Street that morning, the first person I saw was Rev. Whitehead. He looked as if he hadn’t slept.

“Are things worse, sir?” I asked.

“I’m afraid so,” he said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “I spent most of the night visiting families. Yet there isn’t much I can do.”

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, and I could see dark circles under them. “It strikes so viciously—so quickly,” he went on. “Mrs. Griggs herself is near death and—”

His words sent a jolt through me. “That can’t be! She was fine yesterday.”

Rev. Whitehead laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Eel. I forgot you didn’t know. She became ill last evening. Bernie too.”

“Bernie! But …” I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “But if Mrs. Griggs is sick, who is helping them? Betsy is too small. She can’t—”

He raised a hand. “Calm yourself, lad. Florrie Baker is there, and as capable a nurse as I’ve ever seen.”

“Florrie! But … will she get it by being so close to sick people?”

“I fear everyone may be in danger from the filthy air and ill-ventilated rooms of this neighborhood,” he replied. “The atmosphere in these crowded streets is unwholesome indeed. Miasma is the cause of this pestilence.”

Poor Mrs. Griggs
, I thought. She had just watched her husband die. She knew what would almost certainly happen to her. Mrs. Griggs was devoted to her children. It would break her heart to be so sick she couldn’t care for Bernie.

Just then I caught sight of Dr. Rogers, about to turn onto Poland Street. He waved at Rev. Whitehead without smiling and shook his head. Annie’s mum, Mrs. Lewis, had mentioned that he was the doctor her family relied on. Probably
many other families did too. One look at his face told me he was powerless to help against this terrible disease.

No, Dr. Rogers couldn’t help.
But what about Dr. Snow?

It might be a foolish plan. After all, Dr. Snow treated the queen herself. Would he care about the poor people on the other side of Regent Street?

It was worth a try. I’d given up on asking Dr. Snow to help me get my situation back. That was a small thing—just one mudlark who wanted to keep his job.

But this—this was about a whole neighborhood suffering.

And it was about Bernie.

Fifteen minutes later, I’d snaked my way through the crowds on Regent Street and was banging on Dr. Snow’s back door. Mrs. Weatherburn opened it, adjusting her cap and looking at me with a keen, stern expression. “Yes, boy? What is it you want now? As you will recollect, I paid you last night.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. It’s just that I need to see Dr. Snow, please. It’s urgent.”

She arched her eyebrows in surprise. “Well, that may be, but I’m afraid Dr. Snow left early to attend a surgeon in Kensington.”

I felt panic rising inside. “But … we need him. The people on Broad Street need him.”

She frowned. “For what?”

“He hasn’t heard, then?” I asked. “The cholera has hit.
Broad Street and Berwick Street, Poland Street and Little Windmill Street—the whole neighborhood near the Golden Square.”

Mrs. Weatherburn stepped back, as if she might catch it just from being near me. I wondered if Dr. Snow would be too frightened to come to Broad Street; even doctors could get deadly diseases. Maybe he would think the air in our neighborhood was too dangerous.

“I don’t believe he has heard about the outbreak,” she said. “He’s been so busy I’ve barely seen him myself.”

“I’d like to at least tell him about it. Will he be back soon?”

“Not until after dark.”

I stared up at her for a minute, then turned and walked away. I kicked a stone on the path, swallowing hard, feeling tears sting my eyes. Mr. Griggs had barely lasted a day. How long could Bernie fight the blue death?

“Have you given the cages a thorough cleaning lately, boy?” Mrs. Weatherburn called after me. “I’ve noticed quite a pungent smell the last day or two. It’s not enough just to feed them, you know. It’s probably time to change all the bedding.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. You couldn’t put anything over on Mrs. Weatherburn.

All I could think of as I cleaned the cages was how much Betsy and Bernie had liked petting the bunnies. I wanted everything to go back to the way it had been two days ago.

“It ain’t fair,” I said. “It just ain’t fair.”

Since Dr. Snow wouldn’t be home for hours, I headed back to Broad Street. Even though most families had escaped, I might still have a chance to make some money. And I did—though not at all in the way I expected.

The first person I ran into was the cheerful-looking driver with the bright orange hair. “Hey there. Aren’t you the lad I saw yesterday?” he called out. “My mate’s taken off. Weak stomach. Want to earn a few pence?”

“Yes, sir.” I couldn’t forget Henry. “What … what do you want me to do?”

“Whaddya think? Just help me load bodies into coffins, and coffins into the cart,” he explained, wiping his sweaty face with a ragged handkerchief. He glanced at me. “Don’t worry, son. I’ll wrap them in a clean cloth first.”

I swallowed hard.
Lift a coffin? Touch a dead body, even through a sheet?

The man leaned forward and put a large, rough hand on my shoulder. As if reading my mind, he said, “You
can
do it, laddie. These are your neighbors, ain’t they?”

Still, I hesitated.

“I’ll give you two shillings if you work till sunset,” he offered.

“All right,” I agreed. “But … I might have a weak stomach too.”

“Just don’t fall down flat in a faint,” the man said, pleasant as ever.

I
did
feel sick to my stomach at first. And then I didn’t. It wasn’t that I got used to it, nothing like that. It was more that, sometime in the first hour of walking into those hot, shadowy rooms where death had been, I found a way to change my thinking around.

Instead of looking with my eyes, I decided to see with my heart. I tried to remember that the corpses were just people. People like Mr. Griggs, or neighbors I might greet on the street.