by Tony Bradman
“Don’t look so confused, boy,” he said. “It’s very simple. There’s plenty of loot in houses where everyone has died, but it’s hard to tell from the outside which ones they are. You don’t want to go blundering in if anyone is still alive. The watchmen and the dead cart men are always at the right place at the right time, so they’ve been getting into the best houses before me, Ned and George. But now we’ve got you as our scout and you’re good at climbing through windows…”
My heart sank – so that was his plan. I couldn’t think of anything worse. I had a good idea of what I would find inside the houses because of my visits to the sick with Josiah. Each was more or less the same – eerily quiet, smelling of sickness and fear and death. I had already seen many things that I would never forget and I didn’t want to see any more.
“You can’t be serious,” I said, shaking my head. “I won’t do it!”
“Who said you had a choice?” growled Bad Barnaby, slowly drawing his cudgel from his belt. “Do as I say or I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”
I held his gaze, tempted to refuse again. But I knew Mother would tell me to do whatever it took to survive. So I held my tongue and looked away.
They made something to eat and then George untied me while Ned searched through my things, soon finding and taking my few shillings. Their clothes were rough and their manners rougher. Ned was tall and thin, with greasy dark hair, while red-haired George was short and very bandy-legged, and they both obeyed Bad Barnaby’s every command.
After a night of broken sleep on the floor of their hovel, Bad Barnaby kicked me awake and we set out onto the streets of Farringdon. They took me to an alley where many of the doors bore red crosses. It was deserted and we stopped outside one of the houses.
“Right, in you go, boy,” said Bad Barnaby, nodding at a window in front of us. “Just tell us if they’re all dead in there and then we’ll smash in the door.”
The window was small, like most windows in London houses – certainly not big enough for men like Bad Barnaby, Ned and George to climb through. Nothing seemed to be stirring inside. Ned prized the window open with his knife and then I climbed in, steeling myself to whatever horrors I might find. The rooms were dark and filled with familiar smells. There were two bodies in one of the rooms, and I quickly hurried on to the next, shivering. There were no other bodies in the house, at any rate. I climbed back out and told Bad Barnaby.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said, grinning. “Smash the door in, lads!”
I climbed through the windows of four more houses down that alley and only found more of the dead. Afterwards, Bad Barnaby and his companions went out to celebrate their good fortune, leaving me chained up in the hovel. The next day was the same and the day after. Soon it felt as if my life had always been this way. I could barely remember what it had been like before the plague…
August came and the weather grew hotter, the merciless sun beating down every day. I was often on the streets with Bad Barnaby, Ned and George, so I knew that in some parts of the city people still ventured out and tried to go shopping or meet friends as if there were no plague. But many streets were deserted now, except for the dead carts – and men such as Bad Barnaby and his companions. Once in a while I glimpsed a Doctor Beak and found myself wondering if I would have been better off with someone like Josiah, which shows just how low I had sunk.
The worst part of being held captive by Bad Barnaby, Ned and George was having to listen to them. They were so full of themselves, delighted there was no authority any more that could stop them doing whatever they wanted – not the Lord Mayor and his Aldermen, not even the king. But something else gave them even greater satisfaction – the fact that they hadn’t caught the plague.
“Do you think it means we’re among God’s Chosen?” said Ned one evening.
“Only if God’s Chosen are the worst rogues in London,” said George. “Mind you, I’ll bet most of the bishops are still alive, so that proves God loves a villain.”
They all roared with laughter and slapped each other on the back again. Their words gave me a lot to think about. Like Josiah and Isaac, they were very bad men, but they were still alive – and I knew that many good people had died, my family among them. I also knew my parents would have said that it was God’s will and we could never understand all God’s reasons. But it still seemed wrong.
As the weeks went on, however, Bad Barnaby’s luck began to run out. Sometimes we arrived at a promising house only to find another gang had beaten us to it. This usually just led to cursing and yelling, but on a couple of occasions fights broke out. The violence didn’t usually last long, but I still did my best to stay out of the way.
One morning, Bad Barnaby decided we wouldn’t be breaking into houses any more.
“I’ve got a much better idea,” he said. “We’re going back to being footpads.”
It was a word every Londoner knew well. Footpads were men who robbed people in the street. They hid in the shadows, waiting for victims to walk by, then leaped out and threatened to hurt them unless they handed over their money. I wasn’t surprised Bad Barnaby and his companions had been footpads – it was the kind of evil thing they would do. I thought it meant my captivity was over, but I was wrong.
“So you won’t be needing me to climb in any more windows,” I said.
“Maybe not,” said Bad Barnaby. “But I do have another task for you.”
My heart sank once more – would all this go on forever?
CHAPTER
8
There was no time to argue. We left the hovel immediately and headed straight for St Paul’s – Bad Barnaby said it would be the best place to find someone to rob. I hadn’t been to that part of the city for a while, and when we arrived I noticed there weren’t many people around. It was hotter than ever, the sun like a great ball of fire in the clear blue sky.
“Looks like lean pickings for footpads, Barnaby,” muttered Ned. I thought he was probably right. The streets here weren’t as empty as in other parts of the city, but most of the people we saw were poor.
“Yes, all the rich are long gone to the country – unless the plague got them first,” said George.
“Have a little patience, lads,” said Bad Barnaby. “We’ll find a quiet corner where we can keep an eye out and wait. Someone will turn up.”
He led us to a narrow alley down Cheapside, where we stood out of sight in the shadows. Bad Barnaby peered round the corner every so often, searching the street for a likely victim, talking to me in a low voice about what I had to do.
“Once we’ve got someone lined up, all you have to do is talk to him,” he said. “Tell him the tragic story of how you were orphaned, tell him you know where he can buy an elixir that is guaranteed to keep him safe from the pestilence. In fact, tell him anything that will hold his attention while we sneak up on him. You can manage that, can’t you? Then we get to work with our cudgels and relieve him of his money.”
“What if I refuse?” I said.
“You won’t, not if you know what’s good for you,” he growled. He grabbed hold of me by the front of my jacket and stared into my eyes. “Just remember, boy, we’ll be hiding nearby and you can be sure we’ll catch you. Then you’ll be sorry…”
Once again, I had no choice. There were three of them, so it would be hard to get away. But how could I do what they were asking? It would mean I was tricking someone, and that almost seemed worse than actually stealing. My parents had always taught me it was wrong to lie or cheat, or to be involved in anything deceitful. Now I would have to do all of that just to protect myself.
“Pssst! Barnaby!” George said suddenly. “I think we’ve found our man.”
Bad Barnaby let me go and turned to look out into the street. I did too and I soon saw the man George meant. He was clean-shaven and I guessed him to be in his mid-thirties or thereabouts. His jacket and breeches were of the finest quality, as were his shoes. He wore a white shirt with a lace collar and
a fashionable, broad-brimmed hat with a peacock’s feather stuck in the band. The gentleman carried a leather satchel as well, one rather like mine, if a bit bigger. I always carried mine with me in case there was ever an opportunity to escape. It contained nothing but my family’s Bible, but I didn’t want to have to go back for it if I ever managed to run away.
“He looks like a real prize,” Bad Barnaby whispered happily. “Off you go then, boy,” he hissed, his breath hot on my ear. “Don’t fail me now – or else.”
He shoved me hard in the back, pushing me out into the street and in front of the man. I stumbled but stayed on my feet and the man stopped, a puzzled frown on his face. I raised my eyes to his and for a moment we stared at each other. There was no one else nearby. I could no longer see Bad Barnaby or the other two, but I knew they were still there, creeping towards their victim. I opened my mouth to do as I had been told … but then I realized I did have a choice after all. I could help to trick this man and save myself from a beating, then he would be the one to suffer. Or I could warn him and have a clean conscience. Put like that it was no choice at all, really.
“Run!” I yelled, before I could change my mind. “Get away from here while you still can!”
He seemed startled and took a step backwards. I heard Bad Barnaby roaring curses and I looked round. He was emerging from the alley, cudgel at the ready, murder in his eyes. Ned and George were close behind him. The man clearly didn’t need any more convincing. His eyes grew wide with fear and he spun around, running back the way he had come.
I sprinted after him – there was no other way for me to go. The man was surprisingly fast, spurred on by fear. I only just kept up with him and I expected to be grabbed from behind at any moment. But gradually the sound of thudding footsteps and heavy breathing began to fade, and I dared to look over my shoulder. We were well ahead and they were slowing down.
I looked round again. Old St Paul’s was looming over us. Bad Barnaby clearly didn’t want anybody to see him getting up to his dirty work and there were people in the streets around the cathedral. The gentleman seemed to grasp this as well and made a final dash to the steps. He stopped at the top. I joined him and we stood together, gasping for breath.
“They’ve given up, I think,” the gentleman said at last. He nodded in the direction of our pursuers. They were walking away down Cheapside, trying to look casual. The man turned to me and smiled. “Thank you for saving me from those footpads, young man. What is your name? I am Samuel Burgess.”
“My name?” I whispered. I had almost forgotten it while I had been Bad Barnaby’s slave. He had called me “boy”, and worse. But my true name was still there somewhere, hidden inside. I was still me, youngest son of John and Meg, brother to William and Henry. “My name is Daniel Page, sir,” I said.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Daniel Page,” he said, holding out his hand.
I smiled at him and we shook hands.
Master Burgess asked if I would like to go to his house with him and have something to eat as thanks for stopping Bad Barnaby and his gang. I hesitated, reluctant to follow another stranger. He seemed like a good man, but how could I be sure? I had begun to lose my faith in people as well as God. Josiah had seemed good, but he had turned out to be evil. What if the same happened with this Master Burgess?
Bad Barnaby, however, had kept me hungry and thirsty, and my stomach was so empty it hurt. So I said yes and we set off. We didn’t have far to go. Master Burgess had a fine house just beyond Cornhill, in Leadenhall Street. A maid opened the door to us when we arrived and Master Burgess sent her off to tell the cook that he had brought a guest for supper. Then another young woman appeared, but I could tell she was no servant. She had thick brown hair and green eyes, and she wore a fine dress of light-blue silk. I knew instantly she was the mistress of the house.
“Well, who have we here then?” she said, frowning as she looked me up and down. “Don’t tell me – another one of your waifs and strays! I thought we had agreed—”
“Daniel, let me introduce you to Abigail, my dear wife,” said Master Burgess. “And this, my love, is Daniel Page. I know what we agreed, but Daniel is a special case – he rescued me from a gang of footpads. I am sure he saved my life!”
“Did he, now?” said Mistress Burgess, raising a sceptical eyebrow. “And why did he do that? He looks like a thief himself. He smells like one, too.”
She wrinkled her nose and I blushed. I realized that she was right. I had escaped from home with few clothes, just an extra undershirt and a change of drawers, and I had lost both a long time ago. My jacket and breeches were filthy and my shoes were scuffed. At home Mother had always insisted we bathe ourselves in a tub once a week, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had washed. Now I felt ashamed to be standing in front of these rich people in such a terrible state.
I turned to leave, desperate to escape and find some dark corner where I could hide. But Master Burgess stood between me and the door and wouldn’t let me go.
“Come, Abigail, we must feed the poor boy,” he said. “I’d like to hear about his experiences, too – that might help me in my work.”
“Oh, very well,” his wife said with a sigh.
They gave me the best meal I had eaten in a long time, a dish of oysters and white fish, with fine white bread and some apples. Master Burgess asked me all sorts of questions. To begin with, I was careful about how I answered, not wanting to tell these strangers too much about myself. But soon I felt an urge to tell them everything that I had seen and done. The words started pouring from my mouth and I simply couldn’t stop them.
CHAPTER
9
I don’t know how long I talked for. We were sitting at an oak table in a large room, me on one side, Master and Mistress Burgess opposite. To begin with, Master Burgess kept interrupting me to ask questions and I briefly wondered what he had meant about my experiences helping him in his work. But after a while he fell silent and just listened, as did Mistress Burgess. Eventually I finished my story and pushed away my bowl.
“Thank you for the meal,” I said, getting to my feet. “I think I’d better go now.” I felt that they had helped me enough and that I didn’t want to outstay my welcome, even though I had no idea where I should go next.
“You will do no such thing,” said Mistress Burgess, jumping up too. She dabbed at her eyes with a small handkerchief, moved by my story. “I have never heard such a sad tale! I cannot even imagine what your poor mother must have suffered. No, you will stay here and we will take care of you. Samuel, go and tell Reuben to prepare a bath. And we must find Daniel some new clothes. Tell Molly to go next door and ask Mistress Johnson if she has something…”
It turned out that Molly was the maid who had opened the door to us and Reuben was another servant. There was a cook called Jane, too. Reuben prepared a bath for me in the large scullery, heating a lot of water over the fire and pouring it into an iron tub. He left me on my own to get undressed, then came back to collect my clothes once I was in the bath. I lay in the water. It was wonderful to be clean again.
Reuben returned, with new clothes, borrowed from Master Burgess’s neighbours, who had a son my age and size. My old clothes and shoes had been burned, by order of Mistress Burgess. I felt a pang of sadness – they were a link to my mother, but as I had worn them for months, I knew they were beyond saving.
After I was dressed, Reuben took me back to the room with the oak table. Master and Mistress Burgess were still sitting there. They smiled when I came in.
“That’s better,” said Mistress Burgess. “You are completely transformed, Daniel.”
“I think it is rather that he has returned to his true self,” said Master Burgess.
They were both right, but I couldn’t think of the words to explain how I felt. I burst into tears instead and sobbed even more when Mistress Burgess rose from her seat and hurried round the table to hold me.
Only my mother had held me like this before and she was gon
e forever.
Samuel and Abigail gave me a small room of my own in the attic, next to the room where Reuben slept. They insisted from the beginning that I use their Christian names, which was strange to me at first. My parents had always taught me to be respectful to my elders and betters, and that should have meant calling them “Sir” and “My Lady”, but I quickly got used to it and I realized it was typical of Samuel and Abigail. They had no airs and graces.
Samuel was a physician, a word I had heard before but never really understood. I discovered it meant he was someone who had studied medicine at Oxford University, so I thought that he was probably the kind of Oxford philosopher Josiah had often spoken of. But unlike Josiah, Samuel had not studied medicine so he could make money from the sick and suffering. Samuel wanted to help people and he visited the sick to do just that, offering them remedies he had devised himself. He also wanted to find out more about the plague.
“All things have origins, and that includes sicknesses,” he said to me, after I had been living with them for a few days. He was showing me his study, a room that contained more jars of liquids and potions and powders and body parts than Josiah’s. Samuel had far more books than Josiah as well. “The pestilence must have a cause and I believe that one day we will know what it is. Then perhaps we will be able to find proper cures for this terrible illness.”
It was fascinating to listen to someone who knew so much and who was so keen to do good. I worried about where God fitted into Samuel’s theories, although I tried not to think about that. But Samuel didn’t seem to have these doubts. His faith in God was as strong as that of my parents, despite the plague, and he believed that God had begun to reveal more of his creation – if you knew where to look.
“The times are changing, Daniel,” Samuel said. He often talked of the Royal Society, a club that had been set up by men who wanted to find out more about the world. It was supported by King Charles, so Samuel had a great deal of respect for our monarch. The men of the Royal Society studied lots of things, and Samuel said they were beginning to make people think differently.
