by Robin Jarvis
Will made to shut the door but he looked at Molly’s heavy coat and a sudden idea came to him.
“Stay a moment,” his voice mumbled through the mask, and he nipped inside once more.
“Hurry, Will!” Molly called after him. “We do not have time to tarry here.” Her voice faltered as the boy returned bearing a large red bundle. “What have you there?” she asked.
“Spittle’s posh robe,” he replied. “He left it in the shop this afternoon. It should serve as an excellent top coat. Why, I could wrap it round me three times over.” He closed the door and they passed quickly down the alley.
“Where is this pest-house?” he inquired, struggling into the velvet garment.
“Southwarke,” she answered, lacing up her own mask. “I have not visited it before. It is on the far side of the river. We shall have to cross by the bridge for no watermen will bear us.”
Into the melancholy night they went. Cheapside was a sad and dreary place; on every corner a small fire burned and, huddled around the flames, was a woebegone collection of people: those whose livelihoods had disappeared since the arrival of the pestilence, or who had been absent when their homes had been boarded up and now had nowhere to live.
“Mercy on us,” came their heart-wrenching pleas when they saw the two plague doctors go by.
Molly put her arm round Will’s shoulder. “The tale of grief is vast,” she said gravely. “Innumerable tears has this city shed since the plague began—enough to fill the Thames and wash it clean.”
Will said nothing, for at last they had come to the river itself and the bridge stretched before them.
There was only one crossing over the Thames, and London Bridge was a mighty thoroughfare. It was lined with tall buildings and shops that sold everything, from vegetables to shoes. This was the only way into the city from the south and it had spanned the river for many years. In the day it was congested with traffic and bustled as if the sickness had never been heard of. But at night all was quiet and still.
The few lights that shone in the high, latticed windows were reflected in the dark, rippling water below and all seemed calm and peaceful.
Molly took Will’s hand and through the avenue of half-timbered buildings they went, the gurgling river swirling beneath them.
When they were only half-way across a different sound came to them. The young woman paused and pulled Will next to her.
“What is it?” he asked straining to listen through the thick sackcloth and trying to peer out of the ragged eyeholes.
“A pest-cart approaches,” she whispered. “Keep by me.”
Presently Will too heard the clatter of wheels and the slow plod of a horse’s hooves.
“Bring out yer dead,” rang out a lusty voice.
Will had never come this close to one of the death waggons before and his heart beat quickly. To his surprise he found that he was apprehensive—afraid even. Here, on the bridge, there was no way to avoid this grisly meeting. Molly squeezed his hand and he automatically drew close to her.
“With luck the cart will be empty,” she prayed for the boy’s sake.
A slurred voice hailed them as the dreaded waggon came nearer.
“What’sh thish then? Two plaguey doctorsh? Well, one and a half—hoo, hoo!” The bearer on the cart swayed like a reed in the breeze as he hooted at his little joke. He was a dirty, squalid-looking man with an uncouth leer on his face and a tall hat pitched rakishly over his bloodshot eyes.
A stream of slobber poured from his mouth as he pointed at Will and continued. “I’d heard they were short o’ physicians,” he hiccuped, “but I didn’t know the physicians were short as well!” He slapped his knees as he drew level with them and then pulled on the reins. “Whoa!” he shouted. “Halt there, you knackered old fleabag!”
The horse was a sorry, dishevelled beast; a shambling array of bones loosely covered by a threadbare hide. It rolled its scabby eyes and came to a standstill, then hung its head wearily.
The bearer leaned forward in an awkward motion as he tried to focus on the two figures at the roadside. “Ain’t never heard o’ no dwarf doctorsh,” he declared.
Molly glanced fearfully at the open cart behind him and stood between it and Will. “You’re drunk!” she told the man in as gruff a tone as she could manage. “Get about your business, fellow, and let us attend to ours!”
“Drunk he says!” tittered the man. “What if I was says I?” From under his cloak he brought out a large jug and took a great swig from it. “Arr!” he belched, blowing a bubble of ale and saliva from his mouth. “Do you know summfin, my fine, fanshy gentlemen? I do believe you shpeak the truth—old Ned Bunkit’s as sloshed as a bog-hole beetle.” And he broke into a throaty, gargling laugh.
“Come, Will,” said Molly quickly. She pushed the boy behind her to screen him from the grisly mound that the cart carried and made to walk off. But the bearer cracked his whip and shouted after them.
“Oh, how they sidle by. Ain’tcha gonna have a drink wi’ Ned then? Too good for him are you?” He tottered to his feet and jabbed a finger at the jug in his hand. “I’d like to shee you do this job without my friend here fer company! Aah, a pox on you both saysh I. When this plague’s done there’ll be no more scrapin’ to the likes o’ you, for there won’t be no gentry left. Many a gallant, dashing and dandy. I’ve carted off to the pits.” Clumsily, he stepped into the cart and gestured to its silent passengers, “And they don’t want to sup wi’ me either,” he caroused. “Hoo, hoo!”
Molly urged Will onward. “Don’t look back,” she warned. “Don’t see what he carries this night.”
Will pulled the robe tightly about him, but the desire to take one glimpse of the ghastly cargo was too much. Quickly he glanced over his shoulder and his stomach churned over.
The drunken man was staggering through a heap of bodies and to Will’s disgust he stooped and held up a tiny figure. Then the bearer roared in his stupor, “Kindling, get yer kindling ’ere—five for sixpence! Ha ha!”
The two plague doctors rushed over London Bridge and passed into Southwarke. Only when they were under the shadow of St Saviour’s did they pause for breath and the sweat of horror trickled down Will’s neck.
Molly leaned against a wall as she calmed herself. “What evil dwells in man’s soul to drag him into such baseness?” she muttered. “I tell you, Will, the sights I have witnessed this past year would make the most hardened sinner blanch.”
“Your father said the Devil stalked the streets of London,” he panted.
“I’ll not gainsay him in that!” she agreed. “It would seem the Almighty has abandoned this city.” With a shudder she pulled herself together. “Even so,” she said firmly, “it is up to us to do what we can. Come, we go to call on Jack Carver. Let us hope we arrive before the Reaper harvests him.”
As they hurried down the gloomy lanes a worrying thought came to Will. “What if the Justices won’t take any notice once the confession is signed?” he asked.
“Then I shall take the matter to a higher authority,” she replied. “A friend of mine was an orange seller in one of the theatres, before they closed them down. She was on intimate terms with His Majesty. If need be I shall go to court and lay the evidence before him. But look—this is the place.”
They had come to a low, rambling building whose windows were nailed shut, and from the heavy oak doors hung an iron padlock. A guard stood outside the barred entrance and he eyed Will suspiciously.
“Let us pass,” Molly commanded.
The warden gave Will one last, dubious look then took out his clinking bunch of keys and released the padlock. It was not for him to question the comings and goings of plague doctors.
Will stared at the arch above the doors; the familiar red cross had been painted there and at the sight of it all his courage drained away.
The guard placed a cloth over his mouth and gave one of the doors a shove. It opened with a creak and Molly stepped across the threshold. Will hung bac
k but the man was anxious to seal the building again and he stamped impatiently. Nervously the boy followed Molly inside—had it been the gateway to Hell itself he could not have been more afraid.
He stared out of his makeshift mask; they were in a dim passage, lit by a single tallow candle. The boy coughed; even through the sweet-smelling herbs the reek of the sickness assaulted his senses and he gagged at the cloying vileness.
The guard did not come after them; instead he hastily removed the cloth from his mouth and called out, “Mother Myrtle! Ye have visitors. The doctors are come!” Then he pulled the door shut and it closed with an ominous thud that vibrated through the floor.
Behind the thick barrier of oak Will heard the padlock snap together and he caught his breath; he and Molly were now locked inside the pest-house.
“What now?” he whispered in a wavering voice.
“We wait for the nurse in charge,” she replied. “She will take us to Jack Carver.”
As soon as she had spoken they heard a light footstep. Beyond the candle a curtain was drawn aside and from it emerged Mother Myrtle.
She squinted at the newcomers and heaved a sigh of relief. “At last,” she called in a frail voice. “We have not had masters of physic here for five days. Welcome gentlemen.” Carefully she shuffled up the hallway to greet them and in doing so entered the small circle of candlelight.
Mother Myrtle was a small, elderly woman, whose back was bowed with age and whose hands were knobbled and swollen by the same cause. She wore no protective garments, just a simple dress of puritan black and the customary white starched collar about her neck. As she passed beneath the flame it glinted over her hair, which was white and fine as cobwebs on a frosty morning. She blinked in the yellow glare and a warm smile spread over her care-lined face.
“A most heartfelt welcome to you both,” she said, brightly dismissing Will’s lack of height with a special grin meant for him alone. “This is indeed a most happy answer to my prayers. But for you to have come so speedily—why I had only just finished asking the Lord for help when I heard the guard call my name.”
As she beamed at the pair of them Will drew strength from her steady gaze. In the depths of her pale, wrinkle-besieged eyes there was no trace of age; only a pure, almost saintly light shone there. He found himself liking her immediately.
Her twinkling smile faltered for a moment. “I’m afraid there is little coin to pay for your services,” she murmured apologetically. “All we had left was spent on food and medicines.” She wrung her arthritic hands together and her fingers closed about a golden ring. This belonged to my beloved mother,” she said trying to twist it over her knuckles. “She gave it to me when I was a mere nursling, but please take it as payment. Oh, if only the nuisance would come off.”
Molly declined the offered ring and said, “If we can give aid then that is reward enough.”
“Bless you!” Mother Myrtle wept, taking hold of Molly’s gauntleted hand and kissing it gratefully. “I know the Lord shall keep you from harm. Now, come if you will. Let me show you my charges; the sight of two physicians such as you will surely ease their burdens.”
“How many sick do you have in this house?” Molly inquired.
“This morning there were eighty-seven,” she replied. “Now, alas, only sixty-five remain and I am the only one left to tend them.”
Molly stared at her incredulously. “Sixty-five? Can more help not be provided?”
The old lady smiled, “If this were a city pest-house no doubt—but we are a private mission. You see, when the pestilence first began we opened our doors and took in those stricken.”
“You mean that you invited the plague in willingly?” gasped Molly.
“What else should I have done? The Good Book makes our duty plain.”
“But are you not afraid for yourself? You ought at least to protect yourself in some way.”
Mother Myrtle shrugged. “Swaddling clothes are for babes,” she said, her eye briefly alighting on Will, “and I am far from that. I do but trust in the Lord, and when He decides that my work is done I am content to abide by His judgement.”
She turned and led them to the curtained doorway. “Herein lie my patients,” she whispered. “Do what you can for them. But please, no blood-letting; I will not permit such a barbarous practice. I had to expel the last physician by the scruff of the neck because he tried to do that to one of them. My, but he was a foul-mouthed doctor.”
The partition was pulled back and Will staggered, reeling from the wave of nausea that seemed to strike him. This was where the reek originated. His stomach rebelled at the stench and he struggled to keep from fainting.
The room beyond was long, narrow and dark. The only light came from a lantern hanging on a nail by the door and Molly recoiled from what she saw in there.
Row upon row of plague-riddled people covered the floor. All were in various degrees of death. Their groans and shrieks were enough to turn one mad and the clamour put a shadow over Will that stayed with him for the rest of his life.
Mother Myrtle smiled at all the pale, twisted faces as though she were viewing a room of small children rather than a place filled with despair. “See my friends,” she told them, “help has come as I knew it would.” She turned to Molly and motioned towards the lamp. “Could you take up the light, sir?” she asked politely. “Its brightness hurts mine eyes.”
Molly hesitated before answering. “Of course,” she said quickly. So, holding the lamp aloft, she and Will were escorted by the old lady into the terrible room.
Surrounded by the soft glow of the lantern they trod carefully amongst the sick and dying and Will stared, horrified, about him.
An emaciated man lay wrapped in a filthy blanket; beside him shivered a woman not much older than Molly and the light shone in her dark, staring eyes. At her side someone crouched in a ball and gibbered to himself; the next person was dead. Thus the awful spectacle unfolded until one of the patients let out a blood-curling howl as they passed and it frightened Will so much that he stumbled and fell against Molly. For a while the lantern swung uncontrollably and horrible shadows flew like giant bats over the walls.
“Take care,” Molly told him. Then she knelt beside the patient and tried to calm him. “Have you clean water?” she asked Mother Myrtle. “I can do nothing without it.”
The old woman nodded. “I will fetch it,” she said.
“One moment,” put in Molly. “Have you one here by the name of Carver?”
“Carver?” the other repeated. “I don’t think we do.”
Molly’s hope sank—Jack was probably in the plaguepit by now.
Will pushed forward. “Are you certain?” he asked. “He has a big scar down his face.”
The old lady’s doubtful expression cleared at once. “Oh, Jacky boy!” she chirped. “Why did you not say so before? He lies in the far corner—a friend of yours is he? Well that is nice; he’s a bit of a scoundrel you know, but if he has someone like you two to care about him then he can’t be all bad, can he? You go see him and I’ll fetch the water you wanted.”
“And make it hot if possible,” Molly called after her retreating figure.
When she had gone, they hurried between the prostrate forms around them until they reached the farthest corner.
Jack Carver lay on a mattress of straw. A rat scurried over his legs as the lantern was raised and the light fell on his face.
The plague had worked a dramatic change on him; he was a wasted shadow of his former self. The muscles which had once thrown Will to the ground were now shrunken and weak. His face was beaded with sweat and festering sores pitted his skin. If it had not been for the livid scar on his cheek Will would not have recognised the man and he actually pitied him. Carver’s days of evil were over and Death seemed to lurk in the shadows nearby, waiting to drag the soul from his failing body.
“Jack Carver?” said Molly impassively. “Is that your name?”
At first he did not seem to see the two
plague doctors standing over him. Then his staring eyes swivelled round and fixed upon Molly’s mask.
“NOO!” he shrieked. “He has come! He has come for me!”
The man was terrified. He flailed and thrashed his arms until Molly feared he would injure himself. Nothing she could do would calm him. “It’s no use,” she said to Will, “the man is crazed—the mask frightens him.”
“What are we going to do?” the boy asked. “We’ll never discover anything with him screeching like that.”
“There is only one thing we can do,” she said grimly, and she reached up and began to unlace her mask.
“Stop!” cried Will. “You mustn’t remove it.”
But she took no heed. The beak and lenses fell away and the cowl was swept from her head.
The sudden revelation of Molly’s beauty in that dark and dreadful place was like the sun appearing from behind black storm clouds. The lamplight gleamed in her golden hair and the gentle beams became enmeshed there, until it seemed that it shone with a radiance all its own and a glimmering halo surrounded her.
All about them, from the dismal sea of human suffering, came gasps of amazement and some muttered that an angel had come amongst them.
Molly crouched beside Jack Carver who gawped and goggled at her. “What’s this?” he spluttered, ceasing his violent twitchings. “Am I to go upwards? Ha! I did think a hotter clime waited fer me.”
“Tell me your name,” said Molly.
“Jack I was,” he uttered, mesmerised by her loveliness, “but Jack no more. It’s the pits I’ll be going to soon; one last ride and in they’ll tip me.”
“My name is Margaret Balker,” she told him, “does that mean anything to you?”
A fit of shivering and retching convulsed him but when it passed he gazed at her. “Balker?” he mumbled trying to remember. “No, it’s gone.”
But Molly was insistent. “Have you forgotten Johnathon Balker—miller of Adcombe, whom you slew?”
Carver’s expression changed and a stillness crept over him as her words sliced through his plague-clouded mind. “The fat miller,” he breathed.
