by Tony Bradman
I woke with a start and thought I was still in my own bed at home. I had dreamed of the happy times I had shared with my family. For a moment I expected to hear their voices, my father and brothers laughing downstairs, Mother calling for me to come and eat my breakfast before they did. Then I heard a cry of despair and a voice praying, and I remembered what had happened and where I was. Hot tears filled my eyes and I sat hugging my knees.
I knew I couldn’t sit like that forever, though. Mother wanted me to survive and I had to try. I wiped the tears from my face and pulled myself together. Mother had put some bread and cheese in my satchel and a flask containing some small beer. I ate and drank, and forced myself to think about the journey ahead of me rather than what had happened, or whether Mother was still alive. I took a deep breath and left my hiding place.
The cathedral was just as packed as last night but much quieter, with many people sleeping. Pale light seeped in through the great stained-glass windows, spreading colours over the bodies in the pews. It was still very early in the morning. All the better for me, I thought. Villains like Bad Barnaby were creatures of the night – I had noticed that he often dozed in the early hours of the day. Even so, before I left the cathedral I still peeked round one of the great doors to make sure he wasn’t waiting.
I headed east, back down Cheapside towards Aldgate, leaving St Paul’s behind me. The sun was warm, the sky blue and cloudless. On such a lovely morning last summer the streets would already have been full of people cheerfully going about their business. But everywhere was eerily quiet, the shops and houses shut and locked. I saw many doors with red crosses painted on them and the few people I spotted scuttled away, keeping their distance.
This part of the city had been struck hardest by the pestilence – St Giles was just beyond the city wall to the north-west. The streets gradually seemed more normal as I walked eastwards, people coming and going, a few shops and taverns open, a rich man on a fine white horse clip-clopping down the middle of the road as if he owned it. But there were still plenty of red crosses. The people here seemed just as scared and there were ranting preachers on almost every corner.
The Puritan preachers said the plague was God’s punishment for bringing back the king and “turning away from the Path of the Righteous”, and many people thought they were right. I remember one man in particular. He had preached on the corner of Bread Street every day for years, ranting and raving and telling everyone that they were sinners and doomed. People had ignored him, but once the plague really got going he was always surrounded by a crowd. They stood and listened, hands clasped in prayer and fear in their eyes.
“Repent!” the preacher said. “This city has fallen under the dark wing of God’s Destroying Angel!”
The crowd had looked up, terrified, even though the sun shone in a clear blue sky.
It was the middle of the morning by the time I reached Aldgate. I walked through the ancient archway, following a wagon pulled by two big horses, the driver hunched over the reins, the wheels rumbling over the cobbles. Two women sat in the back, one old and the other young. A boy of about five sat by them and the young woman was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks onto a baby in her arms. I looked away, sure that if I watched her for too long I would start crying as well. I had seen many unhappy and grieving people that morning, but something about this young mother upset me more than all the others. I couldn’t work it out at first, but then I realized she reminded me of my own mother, who I would never see again.
Aunt Mary and Uncle John lived on a street a few minutes’ walk beyond Aldgate, near the Angel Inn. They didn’t have any children, but they were happy, hard-working and decent people. Mary was a seamstress like Mother and John was a cooper, making barrels for anyone who would pay. We had seen them quite often before the plague came and I knew that they would take me in without question.
I turned the corner of their street at last – and stopped in my tracks. A red cross had been roughly daubed on their door and the paint had run down the planks in lines, like blood from a wound. Beneath the cross were the usual words, Lord Have Mercy Upon Us. But the door was half open, the wood around the lock smashed and splintered. My stomach tightened with fear and suddenly I felt sick. Had my uncle and aunt been struck down by the plague as well?
I don’t know how long I stood there staring at the door. I was shivering, even though the day was quite hot now, the sun’s rays beating down on my head. I didn’t want to go into the house, but I made myself do it. The rooms were empty, my aunt and uncle’s bed strewn with dirty sheets, the cupboards open and anything valuable taken. I was confused, wondering what had happened. I tried not to think the worst. Eventually, I stumbled outside to ask one of their neighbours.
It took me a long time to find anyone. Most of the other doors in the street had red crosses on them and those that didn’t stayed firmly shut however hard I knocked. At last an old woman opened an upstairs window and asked me what I wanted.
“Do you know what’s happened to my Aunt Mary and Uncle John?” I said. “They live just along the street, but they’re not in their house and all their things are missing.”
“Are you stupid, boy?” snapped the old woman. “They’re dead and gone, like almost everyone in this street. The dead cart men smashed their door in yesterday and took them off to a plague pit. They probably took everything else they could lay their hands on as well, but that’s what men like them do these days…”
I couldn’t stand to hear any more and walked away. Grief for my poor aunt and uncle filled my heart. But I felt anxious for myself as well. Mother had been so sure they would be able to take me in that we hadn’t talked about what to do if the plan failed. We had no other family and there was no one else I could turn to for help. Mother had given me some money, but it was only a few shillings and I knew it wouldn’t last long. I briefly thought that I should flee from London and go into the country. But what would be the point? I was a London boy, born and bred. I had never left the city in my life, not even once. Besides, we had already heard that people in the country villages chased away anyone from London in case they brought the plague with them.
So I wiped the tears from my cheeks again and headed back towards Aldgate. I had decided to go back to St Paul’s, thinking that I might find food and something to drink there. I had eaten all the bread and cheese in my satchel, and I was beginning to feel hungry.
I trudged westwards through the city along Cheapside and reached the cathedral by early afternoon. But it was even more crowded than before, and suddenly I didn’t want to be in a place with so many people. I couldn’t face the noise and the sadness and the fear – all those desperate families in search of salvation, or even just some hope. All it did was make me think of my own family.
I’m not sure what I did after that. I remember walking away from the cathedral, heading north towards Cripplegate, but my head was aching and my stomach hurt, and I wondered if the plague had finally caught up with me. The afternoon grew hotter and I began to feel dizzy as I wandered the streets. I could hear church bells ringing and people calling out. After a while I found myself alone in a courtyard and I sat down to rest.
I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up the sun was setting and shadows were filling the courtyard. On one side there was a blacksmith’s with a stable beside it. Beyond that a narrow alley led to some houses. Suddenly, a figure appeared in the alley and moved towards me. My blood ran cold. The figure was like a creature from a nightmare – from the neck down it looked like a man dressed in black, but its head was like a bird’s with a giant beak.
I stared in horror, convinced that Death himself had come to collect me.
CHAPTER
4
The figure loomed over me and I closed my eyes, sure I was doomed. Part of me welcomed the idea of dying and going to Heaven. At least there I might see my family again, and I wouldn’t have to keep worrying about what to do next, either. But another part of me desperately wanted to survive.
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Nothing happened and after a while I dared to open my eyes. The figure was bending down to examine me and I could see now that it wore a black hat with a broad rim and that the beak was brown and leathery. Above it was a pair of watery brown eyes that looked strangely like those of an ordinary man. I could hear the figure’s breathing, a sound that somehow seemed too loud.
Then the figure did something I wasn’t expecting – it took off its hat and beak, revealing an ordinary man beneath them. He had black hair, a beard with grey streaks and a big fleshy nose that I could see was red even in the gloom. He stared at me intensely, looking me up and down like a man studying a horse or a dog he was thinking of buying. At last he nodded and held out his hand.
“Come with me, boy,” he said in a deep voice. “If you want to live, that is.”
I was exhausted and had no other option, so I took his hand and went with him into the night. I followed the man through the dark streets to his house. It lay in a narrow alley off Blowbladder Street, between Cheapside and Newgate. Like him, the house was tall and thin, each room lit by candles and filled with strange objects – shelves packed with bottles of brightly coloured powders or liquids, or dead creatures such as snakes and lizards and bats, many with their innards showing. There were also jars with body parts in them – hearts and livers, lungs and tongues. To begin with I thought they were from animals too, but then I wondered if they might have been taken from people.
Other shelves were filled with books. At home we only had a few books – our family Bible and the prayer books we used in church. But this man must have had more than fifty, some with richly decorated spines and covers, many that looked very old. Several lay open on a table in the middle of the largest room. There were lots of glass jars and vials on the table too, and a stone pestle and mortar.
The man pulled out a chair for me at the table. He cleared some space, pushing aside the books and the jars and vials, and put a bowl of soup and some bread in front of me. At first I held back, scared that the lumps of meat I saw in the soup might have come from one of those jars on the shelves. But the soup smelled good and my stomach was rumbling, so before long I was eagerly filling my belly.
“Ah, is it not a good thing to satisfy those who are hungry?” said the man, with a big smile. “Whoever comes to me will never be in want – or die of the pestilence. For I am sent by the Lord to bring help to all those in need – including you, boy.”
“Are you a priest?” I asked. He seemed a funny sort of priest to me, but I couldn’t think who else would say the Lord had sent them.
“I am a plague doctor,” the man said. “You may call me Doctor Beak.”
I had heard of plague doctors, but I had never come across one until now. I had some idea they cared for the sick and made medicines to fight the plague, but I didn’t know much more. Now I discovered that was only the half of it. Doctor Beak seemed to like the sound of his own voice, so I said nothing and just listened as he talked to me about his work. He told me that he taught people how to avoid the plague and had even written pamphlets on the subject. He also made herbal plasters to put on the swellings, which he called buboes, as well as various potions to drink.
“But why do you wear that strange mask?” I said when I’d finished the soup.
“To protect me from the miasma of course, the foul vapour that fills the houses of the sick,” he said, as if it was obvious. “We cannot see the miasma, but believe me, it is the thing that has brought the sickness, a deadly poison that seeps upwards from the ground beneath the worst parts of the city. The beak part of the mask is filled with marjoram and thyme and rosemary, herbs that keep the miasma out.”
He told me that all the plague doctors wore these masks and so people had come to call them all Doctor Beak, almost as if there was only one of them, who appeared as if by magic in every part of the city. There was certainly an air of sorcery about the costume and the mask and the house. It made me uneasy. I had heard many sermons in church about the terrible evil of sorcery and how it was an abomination before God.
But my own Doctor Beak had given me soup and bread, and didn’t seem like a sorcerer. He was even happy to tell me his real name, which was Josiah Hopkins. Besides, most of the priests and vicars who had given those sermons had long since fled the city, while Josiah had stayed to help the people. As far as I could see, that made him a good man.
“I believe it was God’s will that brought us together, Daniel,” he said. “I need an assistant, someone to help me in my work of curing the suffering. Will you agree to join me on my mission to save the sick?”
I didn’t know if God’s will had brought us together or not, but his talk of cures for sickness had filled my heart with hope. Besides, I wanted to do something to fight the plague.
“I would be happy to be your assistant,” I said. “But I have one request. I want you to visit my house and help my mother.”
If Mother was still alive – and there was a chance she was – then perhaps Doctor Beak might be able to save her with one of his potions or remedies.
“Why, of course!” said Josiah, beaming. “Tell me exactly what I will find there.”
I told him about my family and how the plague had carried off my father and brothers, and how I had escaped. He stopped smiling and frowned instead as he listened. For a brief instant I worried that he might chase me from his house or even hand me over to the watchmen. After all, had I not broken the Lord Mayor’s rule? But then he smiled again and patted me on the shoulder.
“You have walked through the valley of the shadow of death,” he said. “But you are still a good son who wishes to save his mother. I will grant your request.”
“Thank you!” I said. I fell to my knees in front of him and kissed his hand, as I had seen people kiss the hands of priests. “Please, can we go now?”
“Alas, I do not think such a course of action would be wise,” he said. “The streets are full of all sorts of rogues at this time of night. No, we will go tomorrow.”
I tried to get him to change his mind, but he was just as stubborn as Mother. I knew he was probably right, too. Certain areas of the city had always been dangerous at night, and if Bad Barnaby and his friends were anything to go by, the pestilence had made the streets even worse. So at last I gave up and tried to be patient.
Josiah showed me where I was to spend the night – a small box bed in the corner of the scullery. He went off to his own room and I lay down, but sleep wouldn’t come. I had suddenly realized that I might run into Bad Barnaby again when I took Josiah to my house. Would he try and seize me? I shuddered. I didn’t like that idea at all – but then what did it matter? It would be a small price to pay if it meant saving Mother’s life. And with that thought in my head I fell asleep.
The next morning I could hardly wait to set off, but Josiah was very slow to rise and take his breakfast of bread and several glasses of wine. He also went on about my new “duties” – I had to carry a large wooden box full of potions and other things. It had a leather strap to go over my shoulder and it was quite heavy. I didn’t care about that, though. I just wanted to get going.
Eventually we left, and I hurried through the streets, ignoring the few people who were about. I checked every so often that Josiah – or Doctor Beak as I had to call him when he was wearing his plague doctor outfit – was keeping up with me. Bear Alley wasn’t far from Blowbladder Street and we soon arrived. I turned the corner and looked out for Bad Barnaby, but there was no one in the alley at all.
I quickly walked up to my house and stood in front of it. My blood went cold. The door was half open and the wood around the lock was smashed and splintered, just as it had been at my aunt and uncle’s. I dropped the box and ran inside, calling, “Mother!” over and over again, my voice echoing in the empty rooms. But I had realized why there was no watchman to guard the house and I knew there would be no reply.
I was too late.
CHAPTER
5
I flung myse
lf onto my parents’ bed, buried my face in the sheets that still smelled of them and sobbed. If I had felt alone when I had discovered my aunt and uncle were dead, at that moment I felt doubly so. Although Mother had been under the shadow of death when I had last seen her, deep down I suppose I had refused to believe that she would actually die. Meeting Josiah had filled me with hope, too. But now Mother was truly gone.
Eventually, I ran out of tears and sat up. My heart was broken and I was full of grief. Yet I didn’t want to give in. I owed it to Mother to survive, to stay alive and somehow keep the family going. Who would remember them if I died now? We would be like the dust in the streets that is blown away by the wind.
I took a deep breath, got up from the bed and went downstairs in search of Josiah. I found him in the parlour, standing by the table where we had always eaten our family meals. The room had been thoroughly ransacked, the cupboards emptied of Mother’s linen and the cutlery, the chairs knocked over and broken. But something of ours had been left – Josiah was holding our Bible.
“May I offer you my humble condolences, Daniel?” he said, his voice full of sympathy. “I can hardly imagine your pain and suffering at this time of sorrow. If only I had visited your house before… I fear this holy book is all that remains of your family’s earthly goods.” He laid a hand on my shoulder and smiled. “But what more does a soul need in this vale of tears than the word of the Lord our God?”
He handed me the Bible and I looked inside the cover, where Mother had asked me to write down our names and our dates of birth. Josiah’s words were an echo of the last words I had heard Mother say and I took that as a good omen. Perhaps she was watching me from Heaven, pleased that I had someone to look out for me and that I was helping him perform a worthy task. That felt like a very good thought and I held on to it.
“Well, time to move on,” said Josiah. “There’s no peace for the wicked.”
I almost smiled. Father had often used the same phrase and Mother had always laughed, saying that no one could have been less wicked than him. But I felt my eyes prickling with tears again. Josiah was right, there was nothing in this empty shell of a house any more, just a host of sad memories and the ghosts of our past. So I left with Josiah to discover what life might have in store for me next.