by John Patrick
The winter of 1664-1665 felt like it would never end. The frost bit hard and deep, killing young and old in their beds, and turning the River Thames into a mass of brilliant white ice. But as if the cold wasn’t bad enough, when darkness fell, as families huddled together to fend off the lethal winter chill and the frozen river sparkled in the crisp moonlight, a comet streaked across the night sky. A comet meant just one thing; no matter how vicious the winter had been, no matter how many lives had been taken by the savage cold, worse would follow; much worse. But what form would it take? War? Fire? Flood? Pestilence? There were so many things that frightened seventeenth century Londoners, it was hard to know; the Devil, God, consumption, war with the Dutch, war with the French, the Scots, with each other. But there was one particular fear that held a special dark place in their souls. And that was plague - the terrifying Black Death.
Plague had stalked the people of England for as long as anyone could remember. It lurked in the shadows of the rat-infested alleyways and haunted the filthy, overcrowded slums of the poor. From time to time it would emerge from the darkness to claim another life. It would brand them with hideous black skin sores that foretold of the suffering and death that would surely follow. Mostly it would satisfy itself with just the occasional poor soul, but when the urge took hold, the Black Death would erupt with an evil fury. It would rampage across town and country and slaughter all that it touched, rich or poor.
In the last few years whispered stories of outbreaks in Spain and Holland had sparked fear again in London. Conversations bristled with nervous talk of corpses piling up too quickly for the living to bury, of whole towns wiped from the map.
But for all the chatter, nothing much had happened in London. Sure there was the odd case, and every time the word plague appeared on the local death registers anxieties rose. But there'd been no real outbreaks, not yet. People started to relax again. Life went on.
'God is punishing the people of Europe for their evil ways!' they warned from the pulpits 'Watch your own house with care!'
So far, God had chosen to spare the English.
But Londoners knew they were no saints.
Then came reports of Black Death in Drury Lane. Foreigners, French or Dutch they said. Then more cases nearby. People began to get scared. Londoners started avoiding that end of town. The weekly death lists were scrutinised. As the icy winter started to thaw, rumours gathered strength; deaths were on the increase. More clusters were appearing. People began to flee the city. Parents scoured their children for the tell-tale black marks. They began to hoard, stockpile and make ready to hide themselves away. As more cases followed, fear grew to panic, people became desperate. They searched for guidance and help from anywhere. Churches overflowed into the streets, fortune-tellers, magicians, wizards, quacks and surgeons appeared all over the city. People devised potions and brews to keep the disease at bay, many deadly as the illness itself.
For the wealthy, there was but one answer. Pack up and move to the country. For their servants, the desperate hope was that they would be taken along with their masters and avoid the fate of their fellow Londoners.
For the poor though there was no escape. And little did they know that plans were afoot for when the time came, when plague was at the peak of its evil fury, dragging soul after sorry soul into the stinking burial pits, to imprison them in their slums, to lock them up to face their nightmare unaided and alone.
But then just as it looked to have started, the weather turned cool and it went quiet again. The kindling was still too damp to ignite. People went on with their business.
But May turned to June and the weather went from cool to hot.
And that’s when it really began.
Chapter 3
Summer 1665