Ned uttered a hoarse growl and swung his stick, this time aiming for my middle. I jumped aside just in time, and barely missed getting prodded in the stomach. Then I ran.
I made for Blackfriars Bridge. Nasty Ned might not want me in his gang, but Thumbless Jake had to put up with me. For all his bluster, he simply didn’t move as fast.
By midnight I’d scavenged enough coal to add a penny to my pocket. It was enough for some shrimps or a piece of bread with butter. My belly would have to stay empty, though. I owed this penny elsewhere. I found a place to curl up under the bridge. But I couldn’t let myself drop into a deep sleep, not with coins in my pocket. The chances of waking up to find them gone were too great.
As it turned out, I couldn’t have slept even if I’d wanted to; my mind was as choppy as the river in a strong wind. I kept seeing Hugzie’s smug smile, Betsy and Bernie sitting so still and scared, Mr. Griggs writhing in pain.
I tossed and turned on the hard stone. I’d have to get used to it. I’d been a mudlark before. I could do it again. I was good at it. That’s what made Thumbless Jake first notice me.
“Hey, you, lad. Get over here,” he’d called out one evening when the fog had shrouded everything in strange, blurry shadows. It was dangerous when it got like that. A barge or other boat could come upon you so sudden there was barely time to move out of the way in the thick, sludgy water.
“I been watchin’ you,” Thumbless Jake declared. “You make a good haul. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you could peer through the murk. You been a mudlark long?”
I shrugged. “Not long.”
“Hmph. Well, I don’t know how you’re doin’ so well, but keep your distance,” he warned, raising his stump of a thumb in my face. “I might be missing this, but I still got another hand that can wring a boy’s neck if ’e gets in my way.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
In Which I Visit Mrs. Miggle’s Lodging House
Friday, September 1
First thing I did the next morning was check my pocket. All safe.
I sold the rope and the few copper nails I’d managed to find to a rag shop for a penny. Then I was on my way—me and everyone else. Our feet tapped out the rhythms of a new day: the slap of bare feet on cobblestones, the clomp of hard leather boots, the brisk click of ladies’ heels. It seemed a wonder that the cobblestones weren’t worn down flat.
By the time I reached a little warren of streets near Field Lane, it was seven. The streets were already shimmering with heat. I slipped round to the back of a small house and knocked softly at the kitchen door.
“So it’s you.” A large, red-faced woman opened the door a crack and peered at me. “Got it?”
“Mrs. Miggle, I do,” I whispered, looking over my shoulder. I shifted from one foot to the other and fished inside my pocket. I wanted her to invite me in—now. The smell of warm, fresh biscuits and coffee enveloped me, sending an actual pain through my stomach. I was that hungry.
She held the door open and I slid in. Now was the time to say it.
“Leastwise, I have half,” I said, holding out the money.
Mrs. Miggle snapped it up, quick as a frog snatching a bug. Before I knew it, the shillings had disappeared into some hidden place in her vast skirts. I reached into my other pocket and drew out the penny I’d gotten that morning. “And here’s payment for the ragged school.”
Mrs. Miggle took that too, then folded her arms across her wide body and glared down at me. “So where’s the rest? Where’s the other two shillings?”
I wondered if she had ever smiled. Mrs. Miggle couldn’t be more than thirty, yet she seemed as stern and hard as if she’d had all the softness rubbed away years before.
“I’ve been easy with you, young man, on account of I have such a big heart, but I have much to bear.” She leaned so close I could see tiny hairs sticking out of her upper lip. “Much.”
“Yes, ma’am. I do realize that, and I am grateful for your kindnesses,” I said quickly. “And if, just this once, you could give me until next Friday, I swear I’ll have the four shillings for next week, and the two I still owe for this. Plus a penny for the Field Lane Ragged School fee.”
I cast my head down, forced a tear out of one eye, and did my best to look forlorn. It sometimes worked, even for someone as hard-hearted as the formidable Mrs. Miggle.
“All right. No need to pull that pathetic act on me.” Mrs. Miggle couldn’t be fooled. She turned away to take the kettle off the stove.
“How is he, ma’am?”
“ ’E’s just fine,” she said shortly, measuring out some tea. “Goin’ to the ragged school every day, like we agreed. But ’e grows, you know.
“Boys have an awful habit of doing that, whether you want them to or not,” she went on in a complaining whine. Mrs. Miggle had a high voice, like a fiddle that wasn’t tuned. “I can’t be expected to get ’im new shoes and clothes. Not on what you pay for ’is keep. I got real lodgers to worry about.”
“I know, Mrs. Miggle. I’m working on getting more money for the winter,” I assured her. “I’ll get him a new pair of shoes, and a coat too. But there’s time yet.”
I paused, wondering how to put what I wanted to say next. “Mrs. Miggle,” I began. “You haven’t … you haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary of late?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Like what?”
I licked my lip and tried to sound casual. “Oh, just someone nosin’ around, maybe one of my old mudlark pals.”
“You’re not in trouble for thievin’, are you, boy?”
“No, ’course not,” I said quickly. “It’s no matter. Can I … can I talk to him?”
She went to a back room off the kitchen, no larger than a cupboard. I followed, peering in past her at the small sleeping boy.
“Henry, lad,” called Mrs. Miggle. “Your big brother’s here to see you.”
“Henry,” I said softly. “Wake up. It’s me.”
I went to sit on the edge of the narrow straw mattress. Henry startled upright, a hint of fear in his face until he realized it was me.
“Eel! Did you come to take me away?” he whispered, his dark eyes darting toward the kitchen. “Mrs. Miggle … she’s mean.”
I frowned. “As mean as him?”
“Nothin’ like that.” He rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Just a bit rough.”
“Mrs. Miggle is an honest woman,” I told him.
Though even as I said it, I wondered: was she? For now, she was content with the four shillings a week I paid for Henry’s room and board. But if Fisheye found out where Henry was, would Mrs. Miggle be happy to hand him over for one large sum?
A lad like Henry was worth a lot to Fisheye. Henry could be made to steal and run simple cons. With his sweet face and high voice, he could bring in money by begging, especially if he was taught to cry. I couldn’t let Fisheye find my little brother, no matter what.
Henry dressed and went to sit on a low stool in the kitchen, where Mrs. Miggle gave him bread dipped in bacon grease and a cup of milk. She must’ve been feeling more kindly toward me than she let on, because I got some bread too.
“It’s just the crust,” she said, not willing to admit she had a soft heart somewhere inside.
Henry didn’t want me to leave. “Will you walk me to school, Eel?”
“Not today,” I told him as Mrs. Miggle gave me a cup of water (her generosity did not extend as far as milk). I couldn’t take the chance of our being spotted together.
“My time’s up anyway. I’ve got to go now, Henry.” I finished gulping down the cool water and patted the top of his head.
“Wait!” Jumping up, he scrambled back into his little cupboard of a room and came back with a slip of paper, folded once and crumpled.
He grinned, which made his dark eyes sparkle like coal in sunlight. “Go on, Eel. Open it.”
I read it out loud while my little brother sat and giggled beside me.
September 1, 1854
To my brother Eel
, Manny hapy returns of the day.
Ever your loving brother,
Henry
I gave him a hug. I was glad to see that his bones weren’t sticking out the way they had last winter. Mrs. Miggle might seem rough, but she wouldn’t let him starve. “You keep at your writing, Henry. Mum would be proud.”
I left soon after, tucking the note into my pocket and patting it as I walked away. It was like a promise for comfort later, I thought, almost like having a small meat pie wrapped in paper waiting at the end of a long day.
I’d forgotten about my birthday. It was about to be the worst one anyone could imagine.
CHAPTER NINE
The First Coffin
Later that morning, I was back on Broad Street, looking up at Mr. Griggs’s window. I’d already walked miles. I rubbed a crick in my neck. I felt stiff from spending the night outside. No use complaining, I reminded myself.
I was still a bit hungry, even though Mrs. Miggle, in honor of my special day, had given me two fresh biscuits to stick in my pockets when I left. I’d stopped at the Warwick Street pump to wash the rest of the mud off my legs. I’d doused my head too and had a good drink of water.
I was about to go upstairs to see Mr. Griggs when Dilly came trotting around the corner and rushed right at me, putting her paws up on my chest and whining softly.
“Where have you come from, then?” I asked, scratching the soft spot behind her silky ears.
I looked up, half expecting to see Mr. Griggs himself strolling down Broad Street. Dilly often tagged along with him when he made deliveries to his best customers.
There was no Mr. Griggs in sight. What would happen to the dog—to the whole family—if he didn’t recover? Mrs. Griggs wouldn’t be able to keep the shop, I knew that. Things would be hard. I thought of what Mum had told Henry and me after Pa died: “It’s no small thing to lose a father. The world is a cruel place for fatherless children.”
But even she had no idea how cruel. I thought Mr. Dickens had named his last book well: Hard Times. In front of me the tailor shop was closed and dark. No sounds came from the room above. I should go in, I knew. Instead I stood there, talking nonsense to a dog.
“Well, if I still had my situation at the Lion, I’d take you with me on an errand this fine day,” I told her. “But my destination is right here—to check on your master, Mr. Griggs.”
Still, I didn’t move. I stood squinting in the thick, oily sunlight. I wiped sweat from my forehead. I don’t want to go in there, I thought suddenly. I can’t do it.
“Eel!” It was Florrie. She and Betsy hurried toward me, with the Reverend Henry Whitehead behind them. Everyone who lived near the Golden Square knew the young assistant curate at St. Luke’s. The reverend was a tall man, bright and curious as a robin.
When we’d first met and he’d asked if I could read, he’d told me, “Schooling is important. I was lucky in that regard, lad. I grew up by the seaside, in a town called Ramsgate. My father was headmaster of Chatham House, and I was able to attend because I was his son. It was a better school than we could have ever afforded. That’s how I got the chance to go to Oxford.”
I thought it strange that such an educated man would bother to talk to me. But that was Rev. Whitehead. He knew everyone in the neighborhood, and greeted young and old with the same friendly smile, whether they turned up in St. Luke’s for Sunday service or not. (And mostly, I did not.)
My heart sank as I looked at his grim face. It wasn’t hard to guess that Mrs. Griggs had sent for him. The reverend said softly, “I’m afraid we have a sad errand at Betsy’s house.”
“I was here yesterday afternoon and looked in on Mr. Griggs then,” I said. “Has there been a change?”
“Why don’t you come along, Eel?” he suggested, not answering me directly. “You and Florrie can stay in the shop with the children while I have a word with their mother.”
Then he leaned over and put a hand on my shoulder. His voice was low but calm. “I fear the worst.”
Despite the heat, a shiver ran over my skin.
“I want to see my pa,” Betsy piped up. “Don’t make me stay downstairs in the shop. I don’t like it there without Pa.”
Florrie and I glanced at Rev. Whitehead, who nodded. “It may bring him comfort.”
At the top of the stairs, the reverend knocked and pushed the door open. At first everything appeared to be much the same as the day before. Then I looked closer and swallowed, trying to keep from crying out or, worse, losing the breakfast Mrs. Miggle had given me.
It was hard to tell that Mr. Griggs was alive. His eyes had shrunk in his face, which now seemed as pinched and dried as that of an elderly man. His poor body was no more than an old gray rag that had been wrung out to dry, or the light, papery carcass of a bird left to crackle in the sun.
Worst of all, his lips were a dark blue. Suddenly I understood. This is why they call cholera “the blue death.” He’d lost so much liquid from the inside that his skin and lips were no longer pink and healthy, but blue and dried out.
Mrs. Griggs turned to nod at Rev. Whitehead, then put her fingers gently on her husband’s wrist. The reverend stepped forward and knelt beside Mr. Griggs. Bernie lay huddled in the corner, sucking his thumb, his eyes wide. He looked too scared to cry.
“Come and say your goodbye now, Betsy,” Mrs. Griggs said softly.
Betsy hung back, her bony shoulders quivering under her thin dress. Beside me, Florrie had started to shiver too, even though the room was stifling hot.
“Take my hand, Betsy,” I whispered. I know exactly what this is like, I thought.
“Go ahead, dear girl,” Rev. Whitehead encouraged her. “Kiss your father’s forehead and whisper in his ear. He can still hear your voice.”
I watched Betsy put her small hand on her father’s shoulder, careful-like, as if she were afraid to cause him more pain. She was a brave girl, Betsy. Her hand didn’t tremble.
But if Mr. Griggs did catch his daughter’s whisper, it was the last sound he heard.
We stood without saying anything for a long time. I can’t exactly explain it, but I remembered feeling this way before, when my father died. It was as if the moment was bigger than any of us. It was like Death had tiptoed in among us, freezing us in our places until he’d done his work and left. And what Death did was solemn and awful.
I remember my mother telling Henry and me, “Don’t worry about touching your pa. He can’t feel any pain now.”
Not long after, two men with bored, blank faces had come knocking at our door. I remembered those men, stumbling up the stairs, making jokes about dropping the corpse. They had stopped talking when they reached the top. For I was there, standing at the open door, waiting and watching them.
“Sorry, lad,” one whispered as I stepped aside to let them go by.
Bernie began to cry. He ran to his mum, who let out a hoarse, exhausted sob. Rev. Whitehead pulled the sheet over the tailor’s face. He nodded to Florrie and me. “Maybe the little ones would like a bit of air while I speak with their mum.”
Florrie got Bernie to his feet. I took Betsy’s hand again. “Dilly’s downstairs. We’d better go see her before she gets into some sort of trouble.”
Outside, I found a piece of rope and threw it for Dilly to chase. Betsy and Bernie watched, looking dazed.
Annie Lewis came down to fill a bucket at the Broad Street pump. She stared at Betsy and Bernie, then came to me and tugged on my shirt. “Is Mr. Griggs dead, Eel? My mum told me he was awful sick.”
“Yes, Annie Ribbons, I’m afraid so. Can you come and be with Betsy later? I’m sure she’d like to have you near.”
Annie bit her lip and shook her head. “Mum needs me.” Then she went back inside without another word.
After a while Rev. Whitehead came out, rubbing a clean white handkerchief across his forehead. “Take Bernie to your mother now, Betsy,” he told her gently. “She’ll find your company a comfort.”
He looked up and down Broad St
reet and sighed deeply. From where we stood we could see people going in and out of shops, or heading to the pump with buckets to fill. A man called out in a cheerful voice, “Good day to you, Reverend Whitehead. Have you ever seen anything to beat the likes of this heat?”
The reverend answered him pleasantly. But when the man had gone, he turned to us. “Ah, children, it breaks my heart to see this bustling street now. Before long it will be full of nothing but coffin carts.”
“It’s truly the blue death?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“Yes. The symptoms leave no doubt of it.”
“Maybe Mr. Griggs will be the only one,” Florrie said hopefully.
“I’m afraid not, my dear.” Rev. Whitehead shook his head. “I’ve already received word that others were taken ill last night.”
“Can anything be done to keep it from spreading?” Florrie asked, twirling one braid about her finger. It was what she did when she was nervous.
“Well, men will pour lime to try to clean the infection from the streets,” Rev. Whitehead told us. “But as for the poison in the air that causes the cholera, there is little people can do except flee this polluted place.
“And now I must be off to visit other families,” he added. “Take care of yourselves.”
He squared his shoulders and strode away, like a soldier going into battle.
“What do you think will happen now?” Florrie asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
But then, right before our eyes, the street began to change. A woman rushed past, a pillowcase stuffed with belongings bouncing against her back. A little boy trotted behind her, sobbing, trying to keep up. A man carrying a screaming toddler burst out of a nearby house and almost ran into us. Florrie and I jumped back out of his way.
“I guess Reverend Whitehead was right,” I said. “Families are leaving. And fast.”
“What about you, Eel?”
“Me?” I hadn’t thought that far. “I don’t actually live on Broad Street anymore. But this is my neighborhood. My friends are here—well, at least you are. I’m staying. Maybe I can help. Besides, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
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