The Great Plague

by Pamela Oldfield

  Poppet is sad and sorry for himself. He picked a quarrel with a lurcher dog not an hour since and was soundly beaten. I had to leap from my horse to rescue him and almost lost my mount who chose to wander off while I was otherwise engaged. Poppet has a torn ear and has lost a tooth but I have no sympathy. He has only himself to blame. He seems to imagine the highway is his own and every other dog a trespasser.

  I shall now wrap myself in my blanket and try to sleep a little. Jasper is tied to the lower branch of the tree against which I sleep. If it rains in the night I shall get wet for I have no cover except Aunt Nell’s parasol which will serve me little in a downpour.

  Later that night

  I was woken to a great commotion. Upon enquiring, I was told that a man had fallen into a fit and died and an old woman was accused of bewitching him. Our family have always considered the idea of witchcraft as barbaric but I confess I was curious. I picked up Poppet and made my way into the circle and saw an elderly man lying on the grass. Beside him was an ugly old crone with a bent back. She was small and thin, her hair was straggly and her face was grey with fear. In truth she looked like a witch with few teeth and a shrill voice but I knew better. She was being roughly shaken by a large man of middle years. His clothes had seen better days and his chin was in dire need of a razor.

  “You killed him,” he insisted. “Confess, you evil old hag, or ’twill go hard with you.”

  The crowd cried out excitedly.

  “Aye, confess.”

  “Bury her in the same grave. See how that becomes her.”

  “String her up. The wicked creature.”

  “She’s the devil’s handmaid, right enough.”

  The large man breathed hard and his eyes glittered with a kind of triumph.

  “I’m no witch,” the old woman cried fearfully. “I had naught to do with it.”

  I waited for someone to speak up for her but none did. As I looked at her birdlike frame, she reminded me fleetingly of poor Aunt Nell as she lay on her death bed. Scarcely knowing what I was doing, I pushed my way forward through the angry crowd.

  “Let her be,” I told them. “She is not to blame.” I spoke up but my voice trembled. Of a sudden all eyes were on me.

  The man glared at me. “What d’you know of the matter?”

  “ ’Tis common sense,” I replied, for that was how Papa had argued it. He had also said witchcraft was for “gullible fools” but I dared not quote him exactly for fear of reprisals. I spoke as bravely as I could and looked straight at him without flinching but inside I was trembling.

  “The man is dead of a fit,” he insisted.

  A woman spoke up. “She might turn her evil eye on the rest of us. On you, mayhap.”

  “She does not have an evil eye,” I told her but even to my own ears my protestations sounded lamentably weak. Her innocence would be impossible to prove.

  Ignoring me, the large man shook the old woman again and she began to sob, clasping her hands imploringly and begging for mercy in a thin whining voice. As I wondered what to do next another voice spoke up.

  “The young woman speaks the truth. Belief in witchcraft is for the ignorant.”

  It was a young man, well bred. He wore a fine suit with a hat trimmed with a feather. The son of a wealthy merchant, perhaps. He looked at the large man whose face was turning an angry red. “You sir.” He spoke mildly. “You look like an intelligent man. Release this old woman.”

  In truth the wretch looked just the opposite but I saw at once how the young man hoped to solve the problem. Would the large man choose to brand himself ignorant? As he hesitated, the young man strode towards him, his hand outstretched. “Let us shake on it, as two intelligent men.”

  I doubt if the wretch had ever been called “intelligent” before and he liked the novelty. Before he knew what had happened they were shaking hands. At the same time there came a cry from someone in the crowd.

  “Why look, the man is not dead. See, he has opened his eyes.”

  ’Twas the truth. The man rubbed his eyes and then sat up. The assorted spectators muttered and crowded closer – except for the old woman. She took her chance and scuttled away and was quickly lost among the crowd.

  They helped the man to his feet and marvelled at his recovery. Seeing that I could do no more I retired to write my diary and shall now try to resume my sleep.

  Probably August 21st

  I was awoken by Poppet who was barking hysterically and opened my eyes to find the young man seated beside me, waiting for me to wake up. A large dark horse grazed nearby on a long rope which the man had wound around his arm. The man smiled and said his name was Marcus Wainwright. In the daylight I could see that his eyes were a very pale blue and his complexion smooth. His fair hair curled naturally beneath his hat. I sat up at once and rubbed at my face. I was mortified to be found so tousled yet pleased to see him. He said he admired my courage. Seeing that the man meant me no harm, Poppet made haste to greet him, wagging his tail in friendship. Master Wainwright stroked his ears and Poppet no longer had eyes for his poor mistress. So much for loyalty.

  “I admired you also,” I told Master Wainwright. “For the way you solved the problem. An intelligent fellow, you called him. That was cleverly done.”

  We both laughed. I was wishing I could brush my hair and clean my teeth. If only I had met him under more auspicious circumstances. Fate can be very unkind. “I am headed for Woolwich,” I said, half hoping he went there too.

  He, it seemed, had no fixed plan.

  “I shall go where the mood takes me – as long as it is away from that accursed city.”

  I sprang to London’s defence which made him laugh. Then he suggested we might travel on together. It was then that I made a frightful discovery. My horse was no longer tethered to the branch. I cried out in dismay, seeing at once how difficult my journey would be without him.

  We made many enquiries but no one had seen the horse being led away. Rather, no one admitted it. I thought one or two looked shamefaced at my distress and think it likely they chose to look the other way. It seems where plague is a constant spectre, folk choose not to become involved. They try to remain isolated from their neighbours and who can blame them.

  Without my horse I had lost my means of transport but at least I still possessed my Certificate of Health. My money was also safe for I kept it in my pocket beneath my skirts.

  To my huge relief, Master Wainwright offered to share his horse and I happily accepted. (If I am honest, I was glad for the excuse to share a ride with so fine a young gentleman.) I wondered how old he was and whether he had a sweetheart – or worse, a wife. If not I wondered at his age. Would he wait for me to become a woman, I wondered. In six years I will be twenty and Papa would not hinder me. How jealous Maggie would be!

  Master Wainwright’s horse was a fine animal with a glossy chestnut coat and a flowing mane. His brown eyes were soft and intelligent. He was as different from my poor nag as chalk from cheese. With me riding behind, we set off on the last leg of our journey. Master Wainwright would deliver me to Woolwich, he told me, then continue alone to put a greater distance between himself and the city. He said that if I were willing, and in view of the exceptional circumstances, we might call each other by our given names. I agreed at once.

  We stopped around midday and Master – that is Marcus – gave me bread and cheese from the bag he carried across his back. We washed this down with a mouthful of ale and thought ourselves fortunate.

  Meanwhile I was becoming alarmed by the number of people who were returning to London. I stopped one of the men who walked alone with his head down. He was the very picture of dejection, and I asked the reason for his retreat from Woolwich.

  “Retreat, you call it? Aye, there’s some truth in that.” He eyed me gloomily. “ ’Tis a dangerous situation. The wretches will not let us pass. With or without proof.”
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br />   “Dangerous?” I stared at him, dismayed. “But we have certificates. What more do they need? I have an uncle – a farmer. He will give me shelter.”

  The man shook his head. “You’ll find out for yourself in good time. They are quite beyond reason and look upon us all as a threat.”

  “But if I reason with them. . . If I explain. . .”

  He gave a bitter laugh and walked on. I was shaken but unconvinced and Marcus and I set off again. It was late afternoon when we saw the first makeshift homes. Most were roughly fashioned from blankets and stakes. One or two at first but as the miles passed we saw many more. The truth dawned. The people who were refused entry to Woolwich must either camp out or return to London. I shuddered. This would be my fate if Uncle John would not vouch for me.

  By early evening we were less than a mile from the town – I could see the houses and a church spire. I felt suddenly confident that all would be well. That I would convince them. That I would be allowed in. I imagined Uncle John greeting me with open arms.

  Then we came to the barricade and my new-found confidence wavered. Felled trees had been dragged into place across the road and piled on either side. Behind this a group of angry looking men waited, some with drawn pistols, others with staves. Yet another brandished a sword. They were arguing with the people on our side of the barricade and their voices were loud with passion.

  Marcus slipped from the horse’s back and helped me down and we stood watching the ugly spectacle.

  “You may show us a thousand certificates,” one of the defenders shouted, “for they are not worth the paper they are written on. Half of them are forgeries. D’you take us for fools? Get back to London and take the plague with you.”

  I was suddenly furious and my rage gave me courage. With the help of my elbows, I worked myself to the front and produced my own certificate.

  “This has been stamped and signed at the Old Bailey,” I told them. “How dare you suggest ’tis a forgery.”

  “Oh lah,” he replied, in mincing tones. “How dare you suggest ’tis a forgery. Just listen to her.”

  There was a murmur of solidarity from the far side of the barrier but I refused to be beaten. I could not afford to be refused entry.

  “Do you think,” I answered, “that I would come so far without authentic documents? D’you take me for a fool?”

  “Aye and worse than a fool,” one of them replied, with a fearsome leer on his swarthy face. “You London folk make me sick. You are so superior when all goes well and think on us as country bumpkins. But come the sickness and you run to the country begging for our help.”

  His companions joined in a chorus of approval but I pressed on.

  “Then send for my uncle, Farmer John Paynton. He shall vouch for me.”

  My voice shook with indignation, yet already there was a doubt growing within me. I could see determination writ large on their faces and in truth I hardly expected to win my point.

  “Who are you to give us orders?” one of them shouted. “Hoity little maid, aren’t you? We don’t want the likes of you with your fancy clothes and big words. Full of airs and graces. We know your sort, so just take yourself off.”

  He thrust his fist hard into my chest and sent me flying backwards. Only the press of people behind me prevented me from falling.

  “Get back where you belong,” he roared and burst into loud laughter.

  Another cried, “Aye. Get back to smoky London. Filthy cobbles. Belching chimneys.” To prove his disgust he spat in my direction but mercifully missed.

  “He’s right,” came another voice. “Get yourself back to the smell of sickness and the cries of the dying. ’Tis all you’re fit for.”

  I found my feet again, clutching at my chest where he had struck me. There were tears of pain and rage in my eyes which I tried to hide. I turned away and stumbled back to Marcus. He put a comforting arm around my shoulders. I told him of my defeat and he was shocked.

  “Yet ’twas bravely done, little Alice,” he told me but his kind words made the tears run faster. I sank to the grass verge and wept. Not solely for myself but for the tragedy being enacted around me. In truth I could see no end to the suffering. Aunt Nell had done well to die when she did, I thought despairingly, and nothing Marcus could say could comfort me.

  August 22nd or 23rd

  I know not which day ’tis and care less. I wish I had stayed at home for at least I had a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in. I asked God why he has done this to me and wonder if this is my punishment for killing Aunt Nell. But if so then what crimes have all the others committed?

  I parted company with Marcus at first light as he had decided to move on, perhaps to Eltham. He begged me to accompany him but I have no business there and am determined to try again to reach Uncle John. Marcus left me a second small blanket which I take as a great kindness.

  I wrote a note addressed to my uncle and sent it to him by hand. I had to trust somebody and chose a young lad with a mop of tow-coloured hair. He was loitering at the fringes of the crowd on the far side of the barricade. I gave him threepence by way of payment and can only pray he is honest. I begged Uncle John to come to the barricade to argue for my admittance. Pray God he comes. I take back all my criticisms of the farm and their way of life. All I want is to be off the road and safe within four walls. A good wash with soap – and one of Aunt Mary’s stews would be bliss also. How precious the most simple pleasures seem once they are taken away from us.

  I have had to tie Poppet up which he hates, poor sweet. He kept wandering off and once returned with a baby rabbit in his mouth. I had no fire, but a family nearby cooked it with a few carrots and offered me a share. I refused, saying that I should soon be fetched by my uncle. I thought they needed it more than I did. Later Poppet had another fight. This time ’twas a sheepdog and again he came off worst. His ear is torn and his front paw is bleeding. I am now afraid to allow him out of my sight.

  The next day

  Uncle John did not come. How could he desert me? I waited all day – until it was too late to make other plans. I was so sure he would speak up for me – the disappointment was terrible. But does he know I am here? Did the tow-headed boy deliver the note? Did Uncle John try to make contact or does he, too, fear that I am carrying the plague? Maybe they are resolved to take no risks. Aunt Mary may be afeared to take me in at such a late date. They have their own children to consider. ’Tis my own fault. I should have come earlier. How I regret not doing so. If we had left when Uncle John first wrote to us Aunt Nell would still be alive today and we would both be safe at the farm.

  The next day

  Early morning. I cried myself to sleep last night and now sit wretchedly alone. Confused and lonely and full of self-pity. I keep wondering how Marcus is faring. I hope he does better than I do.

  Later the same day

  Now I am totally bereft. Poppet chewed through the cord and ran away. I spent hours wandering in search of him but there is no sign. I thought nothing worse could happen but I was wrong. Most certainly he can feed himself – there are plenty of rabbits around, but will I ever see him again?

  I am told ’tis August 25th

  I am in a terrible fix. I have nothing and must make my way back to London to await Papa’s release from the pesthouse. But what of Poppet? How can I abandon him? I spent most of the day searching for him without result. Some say they have seen him here or there but he has since disappeared completely. I have not eaten all day. To know that Uncle John is so near and cannot help me is a great frustration but I can see no help for it. I shall make one more attempt to convince the men at the barrier that my certificate is genuine. Then I shall give up.

  Three hours later

  No success at the barrier and Poppet is still missing. I hope God hears my prayers before I sleep. At daybreak I shall start the long walk back to London and pray I reach home safely.

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nbsp; August 27th

  Yesterday, by the grace of God, my prayers were answered. Perhaps He is no longer displeased with me. After I had been walking homeward for most of the day I was hailed by a cheery cry. Turning, I saw Luke seated in his cart which already carried an elderly man, two haggard women and a child.

  “By all that’s wonderful,” he cried. “ ’Tis young Alice Paynton.”

  He asked me if I wanted a ride home. I told him I had no money but would see him well paid by my father who I hoped was recovering from the plague. This brought expressions of great alarm from those who rode with him. I showed them my certificate and they were at once reassured and helped me to climb up. Luke insisted that I shared his seat and we talked at length, recounting our various adventures. We stopped once to rest the horse and allow it to crop the grass, then set off again at a good pace.

  We came into the outskirts of London as the clocks struck one this morning. Sad to see the stricken city yet I was pleased to be back. After Luke had deposited the others (they were one family) we rode on. The darkness was lessened by the light of the fires which still burn in the streets. We reached my home just before three this morning. Luke went on to his own house. I was left to fall into my bed, sadder and wiser than I had been on leaving it a week ago.