A little while later, we saw the first coffin cart rolling toward us. It had come for Mr. Griggs.
Betsy and Bernie were with their mother. Dilly lay inside the shop, curled up in the shadows, almost as if she were waiting for Mr. Griggs to appear and take up his scissors and needle again. When she heard the horse and cart, she rushed to the doorway to bark at the men.
“Quiet, girl,” I ordered.
“Hold my horse’s head, will you, laddie?” asked one of the men, who had orange hair so like Nasty Ned’s I wondered if they were related. He was so cheerful it was hard to think of him as a coffin man.
The men lifted a wooden coffin out of the back of the cart. They carried it past us, and we could hear them struggling to get it up the stairs. They came stumbling back down a few minutes later. A shiver went through me as I watched them load the long box into the cart. You could tell it was heavier now.
“Poor Mr. Griggs,” Florrie said, tears filling her eyes. “He was the first, I guess.”
The man with the orange hair overheard her.
“This poor man might’ve been the first, but it won’t be long before we’re cartin’ folks off by the tens. We’re headed over to Peter Street now.” He climbed into the cart and took up the reins. “Word is that whole families were struck sick last night.”
“Might be hundreds before it’s over,” the other man remarked, scrambling up beside him. “Nasty business, especially in this heat. I’ll be sweatin’ like a—”
At that moment a girl came rushing toward us, waving her hands. “Wait!”
“What is it, lass?” asked the friendly driver.
“Come and take them away, will you, sir?” she begged, breathing hard. “My mum’s gone. My big sister too. Please, sir. Please come.”
I wondered how many people had been watching the coffin men from their windows. Even before the cart had turned the corner, more houses began to empty out. The cobblestones rang with the trampling feet of wild-eyed mothers and fathers, hauling toddlers by the hand, with bulging pillowcases of clothes tossed over their backs.
“But where can they go?” said Florrie, stepping back into the tailor’s doorway so as not to get hit by a woman with a basket of bedding on her hip.
“Anywhere away from here.” I shrugged. “Maybe they have relatives or friends somewhere else in London, or even the countryside.”
“I’m not afraid to stay,” Florrie declared. “Are you, Eel?”
“Not me. I’m strong.” I tried to sound confident.
But Florrie’s face had gone white and she tapped her foot nervously. “I’d better head home, though. Mum will be worried.”
I watched her run off, her braids bumping against the thin fabric of her dress. “Florrie!”
She stopped and looked back at me.
“You be careful now, Florrie Baker,” I called. I wasn’t sure how to put the feeling I had into words. “Be careful, on account …”
My face turned red. Florrie grinned. “On account of we’re friends, silly.”
As she ran off, I said to myself, “Be careful ’cause you’re grand, Florrie Baker.” The grandest girl I know.
I stood alone, a small knot of fear in my stomach. No one was safe from the cholera. Not Florrie or the Griggses or the Lewises or Rev. Whitehead. Or me.
I wasn’t scared so much for myself. But if I got sick, what would happen to Henry?
But how did you stop the cholera from getting you? If it was poison in the air like everyone said, there was nothing I could do. We all had to breathe. And I’d been breathin’ the same air as Mr. Griggs.
It must be a matter of luck, then. Or something else. I had no idea. And looking at the folks streaming past me, I didn’t think anyone else did either.
A few minutes later, a man down the road waved to get my attention. “Here, boy! I’ll give you a penny if you help me load this cart I borrowed to take my family out of here.”
I sprinted over, glad of the money. Next Friday would come soon enough, and Mrs. Miggle would expect to be paid the four shillings I owed her, plus the two I’d been short this week.
As it turned out, that penny was just the beginning. There was tin to be had from the panic that struck Broad Street that Friday, and though I didn’t like profiting from misfortune, I was grateful to hear the chink of coins in my pocket.
All that afternoon I ran up and down Broad Street and the smaller lanes surrounding it—Dufours Place, Cambridge Street, and Hopkins Street. I went down Poland, Berwick, Marshall, and Cross Streets. Everywhere it was the same: frightened families rushing to escape the blue death.
Sometimes I got a penny or two for helping to load a cart. Other times a harried mother asked me to carry a basket down a steep flight of steps. The streets were crowded with people, scurrying in all directions. There were more coffin carts too.
It was nearly dark before I made my way down Regent Street to Dr. Snow’s neighborhood. Sackville Street felt like another world: quiet and peaceful, with just a few gentlemen and ladies out for an evening stroll. They don’t even know what’s happening less than a mile away, I thought.
I was so tired after feeding the animals I almost curled up in a corner of the shed. But I didn’t dare risk Mrs. Weatherburn catching me. I’d best go back to the river. I might even be able to troll for coal before going to sleep. The tide was low, perfect for mudlarking. A half-moon would be up soon; the moon grew rounder and brighter every night.
I made my way to Blackfriars Bridge, stopping just once to buy a loaf of bread and the end of a round of cheese. I spotted Thumbless Jake in the distance, his tall shape almost fuzzy in the strange yellowy light. I kept out of his way. I didn’t want Jake being tempted to turn me in to Fisheye.
I found a stretch of river I could work in peace. Most of the regulars had stopped to get bread and a pint of beer with their day’s earnings. Or maybe the stench had gotten too much.
The moon cast a glittery light on the water as I waded through the thick slime, my eyes on the shallows and the edge of the bank. The weather might be warm, but folks still needed coal for cooking. I wouldn’t ignore iron, copper, or even bits of wood, but coal was my first choice. I looked for lumps dropped by bargemen as they heaved their loads to the shore.
After a while I found an empty barge tied up near some of the old tumbledown wooden factories that hugged the river’s edge. I scrambled up a rope and wedged myself between two rows of barrels on the deck. It would have to do.
It was a little more comfortable than the night before, and I was tired enough. But I couldn’t get to sleep. My mind raced from one trouble to another: the blue death and what it meant for folks on Broad Street; Mr. Griggs and the way he’d looked, all blue and dried out; Fisheye Bill; and what the future might hold for Henry and me.
I’d begun to have hope when I was at the Lion. I was proud of my work and had learned a lot. Sometimes I’d even had the courage to make a suggestion to Abel Cooper. Once, after I’d come up with a system for double-checking the orders we sent out, the foreman had patted my shoulder. “Old Jake was right about you, lad. You may look a bit wild, with those inky black eyes you got, but you notice things. Good work.”
Good work. If it hadn’t been for Hugzie, I would still be there, with a real job—and, most important, a way to keep Henry safe. My mind ached from too many thoughts, and my stomach ached from not enough food. And then, just before sleep finally took me, I remembered again: today had been my birthday.