The Great Trouble (19 page)

After that day, into the next week, though we kept asking questions of families who had lost someone, it seemed we were coming across fewer new cases of cholera. I mentioned it to Dr. Snow.

“That could very well be, Eel.”

“Does that mean … taking the pump handle off is working already?”

“Well, probably the epidemic would have been winding down by now anyway, unless there had been a new source of contamination in the water,” Dr. Snow explained. “But the pump handle may have saved some lives.”

He sighed. “It would have saved more if we could have done it even earlier.”

There was still a lot we didn’t know. Like how the water got contaminated with the cholera poison in the first place.

“We may never know,” said Dr. Snow one evening in his study. “And we may never find the index case either.”

“The index case?” asked Rev. Whitehead.

Yes, the reverend was there. For that was something else that had changed.

Rev. Whitehead and Dr. Snow had begun to work together. Both had been asked to be part of the St. James Cholera Inquiry Committee, which was formally investigating the epidemic. And as Rev. Whitehead had talked to the families and listened more closely to Dr. Snow’s ideas, he began to change his mind about the doctor’s theory. Soon he was one of Dr. Snow’s strongest advocates.

“The index case is the first case,” Dr. Snow was saying.

“But wasn’t that Mr. Griggs?” I asked from where I sat by the fire, with Dilly at my feet. The nights were cooler now, and Mrs. Weatherburn was letting me sleep on a cot in a corner of the kitchen. “At least until your future is settled,” she had said.

Dr. Snow shook his head. “It might seem that Mr. Griggs was the index case, because he was the first person we know of who got sick and died. But we have to look further to find a case that explains how the water in the Broad Street well got poisoned with cholera. Other people died
during those first three days—seventy-nine on Friday and Saturday alone. They likely contracted the disease at about the same time as Mr. Griggs did. And they became sick because somehow the poison that causes cholera seeped into the well.”

“So someone else got sick first and somehow the water became contaminated,” Rev. Whitehead said thoughtfully. “But we just haven’t found out who it was—or how that happened.”

Annie’s father, Constable Thomas Lewis, was the last victim of the epidemic. He died on Tuesday, September 19.

I went to see Mrs. Lewis soon after, to pay my respects and bring some fresh eggs and embroidery thread that I’d got from Mrs. Weatherburn for Annie Ribbons. I also wanted to invite Annie to come with Florrie and me to see Dr. Snow’s menagerie again.

“You do like animals, don’t you? Weren’t you carrying some kind of creature squirming in your bag when I saw you at the pump a while back?” Mrs. Lewis asked. “I was so frantic that morning I didn’t ask you about it properly.”

“It was a cat. She still lives at the Lion.” I grinned. “The foreman, Mr. Cooper, is quite attached to her now.”

I thought back to the morning I found Little Queenie, when Gus had waited his turn so that he could load up a jug to bring to Mrs. Susannah Eley in Hampstead.

“Mrs. Lewis,” I asked suddenly, “Fanny was sick that day, wasn’t she? I remember you telling me that.”

“Yes, poor little dear,” she replied with a sigh. “She lasted until that Saturday. Dr. Rogers said she had just gotten so weak from diarrhea her little body couldn’t recover.”

“But Dr. Rogers didn’t think she had the cholera?” I asked, my mind racing with possibilities.

“No, he didn’t think so. After all, Fanny was sick that last Monday morning of August,” said Mrs. Lewis. “She was sick before anyone else, before the Great Trouble began.”

Before anyone else
. Fanny had been sick three days before Mr. Griggs became ill.
What if Dr. Rogers had been wrong?

I ran to find Florrie, and together we tracked down Rev. Whitehead.

That night, all of us gathered in Dr. Snow’s study. Dr. Snow and Rev. Whitehead listened to me for a long time.

A few days later, the St. James Cholera Inquiry Committee gathered in the cellar of 40 Broad Street to interview Mrs. Lewis. She told them that she had soaked Fanny’s diapers in buckets all during the week of the baby’s illness. Then she had dumped the soiled water out into the cesspool.

The committee brought in Mr. York, a surveyor, to excavate the cesspool and the waste pipe that connected it to the sewer. Mr. York found that the walls of the cesspool
were lined with bricks—
decaying
bricks. He discovered that between the cesspool and the Broad Street well, there was a lot of swampy soil, full of human waste. He also found that the well was only two feet and eight inches from the cesspool.

And so, what had happened was this:

The Broad Street well had been contaminated by water and sewage seeping into its walls from the cellar of 40 Broad Street, where Mrs. Lewis had been soaking Fanny’s diapers.

The death certificate for Fanny Lewis said that she died of exhaustion after an attack of diarrhea. But that wasn’t the full story.

“Fanny Lewis was the first case, what we call the index case,” said Dr. Snow. “We will never know how she got it. But now we know that the cholera poison in her diapers seeped into the well, contaminating the water from the Broad Street pump.”

Fanny had died of cholera. Cholera that had then killed 615 other people.

“Dr. Snow, Fanny died on Saturday, a week before they took the pump handle off,” I said, trying to work out the puzzle. “Is her death why the epidemic started to slow down the second week?”

“Yes, most likely. We’re not sure how long the cholera poison stays active, but Mrs. Lewis was no longer washing
out Fanny’s diapers in the cesspool after Saturday, September second,” Dr. Snow explained. “So the outbreak was probably nearing its end by September eighth, when the pump handle came off. Fewer new cases were occurring because the cholera poison was gone from the water, although, of course, people might still have been drinking contaminated water from the well that they had stored in their homes.”

Florrie spoke up. “But what about Fanny’s father? Didn’t he get sick too?”

Dr. Snow nodded. “Constable Lewis was struck with cholera very late in the epidemic, on the afternoon of September eighth, the very day the pump handle was removed.”

I tried to piece out what that meant. “So, if Mrs. Lewis emptied buckets of her husband’s waste into her cesspool in the cellar, just as she had done with Fanny’s diapers, contamination would have kept on seeping into the well.”

“Exactly,” agreed Rev. Whitehead. “But because you and Dr. Snow were able to convince the committee to act, no one could get water from the Broad Street pump after Constable Lewis got sick.”

“He fought for his life for eleven days,” reflected Dr. Snow.

“Eleven days during which the epidemic would have kept on raging if it hadn’t been for you, Dr. Snow,” put in Mrs. Weatherburn as she refilled his teacup.

The doctor smiled and raised his cup to me. “And you,
Eel. If you hadn’t tracked down Mrs. Eley, I’m not sure the committee would have made the decision they did.”

Nothing would bring Bernie and the others back. But we had made a difference. Removing the handle of the Broad Street pump had saved lives.

There is only one more part of my story to tell.

One evening at Dr. Snow’s house, I was surprised to find Dr. Farr from the General Register Office, where I had written out the list of deaths, and also Mr. Edward Huggins and a kind-looking woman he introduced as his wife.

It was quite a crowd for Dr. Snow, who didn’t usually entertain. Especially since Rev. Whitehead was there as well. And so was Henry.

I had Mrs. Weatherburn to thank for Henry. As soon as she’d heard my whole story, she’d gotten a cab and the two of us had gone to fetch him from Mrs. Miggle. Then she had bought us clothes and sent us to school.

“And if that evil man you call Fisheye comes after you again, he shall find himself transported to Australia,” she threatened. “After all, Dr. Snow has connections with the queen.”

Still, I knew Dr. Snow couldn’t take care of us. His work came first, and he was rarely home. We didn’t know what might happen next. Until this night.

Dr. Farr spoke first. “Dr. Snow invited me here so I could help illuminate your past.”

Henry leaned in close to me and said in a loud whisper, “What’s he talking about? What’s
illuminate
?”

Dr. Snow smiled. “Don’t worry, Henry. All Dr. Farr means is that he is able to tell you something about your family.”

Dr. Farr addressed me. “Young man, perhaps if you had not adopted that odd nickname of yours, I might have realized this sooner. But seeing your extraordinary eyes that day got me thinking.

“And since I work in an office that keeps records, I did some research. It was just as I thought. Now brace yourselves, lads,” he told Henry and me. “I am here to tell you that your father worked for me when you were little. He had your eyes, Eel, the very same.”

“You mean, sir, that our father helped to keep records?” I asked.

I remembered that day when I’d sat with the clerks in Somerset House, copying down that list for Dr. Snow.
Keeping records of those who had died might seem a trivial thing. But from all Dr. Snow had taught me, I knew such information could change things—it could save lives.

“After your father died, I lost track of you both,” Dr. Farr was saying. “I’d heard your mother had fallen into distress and had remarried, badly. But when she passed away, all trace of you boys was lost.”

Henry’s mouth was open, and I realized mine was too. I wondered where Dr. Farr’s story was headed.

“I thought I recognized you that day, but I couldn’t be sure,” Dr. Farr told me. “Your father had brought you in when you were quite small; I’m sure you wouldn’t remember. You should know that he always spoke of both his sons with pride.”

My father had worked in the General Register Office! He had helped keep the data that Dr. Snow depended on.

“So a mystery of your past is revealed,” said Dr. Snow.

There was more.

“Now for your future,” said Dr. Snow. He nodded at Mr. Edward Huggins, who spoke next.

“As I thought, Eel, I can’t get you your situation back. But I can offer you something else. My wife and I lost our only baby to flu a few years ago.” He reached out and took her hand.

“Eel and Henry, if you’re willing, we’d like you to come live with us,” Mr. Edward offered. “We promise to send you to school. Eel, you could even follow in Dr. Snow’s footsteps and be a physician someday if you wanted.”

If I became a doctor, I could do experiments and change things, just as Dr. Snow was doing with his theory. And I might earn enough so that maybe, someday, I could offer Florrie a chance to do art. I could imagine her drawing maps and charts and medical illustrations—all to help make people’s lives healthier and better. Florrie would like that.

Around me, the adults applauded. Henry smiled shyly, burying his head in my side. I had only one question.

“Yes,” said Mr. Edward. “Dilly is welcome too.”

1855

Wednesday, September 26

At the invitation of Dr. Snow and Rev. Whitehead, Florrie, Henry, and I went to a committee meeting at St. James’ Church.

The pump on Broad Street had been without its handle for more than a year, and the neighborhood had petitioned that it be put back. The well had been repaired so waste couldn’t seep underground, and cholera had not appeared again in the neighborhood. So it was no surprise that the vote came out in favor of opening the pump again.

Afterward, we said warm goodbyes to Dr. Snow and Rev. Whitehead, who were off to drink tea and compare notes on the papers they had written about the spread of cholera. Florrie’s employer, a reform-minded lady named Mrs. Mary Tealby, had been so impressed with Florrie’s role
in making Dr. Snow’s map, she had given Florrie special permission to come. (It helped that Dr. Snow himself had paid the good lady a visit and asked for Florrie’s help in illustrating the final version of his map.)

Florrie, Henry, and I began walking, catching up on our lives and reflecting on all that had changed in the past year. I led the way, and somehow found myself heading toward Blackfriars Bridge.

“We can’t get home too late,” said Henry, who loved living with Mr. Edward and his wife just as much as I did. For me it was being able to breathe again—a chance to use my mind for more than just scavenging.

On the bridge, I leaned over to look at the dark sweep of the Thames below us. I thought of my mudlarking days, trudging through the slimy mud, covered in filth from head to toe.

“Have you seen Thumbless Jake recently?” Florrie asked softly.

“No,” I said, putting my hand on Dilly’s head to keep her close. “Not for a long time.”