London - Edward Rutherfurd [412]
“I’m safe where I am,” she said. Though they had returned from Massachusetts together, she had not, for a long time, felt close to the younger Dogget boy. He lacked spiritual direction. Indeed, though she did not like to frame the thought, she was glad he was not her own. He had married and become a waterman instead of taking up a craft. But he came to see her every week and she reminded herself that there was good in almost everybody.
“I see what it is.” A soft chuckle. “You think you’re safe, old girl, don’t you? ’Cause God’s on your side.” Dogget put his arm round her affectionately. “You think it’s just us sinners that are going to die.” And though she disapproved of his tone, Martha did not deny the charge. It was exactly what she thought. For Martha knew what caused the plague: wickedness.
Most people in a general way would have acknowledged this. Plagues and disasters, after all, were in the hands of God and had been sent to sinful mankind ever since Adam and Eve were cast out of the Garden of Eden. And if there were any doubt about this case, she would point out: “Where did the plague begin?” In Drury Lane. Why Drury Lane? Every Puritan knew the answer to that. The new theatre, patronized by the king with his women, and his lewd, extravagant court. Hadn’t London been warned half a century ago when Shakespeare’s Globe had burned down? Now, in the moral ruin of what should have been God’s shining city, Martha could see the truth clearly. She could not think it likely, therefore, that the plague should visit her.
Yet it was certainly coming. From the Vintry, last week, it had steadily been making its way up Garlick Hill towards Watling Street. It was not surprising that her family should be concerned about her.
If only Gideon were still there, but he had died three years ago. His place had been taken, as far as was possible, by young O Be Joyful; but though the woodcarver was nearly thirty now, and the delight of her old age, he had not the authority of his father. He was still a journeyman, rather than a master and could only just make out his letters. It was nonetheless O Be Joyful who now decided the issue.
“We are going too,” he told her quietly, indicating his wife and two young children. “Please come with us, Aunt Martha, and be our spiritual guide.” So, reluctantly, she agreed; and half an hour later, that warm September morning, she and the two little families walked solemnly down the hill to the riverside, where Dogget put them all in his wherry and began to row. Only as they got out into the stream did Martha stare ahead and ask in horror: “We are going to that?”
Their destination was certainly the strangest sight. It lay in midstream and, though large and growing before her very eyes, it was hard to say exactly what it was. “Waterman’s Hall, I call it,” Dogget said genially; for it was the river folk who had thought of it. Consisting of scores of rafts, wherries and other little craft lashed together, the whole structure formed a sort of huge, ramshackle, floating island. Even as they approached, men were hard at work enlarging it, adding decking and constructing little shelters upon it. Their reasoning was instinctive, but logical enough. If they could remain out in the river, isolated from the contagion, they might hope to survive. “There’s water. There’s fish. All we need is to build some shelters,” Dogget continued. And when Martha enquired what he and his friends would do if anyone on this watery refuge developed plague, he grinned. “Throw them in the river,” he said.
By mid-September it had become harder and harder to cope with the plague. The living were no longer obeying the mayor’s orders. People were no longer observing the quarantine rules. Plague victims were being concealed; people were refusing to remain cooped up in infected houses, or trying to smuggle their children out to safety. And with the limited number of watchmen, it was impossible to control them. In an attempt to separate the sick from the healthy, the mayor had ordered that numerous poor