Smithfield so many, many years ago.
I thought the bailiff had done with us, but he came back and threw a waxen seal bearing the arms of the city into each of our hands.
'If you want a job,' he rasped, join the death-carts. It doesn't pay much, but at least you won't starve.'
Of course I accepted. I picked myself up and looked across the great common where those horrid blackened remains were being hoisted into a cart. I thought that was the end of the matter. In truth, the murder of Andrew Undershaft was simply a pointer of things to come.
Chapter 3
I became a corpse collector. I worked with the gangs which patrolled the streets day and night, emptying the houses, collecting the cadavers of all those who had died of the sweating sickness. Godforsaken work! It hardened the heart and bit deep into the soul. The people I worked with were the scum of the earth who feared neither God nor man. Even now, years later, I cannot tell you the dreadful things I witnessed. Houses ransacked, corpses plundered. The dreadful death-bells tolling day and night; the great, yawning burial pits to the north of the city outside Charterhouse. The stories that not all the people taken there were dead are true. A living nightmare! A scene from the Apocalypse. My senses became dulled. I swear, where possible, I did good work. One sole thought kept me working: to raise enough money to be able to slip out of the city and go back to Ipswich.
Satan, however, didn't reign supreme in London. The Carthusians at the Charterhouse, God bless them, fulfilled their job as priests. They came out to bless the corpses and, three times a week, I erected an altar, at which a priest in black or purple vestments sang the Mass for the dead. One man in particular impressed me. John Houghton, the Carthusian priest, a thick-set, stubby-featured man. He would stand by the burial pit, keeping an eagle eye as we emptied the corpse carts, even as he chanted the psalms for the dead. He would allow no plundering, no mockery and was not above using a thick ash cudgel to enforce his orders amongst the rabble I worked with.
One morning, when the smoke was thick and curling, Houghton came too close to the edge of the ditch. He slipped, going down on the mud, into the common grave. The corpse collectors leaned on their shovels and laughed as the Prior, restricted by his grey robes, tried to climb back: the side of the bank was drenched with rainwater, so the more he scrambled, the worse it became. I ran across, leaned down and stretched out my hand.
Take it, Father!' I ordered.
Houghton's light-blue eyes held mine.
Take it!' I repeated. ‘I will not let you go.'
The poor man was suspicious. He thought I was going to push him further down into the pit or, even worse, pull him up and crack his head with the spade. After all, he was in the company of those who feared neither God nor man.
'By the sacrament,' I whispered hoarsely, ‘I mean you no harm!'
He grasped my hand. I pulled him out and helped him brush the dirt from his robes. ‘What's your name?' he asked. 'Roger Shallot, Father'
Thank you, Master Shallot. I shall pray for you.'
And, shaking my hand, he walked round the pit to give my companions the rough edge of his tongue.
Ah well, the days passed. No jests or jokes here. One morning, I woke in old Quicksilver's house. I felt heavy-headed, my limbs sore to move: every step I took seemed to drench me in sweat. I staggered downstairs. I took a stoup of water and went out to join the gang where they gathered near the lych-gate of St Paul's. God knows how I worked that morning. By noon I was vomiting, my belly taut with pain. When I felt beneath my armpit, I touched the swelling buboes. Of course, the others knew: if I hadn't drawn a dirk which I had taken from one of them in a fight, they would have knocked me on the head and tossed me into the pit. They drove me off with curses and blows. I staggered away through the smoke, past the heaps and mounds of lime, and
I thought the bailiff had done with us, but he came back and threw a waxen seal bearing the arms of the city into each of our hands.
'If you want a job,' he rasped, join the death-carts. It doesn't pay much, but at least you won't starve.'
Of course I accepted. I picked myself up and looked across the great common where those horrid blackened remains were being hoisted into a cart. I thought that was the end of the matter. In truth, the murder of Andrew Undershaft was simply a pointer of things to come.
Chapter 3
I became a corpse collector. I worked with the gangs which patrolled the streets day and night, emptying the houses, collecting the cadavers of all those who had died of the sweating sickness. Godforsaken work! It hardened the heart and bit deep into the soul. The people I worked with were the scum of the earth who feared neither God nor man. Even now, years later, I cannot tell you the dreadful things I witnessed. Houses ransacked, corpses plundered. The dreadful death-bells tolling day and night; the great, yawning burial pits to the north of the city outside Charterhouse. The stories that not all the people taken there were dead are true. A living nightmare! A scene from the Apocalypse. My senses became dulled. I swear, where possible, I did good work. One sole thought kept me working: to raise enough money to be able to slip out of the city and go back to Ipswich.
Satan, however, didn't reign supreme in London. The Carthusians at the Charterhouse, God bless them, fulfilled their job as priests. They came out to bless the corpses and, three times a week, I erected an altar, at which a priest in black or purple vestments sang the Mass for the dead. One man in particular impressed me. John Houghton, the Carthusian priest, a thick-set, stubby-featured man. He would stand by the burial pit, keeping an eagle eye as we emptied the corpse carts, even as he chanted the psalms for the dead. He would allow no plundering, no mockery and was not above using a thick ash cudgel to enforce his orders amongst the rabble I worked with.
One morning, when the smoke was thick and curling, Houghton came too close to the edge of the ditch. He slipped, going down on the mud, into the common grave. The corpse collectors leaned on their shovels and laughed as the Prior, restricted by his grey robes, tried to climb back: the side of the bank was drenched with rainwater, so the more he scrambled, the worse it became. I ran across, leaned down and stretched out my hand.
Take it, Father!' I ordered.
Houghton's light-blue eyes held mine.
Take it!' I repeated. ‘I will not let you go.'
The poor man was suspicious. He thought I was going to push him further down into the pit or, even worse, pull him up and crack his head with the spade. After all, he was in the company of those who feared neither God nor man.
'By the sacrament,' I whispered hoarsely, ‘I mean you no harm!'
He grasped my hand. I pulled him out and helped him brush the dirt from his robes. ‘What's your name?' he asked. 'Roger Shallot, Father'
Thank you, Master Shallot. I shall pray for you.'
And, shaking my hand, he walked round the pit to give my companions the rough edge of his tongue.
Ah well, the days passed. No jests or jokes here. One morning, I woke in old Quicksilver's house. I felt heavy-headed, my limbs sore to move: every step I took seemed to drench me in sweat. I staggered downstairs. I took a stoup of water and went out to join the gang where they gathered near the lych-gate of St Paul's. God knows how I worked that morning. By noon I was vomiting, my belly taut with pain. When I felt beneath my armpit, I touched the swelling buboes. Of course, the others knew: if I hadn't drawn a dirk which I had taken from one of them in a fight, they would have knocked me on the head and tossed me into the pit. They drove me off with curses and blows. I staggered away through the smoke, past the heaps and mounds of lime, and
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