The Great Trouble (10 page)

“Promise me,” said Dr. Snow, gripping my shoulders more tightly. “I want you to promise me that you will never do that again. And if you go into the houses where the sick people are, try not to touch anything. Most of all, do not drink the water.”

Why was he telling me this? I wondered. Wasn’t cholera spread by poisons in the air?

“Sir, about the sick people,” I said quickly. I’d have to ask more about the water later. “That’s why I’m here. Mr. Griggs had a wife and two children. Mrs. Griggs and little Bernie are both sick. Bernie has lasted more than a day. That’s a good sign, isn’t it, sir? I mean, does everyone die of it?”

“Many do,” said Dr. Snow, who had let me go and was walking back to his desk. “But not all.”

At least that meant Bernie might have a chance. “Dr. Snow, please, you have to come.”

Dr. Snow no longer seemed to be listening. He finished packing his bag and beckoned me to follow him—this time heading for the front door. “Come along, then.”

“That way? Through the front door of your house, sir? I … I couldn’t. I don’t think Mrs.—”

“Now!”

I rushed on tiptoe after him. I glanced behind me. The house was still quiet. It was Sunday. Perhaps Mrs. Weatherburn had gone to church.

I hoped she had, and that she wasn’t strolling down Sackville Street on her way home right now—in time to see a mudlark coming out the front door.

Dr. Snow walked briskly, snaking through the crowds on Regent Street. I had to hurry to keep up. My mind was working almost as fast as my legs.

I’d done it! The great doctor was on his way to Broad Street.
He’ll be able to help Bernie and Mrs. Griggs now
, I thought.
Maybe Dr. Snow can save everyone
.

We veered off Regent Street and passed through the Golden Square. Usually the small park was crowded with courting couples or workers stopping to have a smoke. Now it was empty, except for a pigeon on the statue’s head.

The statue depicted a fine-looking fellow, strong and proud. Once, Florrie and I had happened upon Rev. Whitehead
sitting in the park. He’d been reading, but when he saw us, he closed his book and greeted us with a friendly smile.

“I like to sit and watch the pigeons enjoying the view from George the Second’s head,” he remarked, pointing. “Do you know who he was?”

“He was a great king from ages ago, weren’t he?” said Florrie.

“Indeed he was, though I am afraid history tells us he had a reputation for being rather mean.”

“He seems nice enough,” said Florrie. “I think it would be awful to be made into a nasty-looking statue and have to stay like that for hundreds of years.” She laughed and reached into her apron pocket for her sketchbook. “Don’t move, Mr. Pigeon! I’m going to draw you.”

I watched her work. She had a way of frowning when she was concentrating hard, and tossing one braid over her shoulder when it got in her way. “I’d better be careful to smile around you,” I said, “or you’ll put me into one of your sketches with a big frown on my face.”

“You draw well, Florrie,” remarked Rev. Whitehead.

“Thank you, sir. I just do it for fun. It would be lovely to make something out of stone or marble, though … something that would last,” she said thoughtfully, studying the statue. “I’d like to do one thing in my life that would keep on for a long time.”

Rev. Whitehead smiled. “Not all of us can make statues.
But I believe the actions we take and the kindnesses we practice endure beyond our own lives.”

I hadn’t seen Dr. Snow put any medicine in his bag. I did wonder what those glass vials were for. Maybe he would draw blood from Bernie or ask him to spit into one. But as we got closer to Broad Street, Dr. Snow didn’t seem interested in Bernie. Instead he wanted to discuss details about the epidemic itself. “Tell me more.”

I paused, trying to sort out everything that had happened over the last few days. Dr. Snow seemed to sense I was a bit muddled.

“Just start at the beginning,” he suggested. “You mentioned that Mr. Griggs was probably the first to die. Was he also the first to show signs of the disease?”

“I believe so, sir,” I answered slowly. “At least, Reverend Whitehead didn’t mention anyone else being sick first.”

“Go on, Eel,” said Dr. Snow. “Can you tell me more about seeing Mr. Griggs after he got sick? What was his condition?”

“His sheets were wet, sir, as though he had … well, been sick,” I said, panting. Dr. Snow hadn’t let up his speed for a second. “There were white particles everywhere, and he was in horrible pain. It was like a wild animal had got hold of his insides and wouldn’t let go.”

We turned the corner onto Broad Street. “Point out his house, Eel.”

“There, sir. It’s Number Forty, just across from the Lion Brewery and in front of the pump. Other families share the house too,” I told him. “It’s not like your street, if you know what I mean.”

“Indeed I do,” said Dr. Snow.

“Is that what causes the cholera, Dr. Snow? Folks being crowded all together and breathing foul air?” I wanted to know. “Because that’s what I heard from … well, from everyone.”

“It’s called the miasma theory—the notion that diseases like cholera are spread by contaminated air,” Dr. Snow said. “Miasma is a kind of poisonous vapor, or so people think. This air supposedly contains particles of bad-smelling decaying matter, the kind we find in neighborhoods such as this, where families are crowded together and there is poor sanitation.”

I felt hopeful. I’d known Dr. Snow was an expert in chloroform, but it sounded like he might know about cholera too.

“The miasma theory has been around for centuries,” Dr. Snow continued. “People, even educated men, have believed it for so long that most are afraid to think in a different way, or consider a new idea.”

“But don’t you believe in miasma, Dr. Snow?” I asked. “Or do you have a new idea?”

“I do,” he said with a sort of laugh. “I’ve been working on a theory of the spread of cholera for several years now. Although I must admit that no one has paid much attention to it.”

“On account of it being new?”

“That’s part of it. If people are told something for hundreds of years, it’s difficult to change their minds,” Dr. Snow explained. “It would help if we could
see
cholera.

“So, although I have gathered a lot of evidence, I need a study that will convince people that my way of thinking is right. In other words, I need more proof,” he told me. “Perhaps this trouble here on Broad Street is one way to get it.”

What was his theory? I wondered. What sort of proof did he need? And most of all, when would he go up to see Bernie and Mrs. Griggs?

Suddenly Dr. Snow pointed to the Lion Brewery. “Eel, have any of the brewery workers gotten sick?”

“Well, no, I don’t think so.”

“I imagine they have another source,” he muttered to himself.

I had no idea what he was talking about. I rocked back and forth on my heels, looking up at Bernie’s window. I’d managed to convince Dr. Snow to come to Broad Street, but so far all he’d done was talk about theories and ask me questions.

“Dr. Snow, please,” I said urgently. “Can you—”

Before I could finish, Rev. Whitehead emerged from the door in front of us. His head was bent, and he stopped and drew in a long breath, as if to steady himself.

The reverend’s face was so drawn that for an instant I
feared he might be the next victim. But then he wouldn’t be upright and walking around, I reminded myself.

“Eel, I’m glad to see you’re well,” he said, his face lighting up a little.

I glanced at the two men, standing beside one another awkwardly. It was up to me, I realized. I tried to remember the proper manners Mum had taught me long ago.

“Uh … uh, Reverend, this is Dr. John Snow,” I began.

He nodded his approval at my effort and reached out to shake the doctor’s hand. “I’m Henry Whitehead, assistant curate of St. Luke’s. I’ve heard your name, sir, and know of your experiments with chloroform.”

Dr. Snow bowed. “My interest is indeed in using gases like chloroform to ease pain. But I’ve also been a student of cholera for some years, and am just now learning of this epidemic. How many victims have there been so far?”

“By my count, Dr. Snow, more than seventy people have died since Friday afternoon, and there may be more,” the reverend replied with a heavy sigh. “I’ve visited rooms where entire families are suffering together, with no one to help. It is heartbreaking.”

“The disease has spread beyond Broad Street, I presume,” Dr. Snow said.

“Yes, it has, though it appears to be at its worst right here. I’ve just come from Peter Street, near Green’s Court, not far from where we stand,” he told us. “I went into four
houses there, and found half the residents of each one struck down by the disease.”

He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “I fear there can be no doubt: this stench, this stifling bad air of summer, and the appalling sanitation in some of these houses—all these things are culprits here.”

Dr. Snow looked the younger man in the eye. “I know that is what everyone believes. But I must tell you that my studies over the last several years suggest that the miasma theory is wrong. There is another cause of this epidemic.”

“Oh?” Rev. Whitehead sounded skeptical.

“I believe cholera results not from breathing bad air, but from ingesting by mouth some morbid material that causes the disease,” Dr. Snow replied.

I guessed
ingesting
must mean eating or drinking. But what was “morbid material”?

Rev. Whitehead said nothing. His kind face wore a doubtful expression—about as doubtful as I felt.

“I believe there must be a period of incubation that is quite short, while the poison grows or multiplies in the infected person,” Dr. Snow went on, seemingly unaware that at least some of his audience (that is to say, me) was not understanding much of what he said.

“Further, it seems clear to me, though apparently not to others, that since this disease affects the alimentary canal, the poison must enter the person through the mouth.”

I frowned, wondering what that was.
Canal
made me think of the river.

“The alimentary canal,” Dr. Snow explained. “It’s the pathway by which food enters the human body at one end and is expelled at the other.”

“Oh,” I said. It felt odd to be standing with two gentlemen talking about such things. But if I was embarrassed, the doctor wasn’t bothered at all.

“In short, my belief is that cholera is spread by water,” the doctor concluded at last. He pointed. “Quite possibly by this very pump.”

“Dr. Snow, I doubt it could be from this pump, even if your basic idea could be proved,” Rev. Whitehead replied. “The water from the well under the Broad Street pump is known to have a good taste. And it is far less cloudy than that from nearby pumps. Surely it has fewer impurities. How can it be the cause?”

“Sir, I understand why it’s easy to think that foul smells mean that miasma is the cause of disease. I also know it is difficult to grasp that water that looks and tastes clean could instead be the culprit,” said Dr. Snow. “And it’s true that, even if I test the water, I may find nothing.”

“What will you do then, Dr. Snow?” Rev. Whitehead wanted to know. “How will you solve what appears to me to be a complete mystery?”

“There are other ways to investigate. My hope is that this epidemic, raging so quickly in such a small neighborhood, will help me build a case that will convince you and others of my theory,” said Dr. Snow.

He paused for breath. His next question surprised me.
“Can you tell me, is there a local governance committee for this neighborhood?”

“Why, yes. There is a board of governors for St. James Parish. I understand that the board has formed a special committee to respond to the emergency.” Rev. Whitehead added, “In fact, they are meeting on Thursday evening at seven to discuss the outbreak.”

“Thursday evening …,” Dr. Snow repeated thoughtfully. “And does this committee have any power to take action to help stop this horrible epidemic?”

“Yes indeed,” Rev. Whitehead replied. “Already lime has been put in the streets to try to clean the air. Signs have been posted warning the general population of the outbreak. Undertakers have been contacted to bring coffins. What else can be done?”

Dr. Snow stared at the pump before us. “I have an idea that might work, if I can convince the committee to act. And if I can muster enough evidence in time.”

“Doctor, your intentions certainly seem honorable,” said Rev. Whitehead wearily. “But I fear that epidemics such as this are beyond our poor powers to understand.”

“Give me a chance to convince you otherwise,” said Dr. Snow. “Like you, I do not want to watch more innocent people die.”

“I wish you luck, sir. We all need it. And now good day,” said Rev. Whitehead. “I see Dr. Rogers up ahead and must ask him to check on some of my parishioners.”

“But what about Bernie?” I put in. “And Mrs. Griggs? How are they?”

“I’m sorry, lad,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I’m afraid Mrs. Griggs is gone. Nor is there much hope for the boy. Florrie Baker and Mrs. Lewis are with him now.”

Dr. Snow bent down to open his black bag.

“Can we please go up now, sir?” I asked.

Dr. Snow glanced at me quizzically. “Go up?”

“To see Bernie!” I exclaimed. “Aren’t you … here to visit patients?”

“Oh, I see. No, I’m sorry. I cannot help your friend or anyone who has already contracted cholera. My patient is a different one,” said Dr. Snow. He pointed to the Broad Street pump.

“The pump!” I gasped in disbelief. “This stupid pump isn’t going to help Bernie. He’s sick now!”

“I can’t do anything for your friend,” said Dr. Snow softly. “Once someone has cholera, there is little we can do. We don’t yet know enough to stop the course of the disease. I can only hope to save those who have not fallen ill.”

“But … but …,” I sputtered, pointing to his bag. “Why did you bring that? I thought you were going to do a test, or that you might have … medicine or something.”