Chapter 29

The Smallpox Hut

11 min

When we arrived at that hut at mid-afternoon, we saw no signs of life about it. The field near by had been denuded of its crop some time before, and had a skinned look, so exhaustively had it been harvested and gleaned. Fences, sheds, everything had a ruined look, and were eloquent of poverty. No animal was around anywhere, no living thing in sight. The stillness was awful, it was like the stillness of death. The cabin was a one-story one, whose thatch was black with age, and ragged from lack of repair.

When we arrived at the hut in mid-afternoon, we saw no signs of life around it. The nearby field had been stripped of its crop some time before. It looked bare, so thoroughly had it been harvested and gleaned. The fences, sheds, everything looked ruined and spoke of poverty. There were no animals around, no living thing in sight. The stillness was awful, like the stillness of death. The cabin had one story, and its thatched roof was black with age and ragged from neglect.

The door stood a trifle ajar. We approached it stealthily—on tiptoe and at half-breath—for that is the way one’s feeling makes him do, at such a time. The king knocked. We waited. No answer. Knocked again. No answer. I pushed the door softly open and looked in. I made out some dim forms, and a woman started up from the ground and stared at me, as one does who is wakened from sleep. Presently she found her voice:

The door was slightly open. We approached it quietly, on tiptoe and barely breathing. That is how you feel compelled to act at such a time. The king knocked. We waited. No answer. He knocked again. No answer. I gently pushed the door open and looked inside. I could make out some dim shapes. A woman sprang up from the ground and stared at me, as someone does when awakened from sleep. Soon she found her voice:

“Have mercy!” she pleaded. “All is taken, nothing is left.”

“Please have mercy!” she begged. “Everything has been taken. Nothing is left.”

“I have not come to take anything, poor woman.”

“I haven't come to take anything, poor woman.”

“You are not a priest?”

“You’re not a priest?”

“No.”

“Nor come not from the lord of the manor?”

“And you don't come from the lord of the manor either?”

“No, I am a stranger.”

“Oh, then, for the fear of God, who visits with misery and death such as be harmless, tarry not here, but fly! This place is under his curse—and his Church’s.”

“Oh, then, for fear of God, who brings misery and death upon innocent people, do not stay here. Flee! This place is under his curse and his Church’s.”

“Let me come in and help you—you are sick and in trouble.”

“Let me come in and help you. You are sick and in trouble.”

I was better used to the dim light now. I could see her hollow eyes fixed upon me. I could see how emaciated she was.

My eyes had adjusted to the dim light now. I could see her hollow eyes fixed on me. I could see how thin and wasted she was.

“I tell you the place is under the Church’s ban. Save yourself—and go, before some straggler see thee here, and report it.”

“I’m telling you, the Church has banned this place. Save yourself and go before someone passing by sees you here and reports it.”

“Give yourself no trouble about me; I don’t care anything for the Church’s curse. Let me help you.”

“Don’t worry about me. I don’t care about the Church’s curse. Let me help you.”

“Now all good spirits—if there be any such—bless thee for that word. Would God I had a sup of water!—but hold, hold, forget I said it, and fly; for there is that here that even he that feareth not the Church must fear: this disease whereof we die. Leave us, thou brave, good stranger, and take with thee such whole and sincere blessing as them that be accursed can give.”

“May all good spirits, if there are any, bless you for those words. I wish to God I had a sip of water! But wait, wait, forget I said that, and flee. For there is something here that even a man who does not fear the Church must fear. It is the disease that is killing us. Leave us, brave, good stranger. Take with you the fullest and most sincere blessing that those who are cursed can give.”

But before this I had picked up a wooden bowl and was rushing past the king on my way to the brook. It was ten yards away. When I got back and entered, the king was within, and was opening the shutter that closed the window-hole, to let in air and light. The place was full of a foul stench. I put the bowl to the woman’s lips, and as she gripped it with her eager talons the shutter came open and a strong light flooded her face. Smallpox!

But before this, I had picked up a wooden bowl and rushed past the king toward the brook. It was ten yards away. When I returned and went inside, the king was opening the shutter over the window to let in air and light. The place was filled with a foul stench. I held the bowl to the woman’s lips. As she gripped it with her eager claws, the shutter opened and bright light flooded her face. Smallpox!

I sprang to the king, and said in his ear:

I rushed to the king and spoke into his ear:

“Out of the door on the instant, sire! the woman is dying of that disease that wasted the skirts of Camelot two years ago.”

“Get out the door at once, sire! The woman is dying of the disease that ravaged the outskirts of Camelot two years ago.”

He did not budge.

“Of a truth I shall remain—and likewise help.”

“Indeed, I will stay and help too.”

I whispered again:

“King, it must not be. You must go.”

“King, that can't happen. You have to go.”

“Ye mean well, and ye speak not unwisely. But it were shame that a king should know fear, and shame that belted knight should withhold his hand where be such as need succor. Peace, I will not go. It is you who must go. The Church’s ban is not upon me, but it forbiddeth you to be here, and she will deal with you with a heavy hand an word come to her of your trespass.”

“You mean well, and what you say is wise enough. But a king should be ashamed to feel fear. And a knight should be ashamed to hold back when people need help. Enough, I will not go. You are the one who must leave. The Church’s ban does not apply to me, but it forbids you to be here. The Church will punish you severely if it hears you have disobeyed.”

It was a desperate place for him to be in, and might cost him his life, but it was no use to argue with him. If he considered his knightly honor at stake here, that was the end of argument; he would stay, and nothing could prevent it; I was aware of that. And so I dropped the subject. The woman spoke:

He was in a desperate situation that might cost him his life, but there was no use arguing with him. If he thought his knightly honor was at stake, that settled the matter. He would stay, and nothing could stop him. I knew that, so I dropped the subject. The woman spoke:

“Fair sir, of your kindness will ye climb the ladder there, and bring me news of what ye find? Be not afraid to report, for times can come when even a mother’s heart is past breaking—being already broke.”

“Kind sir, would you please climb that ladder and tell me what you find? Don’t be afraid to tell me. A time can come when even a mother’s heart can’t break anymore, because it’s already broken.”

“Abide,” said the king, “and give the woman to eat. I will go.” And he put down the knapsack.

“Stay,” said the king, “and give the woman something to eat. I will go.” He put down the knapsack.

I turned to start, but the king had already started. He halted, and looked down upon a man who lay in a dim light, and had not noticed us thus far, or spoken.

I turned to leave, but the king had already started. He stopped and looked down at a man lying in the dim light. The man had not noticed us or spoken yet.

“Is it your husband?” the king asked.

“Yes.”

“Is he asleep?”

“God be thanked for that one charity, yes—these three hours. Where shall I pay to the full, my gratitude! for my heart is bursting with it for that sleep he sleepeth now.”

“Thank God for that one mercy. Yes, he has slept for three hours. Where can I fully express my gratitude? My heart is bursting with gratitude for the sleep he is enjoying now.”

I said:

“We will be careful. We will not wake him.”

“We’ll be careful. We won’t wake him.”

“Ah, no, that ye will not, for he is dead.”

“Ah, no, you won't, because he is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, what triumph it is to know it! None can harm him, none insult him more. He is in heaven now, and happy; or if not there, he bides in hell and is content; for in that place he will find neither abbot nor yet bishop. We were boy and girl together; we were man and wife these five and twenty years, and never separated till this day. Think how long that is to love and suffer together. This morning was he out of his mind, and in his fancy we were boy and girl again and wandering in the happy fields; and so in that innocent glad converse wandered he far and farther, still lightly gossiping, and entered into those other fields we know not of, and was shut away from mortal sight. And so there was no parting, for in his fancy I went with him; he knew not but I went with him, my hand in his—my young soft hand, not this withered claw. Ah, yes, to go, and know it not; to separate and know it not; how could one go peacefuler than that? It was his reward for a cruel life patiently borne.”

“Yes, what a triumph it is to know that! No one can hurt him or insult him anymore. He is in heaven now, and happy. Or, if he is not there, he is in hell and content. For there he will find neither abbot nor bishop. We were boy and girl together. We were husband and wife for twenty-five years, and never apart until today. Think how long that is to love and suffer together. This morning he was out of his mind. He imagined we were boy and girl again, wandering in the happy fields. As he talked happily and innocently, he wandered farther and farther, still chatting lightly. Then he entered those other fields we know nothing of, and passed from mortal sight. So there was no parting, for in his mind I went with him. He believed I went with him, my hand in his. It was my young, soft hand, not this withered claw. Ah, yes, to go without knowing it, to part without knowing it. How could anyone go more peacefully than that? It was his reward for a cruel life patiently endured.”

There was a slight noise from the direction of the dim corner where the ladder was. It was the king descending. I could see that he was bearing something in one arm, and assisting himself with the other. He came forward into the light; upon his breast lay a slender girl of fifteen. She was but half conscious; she was dying of smallpox. Here was heroism at its last and loftiest possibility, its utmost summit; this was challenging death in the open field unarmed, with all the odds against the challenger, no reward set upon the contest, and no admiring world in silks and cloth of gold to gaze and applaud; and yet the king’s bearing was as serenely brave as it had always been in those cheaper contests where knight meets knight in equal fight and clothed in protecting steel. He was great now; sublimely great. The rude statues of his ancestors in his palace should have an addition—I would see to that; and it would not be a mailed king killing a giant or a dragon, like the rest, it would be a king in commoner’s garb bearing death in his arms that a peasant mother might look her last upon her child and be comforted.

A faint noise came from the dim corner where the ladder stood. The king was climbing down. I could see that he was carrying something in one arm and using the other to steady himself. He stepped into the light. A slender girl of fifteen lay against his chest. She was barely conscious and dying of smallpox. This was heroism at its highest possible point. The king was facing death in the open, unarmed, with all the odds against him. There was no reward for the contest. No admiring crowd dressed in silk and cloth of gold was there to watch and applaud. Yet the king was just as calmly brave as he had always been in those lesser contests. In those, knight met knight in equal combat, wearing protective armor. He was great now, sublimely great. The rough statues of his ancestors in his palace should have another beside them. I would see to that. But it would not be a king in armor killing a giant or a dragon, like the others. It would be a king in common clothes, carrying death in his arms. He was doing it so a peasant mother could see her child one last time and be comforted.

He laid the girl down by her mother, who poured out endearments and caresses from an overflowing heart, and one could detect a flickering faint light of response in the child’s eyes, but that was all. The mother hung over her, kissing her, petting her, and imploring her to speak, but the lips only moved and no sound came. I snatched my liquor flask from my knapsack, but the woman forbade me, and said:

He laid the girl down beside her mother, whose heart overflowed with love as she caressed her and spoke tenderly to her. A faint flicker of response appeared in the child’s eyes, but that was all. The mother leaned over her, kissing her, stroking her, and begging her to speak. But the child’s lips only moved, and no sound came out. I snatched my liquor flask from my knapsack, but the woman stopped me and said:

“No—she does not suffer; it is better so. It might bring her back to life. None that be so good and kind as ye are would do her that cruel hurt. For look you—what is left to live for? Her brothers are gone, her father is gone, her mother goeth, the Church’s curse is upon her, and none may shelter or befriend her even though she lay perishing in the road. She is desolate. I have not asked you, good heart, if her sister be still on live, here overhead; I had no need; ye had gone back, else, and not left the poor thing forsaken—”

“No, she isn’t suffering. It is better this way. It might bring her back to life. No one as good and kind as you would hurt her so cruelly. For look, what does she have left to live for? Her brothers are gone, her father is gone, and her mother is dying. The Church’s curse is upon her. No one may shelter or befriend her, even if she lies dying in the road. She is all alone. I haven’t asked you, kind soul, if her sister is still alive upstairs. I had no need to ask. Otherwise, you would have gone back and not left the poor thing alone.”

“She lieth at peace,” interrupted the king, in a subdued voice.

“She lies at peace,” the king interrupted in a quiet voice.

“I would not change it. How rich is this day in happiness! Ah, my Annis, thou shalt join thy sister soon—thou’rt on thy way, and these be merciful friends that will not hinder.”

“I would not change it. What a happy day this is! Ah, my Annis, you will join your sister soon. You are on your way, and these merciful friends will not stop you.”

And so she fell to murmuring and cooing over the girl again, and softly stroking her face and hair, and kissing her and calling her by endearing names; but there was scarcely sign of response now in the glazing eyes. I saw tears well from the king’s eyes, and trickle down his face. The woman noticed them, too, and said:

So she began murmuring and cooing over the girl again. She gently stroked her face and hair, kissed her, and called her by loving names. But there was hardly any response now in the girl’s glazing eyes. I saw tears well up in the king’s eyes and trickle down his face. The woman noticed the tears too and said:

“Ah, I know that sign: thou’st a wife at home, poor soul, and you and she have gone hungry to bed, many’s the time, that the little ones might have your crust; you know what poverty is, and the daily insults of your betters, and the heavy hand of the Church and the king.”

“Ah, I know that look. You have a wife at home, poor soul. Many times, you and she have gone to bed hungry so the little ones could have your crust of bread. You know what poverty is. You know the daily insults from your social superiors, and the heavy hand of the Church and the king.”

The king winced under this accidental home-shot, but kept still; he was learning his part; and he was playing it well, too, for a pretty dull beginner. I struck up a diversion. I offered the woman food and liquor, but she refused both. She would allow nothing to come between her and the release of death. Then I slipped away and brought the dead child from aloft, and laid it by her. This broke her down again, and there was another scene that was full of heartbreak. By and by I made another diversion, and beguiled her to sketch her story.

The king winced at this accidental jab, but said nothing. He was learning his part and playing it well, too, for a rather dull beginner. I changed the subject. I offered the woman food and liquor, but she refused both. She would let nothing stand between her and the release of death. Then I slipped away, brought the dead child down from upstairs, and laid it beside her. She broke down again, and another heartbreaking scene followed. After a while, I distracted her again and coaxed her into telling her story.

“Ye know it well yourselves, having suffered it—for truly none of our condition in Britain escape it. It is the old, weary tale. We fought and struggled and succeeded; meaning by success, that we lived and did not die; more than that is not to be claimed. No troubles came that we could not outlive, till this year brought them; then came they all at once, as one might say, and overwhelmed us. Years ago the lord of the manor planted certain fruit trees on our farm; in the best part of it, too—a grievous wrong and shame—”

“You know it well yourselves, because you have suffered it. No one of our class in Britain escapes it. It is the same old, weary story. We fought and struggled and succeeded. By success, I mean that we lived and did not die. We can claim nothing more. No troubles came that we could not survive, until this year. Then, you might say, all our troubles came at once and overwhelmed us. Years ago, the lord of the manor planted fruit trees on our farm. He planted them on the best part of it, too. It was a terrible wrong and a shame.”

“But it was his right,” interrupted the king.

“But it was his right,” the king interrupted.

“None denieth that, indeed; an the law mean anything, what is the lord’s is his, and what is mine is his also. Our farm was ours by lease, therefore ’twas likewise his, to do with it as he would. Some little time ago, three of those trees were found hewn down. Our three grown sons ran frightened to report the crime. Well, in his lordship’s dungeon there they lie, who saith there shall they lie and rot till they confess. They have naught to confess, being innocent, wherefore there will they remain until they die.

“No one denies that, indeed. If the law means anything, what is the lord’s is his, and what is mine is his too. We held our farm under a lease, so it was his as well, to do with as he pleased. A short time ago, three of those trees were found cut down. Our three grown sons ran in fear to report the crime. Well, there they lie in his lordship’s dungeon. He says they will lie there and rot until they confess. They have nothing to confess, because they are innocent, so they will remain there until they die.

Ye know that right well, I ween. Think how this left us; a man, a woman and two children, to gather a crop that was planted by so much greater force, yes, and protect it night and day from pigeons and prowling animals that be sacred and must not be hurt by any of our sort. When my lord’s crop was nearly ready for the harvest, so also was ours; when his bell rang to call us to his fields to harvest his crop for nothing, he would not allow that I and my two girls should count for our three captive sons, but for only two of them; so, for the lacking one were we daily fined. All this time our own crop was perishing through neglect; and so both the priest and his lordship fined us because their shares of it were suffering through damage. In the end the fines ate up our crop—and they took it all; they took it all and made us harvest it for them, without pay or food, and we starving. Then the worst came when I, being out of my mind with hunger and loss of my boys, and grief to see my husband and my little maids in rags and misery and despair, uttered a deep blasphemy—oh! a thousand of them!—against the Church and the Church’s ways. It was ten days ago. I had fallen sick with this disease, and it was to the priest I said the words, for he was come to chide me for lack of due humility under the chastening hand of God. He carried my trespass to his betters; I was stubborn; wherefore, presently upon my head and upon all heads that were dear to me, fell the curse of Rome.

You know that very well, I think. Consider the position this left us in. A man, a woman, and two children had to gather a crop planted by far more people. We also had to protect it day and night from pigeons and prowling animals. These animals are sacred, and none of our kind may hurt them. When my lord’s crop was nearly ready for harvest, so was ours. His bell rang, calling us to harvest his crop for nothing. But he would not let me and my two girls count for our three captive sons, only two of them. So we were fined every day for the missing one. All this time, our own crop was being ruined by neglect. So both the priest and his lordship fined us because the damage was reducing their shares of it. In the end, the fines consumed our crop, and they took it all. They took it all and made us harvest it for them, without pay or food, while we were starving. Then the worst came. Hunger and the loss of my boys had driven me out of my mind. I was grieving to see my husband and my little girls in rags, misery, and despair. I spoke a terrible blasphemy against the Church and its ways. Oh, I spoke a thousand of them! That was ten days ago. I had fallen sick with this disease, and I spoke those words to the priest. He had come to scold me for not being humble enough under God’s punishing hand. He reported my offense to his superiors. I was stubborn, so soon the curse of Rome fell on me and everyone dear to me.

“Since that day we are avoided, shunned with horror. None has come near this hut to know whether we live or not. The rest of us were taken down. Then I roused me and got up, as wife and mother will. It was little they could have eaten in any case; it was less than little they had to eat. But there was water, and I gave them that. How they craved it! and how they blessed it! But the end came yesterday; my strength broke down. Yesterday was the last time I ever saw my husband and this youngest child alive. I have lain here all these hours—these ages, ye may say—listening, listening for any sound up there that—”

“Since that day, people have avoided us, shunning us in horror. No one has come near this hut to see whether we are alive. The rest of us fell ill. Then I pulled myself together and got up, as a wife and mother will. They could have eaten little in any case. They had even less than that to eat. But there was water, and I gave it to them. How they craved it! How they blessed it! But the end came yesterday. My strength gave out. Yesterday was the last time I saw my husband and this youngest child alive. I have lain here all these hours, you might say these ages, listening. I have been listening for any sound up there that...”

She gave a sharp quick glance at her eldest daughter, then cried out, “Oh, my darling!” and feebly gathered the stiffening form to her sheltering arms. She had recognized the death-rattle.

She glanced sharply at her eldest daughter, then cried, “Oh, my darling!” She weakly gathered the stiffening body into her arms to shelter her. She had recognized the death rattle.