Poison at the Pump Read online

  “Forgive me,” Dr. Snow said.

  Nurse Nightingale pointed toward the door. Both men walked toward it. She looked down at Patrick.

  “You’re awake. How do you feel?” she asked. “Dr. Snow thought you’d had the wind knocked out of you.”

  “I can breathe now,” Patrick said. “But that may not be enough. I drank water from the Broad Street pump.” He waited for Nurse Nightingale to react. But she didn’t.

  Patrick said, “People drink that water. Then they get cholera.”

  Nurse Nightingale laughed. “You’ve been listening to Dr. Snow. I wouldn’t be too worried,” she said. “Everyone else believes cholera travels through the air.”

  “The air?” Patrick said. “But then everyone would be sick.”

  “Is the air dirty in your neighborhood?” Nurse Nightingale asked. “Hundreds of people have breathed the filthy air near Broad Street. That’s why they’re sick now.”

  Patrick sat up. He felt better already. The air, not the water, carried cholera. Maybe he had more time to find the right liquid. He didn’t need the Imagination Station’s cure after all.

  Nurse Nightingale gave him a slow smile. “Have you recovered?”

  “I have,” Patrick said. He stood. “Thank you.”

  She gave him a nod and turned to help another patient.

  Patrick walked out of the room and into a wide hallway. There were no beds there, only white tiles and walls. Patrick saw stairs leading to the second floor, and a door. He didn’t see Dr. Snow or Curate Whitehead.

  Patrick did see a container of clear liquid. The container sat on a small table in the corner. The liquid smelled like something painters used to clean their brushes.

  Patrick quickly took the black box out of his pocket. He stuck the wand in the liquid. The button didn’t turn green. He cleaned the wand and put it back in his pocket.

  Then he remembered Beth. She might be sick in this hospital. She would need a cure. She would need the Imagination Station.

  He went to the door across the hall. It was locked.

  Patrick removed the key from his pocket. He slid it into the door’s keyhole. But his key was too small. He put it back in his pocket.

  Patrick went back into the room with patients. He wanted to ask Nurse Nightingale about Beth. But she was no longer there. Patrick walked down the aisle. He didn’t see Beth in any of the beds.

  Another hallway was at the end of the room. It led to another staircase.

  “Children aren’t allowed in the hospital without parents,” a large man said. He had a brown beard. He looked like a hospital guard. The guard walked toward Patrick.

  But Patrick couldn’t leave without Beth. He hurried to the stairs and climbed them two at a time.

  Two closed doors were at the top of the stairs. He opened one. It was a closet.

  Patrick heard the clicks of the guard’s shoes on the stairs. He ducked beneath the closet’s bottom shelf. He rolled into the back corner. Then he grabbed the lower edge of the door and closed it.

  Footsteps raced past the closet door. The other door opened and then shut with a bang.

  Patrick listened. He was hot and cramped. But he didn’t move.

  Suddenly, the closet door opened. A draft of air tickled Patrick’s face. A woman’s button-up boots stood in front of him.

  It was Nurse Nightingale. She took linens off a shelf. “It’s so hard to keep everything clean,” she said to herself. She looked down. “What’re you doing here?” she asked.

  Patrick rolled out of the closet and stood up.

  “I’m looking for my cousin Beth,” Patrick said. “Have you seen her? She has dark hair and is around my age.”

  The other door opened. The guard came barreling through.

  Patrick turned toward the stairs.

  But the guard grabbed him. “Got you,” he said. His heavy hand clamped down on Patrick’s shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” Nurse Nightingale said.

  “He’s just another orphan who wants to steal food from this hospital. But I’ve caught you now,” the guard said. He pushed Patrick toward the stairs.

  “He had the wind knocked out of him. He was a patient,” Nurse Nightingale said. “Your cousin’s name is Beth, not Elizabeth?”

  “Just Beth,” Patrick said.

  “I have seen so many children,” Nurse Nightingale said. “Your cousin’s name would have stuck in my mind. She isn’t here.”

  Patrick felt relieved.

  The guard pushed him onto the first step.

  “Where are you taking this child?” Nurse Nightingale asked. Her voice was stern.

  “I am escorting him out of the hospital,” the guard said. “I don’t want him catching cholera.”

  “Good,” she said. “Goodbye, and I hope you find your cousin.”

  Patrick waved goodbye.

  The guard kept pushing. They reached the bottom step.

  “You fooled Nurse Nightingale,” the guard said. “But you don’t fool me. There’s a place for thieves like you. And I’m going to take you there.”

  Pumps & Cisterns

  Clyde stopped running and laughed. “I knew he wouldn’t follow us this way. We’re at the back side of the Broad Street houses,” he said. “A lot of people have come down with cholera here.”

  Beth stopped also. Sweat trickled down her back.

  The ground was a mixture of bricks, stones, and black mud. A small shack was to one side. There was a brick-lined hole in the middle. It was full of water.

  “What is that smell?” Beth asked.

  “The privies,” Clyde said. He pointed to the shack.

  Beth had heard of these old-fashioned bathrooms. They didn’t have running water. They were like campground toilets, holes in the ground with seats over them.

  “I have to get people’s water buckets,” Clyde said. “Then I’ll take you back to Broad Street. I met Patrick at the pump there. Old Willie should be gone by then.”

  “Okay,” Beth said.

  Clyde walked toward the back door of one building. Delicate flowers were carved into the gray bricks above the door.

  Beth followed him into the building.

  The hallway was dingy and dirty. The wooden floor creaked.

  Beth followed Clyde up the stairs to the third floor.

  Clyde knocked on a door, and then he went in.

  Beth looked around the room. There was no kitchen or bathroom. It was only a room with a fireplace, beds, and chairs.

  “The bucket’s right here, Clyde,” an older lady said. She sat in a rocking chair.

  The bucket of water must be for cooking, drinking, and washing, Beth thought.

  “I wondered if you’d be coming today. It’s my birthday,” she said. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Beth,” he said.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Beth,” the older woman said. “I like your hair ribbon.”

  “Thank you,” Beth said. She untied the ribbon from her hair. Then she held it out to the woman. “Happy birthday!”

  “I couldn’t,” the woman said. But her hand reached for it. “It’s real pretty,” she said.

  She pointed to the numbers 178866. “I was born in 1788. Today I’m 66.”

  Clyde looked at Beth in surprise and then back to the woman.

  Beth smiled. The Imagination Station always knew just what to give her and Patrick. She would remember those numbers, 178866.

  Clyde picked up the woman’s wooden bucket. “Who brought you water before me?”

  “I got it from the cistern in back,” the woman said.

  Beth wondered what a cistern was. She decided to ask Clyde later.

  Another woman was in the opposite corner of the room. She was talking softly to a small child on a cot. He moaned.

  “Is Timothy feeling better?” Clyde asked. He walked over to the other woman.

  “I believe he is,” the woman said. Her clothes were dull gray.

  A toddler sat at her feet
. The girl’s dirty fingers played with the hem of her mother’s skirt.

  Clyde asked, “Where’s your bucket?”

  “I haven’t a half penny to give you this week, Clyde,” the woman said.

  Beth picked up the bucket in the corner by its wooden handle. “I’ll fill it for you,” she said.

  The woman smiled. She turned back to the cot.

  “Where did you get your water before me?” Clyde asked.

  “Timothy got our water from the Broad Street pump,” she said.

  Beth had never seen so many people living in such a small room. It was the size of her bedroom.

  They left the room and made their way back outside.

  Someone tossed dirty water from a bucket through a window. Beth jumped out of its way.

  “What did she do that for?” Beth asked.

  Clyde laughed. “She wasn’t being mean,” he said. “Don’t people toss water out of the windows in your town?”

  “No!” Beth said.

  “Here, no one walks directly beneath windows,” he said.

  “I won’t do that again,” Beth said. She remembered her question from earlier. “What’s a cistern?”

  Clyde pointed to the brick-lined hole close to the privy shack. Beth looked at the water. There were tree leaves, dirt, and bugs in it.

  “We’re not giving your customers that water, are we?” Beth asked.

  “No. The cistern holds rainwater,” Clyde said.

  “The people pay me for pumped water. But a lot of older people drink this water. It’s not bad. And it’s easier for them to get. Pumping water is hard work,” he said.

  Beth looked around. “Where’s the pump?” she asked.

  Clyde said, “Broad Street was the closest pump. Now it’s closed. We have to walk to the next pump.”

  For water? Beth thought. No wonder Curate Whitehead was upset the Broad Street pump was closed.

  They walked back down the narrow lane between brick buildings. They came out not far from building forty.

  Clyde pointed. “That’s the Broad Street pump,” he said.

  The bricks on the street and sidewalk were covered in white powder. The street was almost deserted. Only a blonde-haired girl was outside. She held a bucket and was looking up the spout of the pump.

  Beth went over to her. There were many footprints in the white powder by the pump.

  “Hi,” Beth said. “Have you seen a boy about my age here?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Which way did he go, Rosie?” Clyde asked.

  Rosie pointed north. “He was with Dr. Snow. My brothers chased them after you broke our pump,” she said.

  Beth hoped Patrick was okay.

  “You usually get your water here, don’t you?” Clyde asked.

  Rosie nodded. “But only my dad drinks it. My oldest brother brings water home for us. It’s from a pump by his work,” she said.

  “Anyone sick in your family?” Clyde asked.

  Rosie frowned. “My dad,” she said. “He moans day and night.” She kicked a rock on the ground with her bare foot.

  Beth hugged Rosie. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too,” Clyde said. He started walking away from the pump.

  Beth followed him. She would get water for Timothy’s mother. Then she’d return and look for Patrick.

  Locked Away

  The guard took Patrick out of the hospital. They went down many streets to a large, red-brick mansion. Patrick tried to escape. But the guard was too strong.

  Patrick counted twenty windows on the front of the two-story building. The flat roof had a white railing around it.

  Maybe I can escape from here, Patrick thought.

  The guard knocked on a wooden door.

  A tall man with thin, gangly arms and legs opened it. “What do you want?” he asked. His gray vest didn’t match his purple jacket and pants. His lips held a sour frown.

  “Got you another worker, Old Willie,” the guard said.

  Old Willie looked at Patrick. “He’s on the small side,” he said. He looked around nervously. “Come in before you’re seen.”

  The guard pushed Patrick through the doorway and into a courtyard. The brick buildings formed a square around it.

  The courtyard was filled with people in ragged clothes. They didn’t look happy.

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” the guard said. He held out his hand.

  Old Willie tossed him a coin. “Don’t want your hospital cholera here. Get out.”

  The guard caught the coin and smiled. Then he went back through the door.

  Patrick tried to grab the doorknob before it closed. But he wasn’t quick enough.

  Patrick remembered the key from the Imagination Station. He took it out of his pocket.

  He jammed the key into the door’s keyhole. It went in easily. But it didn’t unlock the door. The key was too small. He stuffed it back in his pocket.

  Old Willie held up a large key. “It only opens with this one,” he said. “You belong to me now.”

  “I don’t belong to anyone,” Patrick said. “And I won’t work for you.”

  “You’ll work, or you won’t eat,” Old Willie said. “And if you speak back to me again, you’ll regret it.” He made a fist.

  Old Willie scared Patrick. He hoped the Imagination Station would come back for him. He didn’t want to live here his whole life.

  I have to find the right liquid, he thought.

  Old Willie said, “You get porridge for breakfast. Dinner is boiled meat. Supper is bread and tea. We don’t sleep more than three to a bed.”

  The people in the courtyard looked hot and tired. Most were older and moved slowly.

  Old Willie said, “We turn flax plants into linen thread. You work and you get to eat.”

  Patrick watched the people work.

  Some crushed a hay-like plant between pieces of wood. Others put the smashed plants on a wall and beat them with paddles. A third group ran the plant through metal combs. The plant changed from being stiff to being soft like hair.

  Old Willie pointed to the pile of hay-like plants. “Take the flax to the flax breaks.” He pointed to the wooden pieces crushing the plant.

  Patrick walked over to the large pile of flax. He sighed.

  “Come here, child,” an older woman said. She walked toward him. “I’ll show you to your room. You can put your things away. Then you can work.”

  The woman had long gray hair. Her front teeth were missing, and her skin was wrinkled. But her voice was kind.

  Patrick didn’t have anything. But he followed her across the courtyard. They went into the building in back of the workhouse.

  “It’s not so bad here,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.” She went up the stairs slowly.

  “I don’t want to get used to it,” Patrick said.

  “No one does at first,” she said. She stopped and looked at him. “You need money to pay your way out. Do you have any?” Her eyes gleamed.

  She leaned forward. Her hands moved toward him. They looked ready to grab his money.

  Patrick shook his head. “I don’t have anything,” he said.

  Her hands dropped to her sides. She looked upset. “That’s too bad,” she said.

  She pointed to the first door in the hallway. “You’ll share with Teddy and Liam,” she said. “You better get back to work.” Her voice was no longer kind. The woman left.

  Patrick went into the room.

  The room smelled like sweaty socks. There was dirt on the floor. Cobwebs hung in one corner. A small bed rested against a wall. A window was above the bed.

  This is a prison for the poor, Patrick thought.

  He touched the mattress. It crackled. He bent down. The mattress was stuffed with flax or hay or another plant. It looked too small to hold three people.

  Patrick climbed on it and looked out the narrow window. He couldn’t escape through it. This day had gone from bad to worse.

  People passed by the buil
ding. No one looked up.

  Patrick took a double look.

  This can’t be, he thought. Patrick rubbed his eyes.

  Aunt May

  Clyde turned to Beth. “The closest working pump is that way,” he said. Clyde pointed down a street. “But I need to check on someone first. It won’t take long.”

  “That’s fine,” Beth said.

  They walked to a narrow alley. It was between Hiram’s Oil Store and building number forty.

  “She lives in an apartment above the store,” Clyde said. “Set your bucket on the ground. We’ll take the outside stairs to the second floor.” He put his bucket at the bottom of the stairs.

  They took the stairs to the second floor.

  Clyde didn’t knock. He just walked in.

  The room was much bigger than the other apartment they’d been in. Everything was covered in dust. There was a door at the end of the room.

  An old bulldog stood and wagged its tail. A rope connected the dog to a chair.

  “Oscar!” Clyde said. He knelt down. The dog licked his face. “Where’s your throne, buddy?”

  Beth untied the rope around Oscar’s neck. “You poor thing,” she said. She scratched Oscar behind the ears.

  Oscar licked her hand.

  Clyde took the bread out of his shirt. He gave it to the dog. Oscar ate it in one gulp.

  “What will you eat for dinner?” Beth asked.

  “A little hunger never hurt anybody,” Clyde said.

  “How’re you doing, boy?” Clyde petted the dog’s head.

  A woman hurried into the room. Her brown hair was pulled back beneath a white cap. She wore a floor-length black dress.

  Beth gasped. This was the dainty woman she’d seen earlier near the boardinghouse. The woman had been with Old Willie.

  “Get out,” the woman said. “And take that dog with you.”

  “Aunt May—,” Clyde said. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “Don’t you call me that,” May said. “Don’t call me anything. I can’t help you here.”

  Clyde sat back. “I came to fill your water bucket,” he said. He looked sad.