06: THE PAUSE

Evelyn was stuck by a touch of melancholy for the next few weeks, worrying about how her father had suddenly and summarily dispatched Jonathan and wondered if that meant that she would not see him again. She knew, of course, where his exchange was located, but it was not proper for a young woman to seek out a gentleman’s place of business and arrive there unannounced or uninvited. 

Furthering the matter was her father’s insistence that she not begin to think too highly of Mr St Croix. Her father's attitude only strengthened her resolve to find a way to meet him again. 

As Jonathan attended to his work in the exchange, a very orderly and well-presented middle-aged man with no markedly distinct characteristics appeared. He insisted on talking to St Croix immediately and privately. 

“I have a note from Sir Chester Harwood, and I am to remain here until you have read the note and have offered a reply.”

The note was brief and read:

Mr St Croix, it would benefit many If you met me this Thursday at 11 a.m. at the Church of St Magnus the Martyr on Upper Thames Street at London Bridge.

With greatest regards.

Sir Chester Harwood”

Jonathan thought about it momentarily and then decided not to answer for a few more. This was to make the courier messenger uncomfortable for a time.

“Yes, yes, I will. So please inform Sir Chester of my decision to meet with him.”

The messenger had barely acknowledged St Croix with a curt thank you before he was out of Jonathan’s office.

Over the next week, Jonathan had been making some discrete inquiries into the Church of Magnus the Martyr and Sir Chester's past in England, India, and as a member of Parliament.

Harwood was the son of a successful banker and had an uneventful education at Oxford. He joined the East India Trading Company and was shipped off to India, where, according to his own words, he questioned the Company’s and the Crown's policies.

After returning to England, he ran for election for the Conservatives in the Lakelands District. His voting record was uninspired, and he received only a few brief mentions in Hansard, the official record of Parliamentary debates.

The information about the Church of St Magnus the Martyr was also tedious, as it was rare and often contradictory.

It was a properly registered and run church and parish in the Church of England, located in the proper City of London. It was the guild church of the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers and the Worshipful Company of Plumbers. It was dedicated to St Magnus Erlendsson, Earl of Orkney, but others said the original dedication was to St Magnus of Anagni, a 2nd-century Italian saint. Beyond that, nothing was unusual or exemplary about the 11th-century church, except for being mentioned in the recently published Charles Dickens novel Oliver Twist.

During this time, Sir Chester had been busy with a special committee in the House. The Queen, to show support for the Irish people in this time of need, had announced early in the year that there would be a National Day of Fast and Humiliation for the Great Famine, and it was to be held across the UK by a Royal proclamation.

Proclamations of these types of days were often proclaimed in response to events such as military defeat, drought, plague, or fire. They were also held before undertaking a difficult task. The purpose was to seek repentance and appease God's wrath. People were expected to spend the day fasting, attending church, and meditating on their sins. In this instance, the sin was the attitude of the Crown and England’s general indifference to the plight of the Irish.

It now fell upon the average Englishman to care more and contribute substantially to the relief collections for famine distress. Collection boxes were placed at church and chapel doors.

The process was designed for the whole nation to lament their sins and pray for pardon, imploring the Almighty for his forgiveness, praying for the grace to amend their lives, and deprecating his displeasure.

 

Harwood knew this was simply a ruse by the Government to window-dress the event and solicit the masses to pay for the sins of the few. He had seen the same sort of elitist attitude in India, such as when the Empire chose to change the way of life of the native people by displacing them and then blaming them for living in the wrong location.

But to the populace, this served, at best, a marginal distraction from the catastrophic drama of the famine and, at worst, a cynical attempt by the political establishment to absolve themselves around the question of responsibility for famine relief.

Thursday’s weather had turned foul, not with a biting wind but the lack thereof.  A thick, damp fog hung low until late in the day. A sleeting rain fell, and the previous evening’s chill lent a more profound pall of coal ash across the city’s rooftops. The effect of this stung the eyes and corroded the throat.

The city was home to more than two million souls, and, at times, it seemed to be an equal number in livestock and horses, although a much lesser number. The stench of their waste on a windless, damp day was almost as oppressive as that of a warm day in July. But there was usually a wind or a breeze in the summer.

The City of London Corporation had begun talks to move the stocks and pens, abattoirs, and slaughterhouses out of the city proper, but the fulfilment of that plan was still years away. Thursday was one of the two days of the week on which cattle, sheep, goats, and pigs could be herded through the streets.

But the problem was the horses, perhaps a hundred thousand of them, each producing a stone-and-a-half of waste daily. So, every five horses could make a hundredweight, and for every 200 horses, one ton of waste, or a thousand tons a day—and more than 30,000 gallons of urine. The city was repulsive to any creature with a heightened sense of smell, such as dogs and people like St Croix.

Crossing sweepers were often employed on street corners; for a few pennies, they would clear a path for pedestrians. In summer, the smell was lessened; if the weather was dry and warm, the manure turned to dust. But then it was blown by winds, clinging to buildings, carriages, and clothing, and often choked the everyday walker.

All year, this was swept by man or rain into the sewers, where it was dumped into the Thames. Some days, it was like one could walk from Blackwall to Greenwich without a bridge.