James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

After half-an-hour of this sort of sparring, the master of the workhouse made his appearance, and overwhelmed the unlucky carman with perplexing questions. Did I belong to that parish? Did the carman bring me on his own account, or on account of his master, whose address the van bore? My friend informed the great man that he had brought me on no one’s account, but purely out of humanity, and detailed as much as he knew of me—how that his master’s van was placed at night under the Adelphi dark arches, and how that, to his knowledge, I had slept in the same for several months. But this explanation, so far from simplifying matters, made them worse. It was clear, the master said, that my occupancy and tenancy of the carter’s van or premises gave me a claim on the parish in which the said carter resided and paid poor-rates; that the master was bound by the acts of his servant; and that if I was admitted, it would only be on agreement that the Bedfordbury carter paid for my maintenance.

“Very well, then,” replied the bewildered carman, “I shall take him back to the dark arches, and lay him in a corner.” On which the mob which had collected cried shame on the carman for an inhuman brute, and the policeman began to push him about. By God’s mercy, however, just at this time up came the parish doctor, and my case was advanced a step by his ordering the van to be drawn into the workhouse yard.

Finally, after the carman had been detained—despite his plea of being due at a moving job in the Whitechapel Road at half-past seven, and that the hire of the van was half-a-crown an hour—for fully two hours, and his master and one of the parish guardians had been sent for, I was carried out of the van into the workhouse, and stripped, and washed, and put to bed.

And there I lay. Everybody said that I was very bad; so I suppose that I was. But I didn’t feel bad. I was very snug and comfortable, and in no sort of pain. Indeed, had anyone asked me whether I would rather be well under the dark arches, or have the fever and lie here, I should have decided in favour of the latter without the least hesitation. It appeared quite stupid to argue the matter. What was there to be sorry for? The fever didn’t hurt. It wasn’t a quarter, no, nor a twentieth part so painful as that spell of toothache I had had in the van. I was there to be waited on. The bed was nice and soft, the physic not particularly nasty, and the arrowroot and mutton broth lovely. And yet everybody looked grave-even the doctor—and came softly up to my bed, and spoke in a low, kind voice, as though they thought that it must be very bad for me to lie there in such pain. Upon my word, I thought more than once that I might possibly be there by mistake, after all—that what ailed me was not that terrible fever, of which I had heard everybody express such dread; and accompanying this suspicion would come a dread that presently they would find out that there was little or nothing the matter with me, and turn me out.

The hospital nurse

I thought so on the second day after my admittance; on the evening of the third day I thought so more than ever. Besides the matron of the ward—a fat, cross-grained, sharp-speaking old wretch, whom all the patients very properly hated—there were two or three nurses; motherly sort of women, who, being paupers, and knowing something about the treatment of the sick, were allowed to exercise their skill and patience as a set-off against the bread and gruel they consumed. On the evening in question, Mrs. Dipple, one of these nurses, came up to my cot, and after making my pillow comfortable and wiping my forehead, said she—

“Master Smithfield, did you ever know anyone that died?”

“Yes, ma’am, lots,” I replied.

“Do you ever think about dying, Master Smithfield?”

“No, ma’am; what’s the use? I think about living. I don’t want to die.”

“But little boys do die, you know,” continued Mrs. Dipple, kindly. “I had a little boy just about as old as you, and he died. He died, and went to heaven; where you’ll go, if you are good.”

“What was the matter with your boy, ma’am?”

“He was drowned. He went to sea, and was drowned,” said Mrs. Dipple.

“Oh! well, you wasn’t surprised, then. If a boy’s drownded, of course he’ll die. He can’t help it. If I was goin’ to be drownded, I dessay I should think about dying.”

“But boys die other ways than by drowning. Some die of fevers—of fevers such as you have got. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know lots of boys that died on it,” I replied; “but then they had it reg’lar bad.”

“They never had it worse than you, to be alive, my son,” said she, shaking her head. “Of course, you may be spared; you may be spared, or you may die to-night. You may close your eyes, and never open them again until the Judgment-day. If I were you, I should say my prayers—if I knew any. Do you know any?”

“I know a good bit of ‘Our Father,’ ma’am,” said I, beginning to be impressed by her serious manner; “would that one do?”

“I’ve got a beautiful book full of prayers for people who mayn’t have long to live,” replied Mrs. Dipple; “I will fetch it and read you something out of it, if you like.”

“Thanky, ma’am; I think I should like.”

So away she went to fetch the beautiful book; but the fact is, I had said that I thought I should like to hear her read out of it just to please her. I didn’t want to hear anything more about it. Why did she want to come talking to me and making me uncomfortable! As soon as her back was turned, I shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Presently I heard her gently calling me, and at the same time I heard the voice of old Mrs. Brownhunter, the matron.

“What the dickins do you want to rouse him for, you stupid old fool?” said she.

“I beg your pardon, missus,” replied the nurse; “but you heard what the doctor said this afternoon, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I did. What of it?”

“You see, missus, I was thinking that he wasn’t a baby, who couldn’t have anything wicked to answer for at the Judgment-seat, and

so I thought I’d just”—

“Stir him up and set him howling, eh? Be off with you and your Judgment-seats, you old Methodist, you! Gracious me! When they will go off quiet, let them, I say. Lord knows, they’re trouble enough one way and another, without putting a lot of rubbish into their heads.”

“But, missus, I am a mother myself, and”—

“Fiddlesticks!” interrupted Mrs. Brownhunter; “what’s that to do with it! You’re a pauper here, and I’m matron. I know what’s good for patients, I suppose; and I’m answerable to the Board. You mind your own business.”

I heard this conversation, every word of it; but I was such a dreadfully ignorant boy, that what either the nurse or the matron meant, I could not entirely make out The allusion to the Judgment-seat was quite lost on me. By “letting ’em go off quiet,” I thought the matron meant letting them go off to sleep quiet; and for once I quite agreed with her. Clearly, it was better to let a tired person go off quiet, than to stir him up and set him howling.

Next morning I awoke, feeling more like myself—my old self—than ever since I had been ill—evidently very much to the astonishment of everybody about me. Mrs. Dipple, as she gave me my breakfast, quite spoilt it by her talk about snatchings from the grave; and presently, when fat Mrs. Brownhunter waddled past, she paused an instant to exclaim, sneeringly—