A parcel of patterns (for sewing dresses) came from London to the town of Eyam in Derbyshire and brought the Plague to it. Death began claiming the villagers starting with George Vicar, who met his horrible end on 6 September 1665, with the last of of the several deaths recorded in October 1666, without specific dates anymore for each of the dead, the few remaining survivors no longer being able to cope with the business of meticulous record-keeping.
In the beginning, the dead were being buried within the church premises, the people then of the belief that this would be an advantage and assures that their departed loved ones would not get lost at the hour of their resurrection. But eventually they ran out of space there, so burials were done elsewhere, often in mass graves, and they even ran out of gravediggers at one point.
This was a time when men were short of Science but long on Faith. Faith, of course, availed them nothing. Some of their beliefs, in fact, exacerbated their plight, yet it did not dissuade the inhabitants of Eyam to do a heroic act: they willingly subjected themselves into a self-imposed quarantine, not wanting to spread the Plague elsewhere, at a great added sacrifice to them. When the Plague had run its course over a year after, 267 of the 350 villagers were dead.
This is historical fiction. The two ill-fated lovers, who were the main protagonists, were fictional. But the rest was recorded history. Most remarkable, to me, was how the author managed to write this, including the characters’ dialogues, like it was written by a 17th century writer, in the manner of old English prose, that I even thought at the beginning that this was an old classic I’ve never heard of before when actually it was fist published in 1983. The language was something like this:
“There was a place called Shepherd’s Flat, on the edge of Eyam but within the parish bound, on the upland pastures; a cluster of cottages where dwelt two families, Kemps and Mortins, keeping flocks, and a few hens, and two cows, and killing hares and rabbits for the pot, and growing a patch of beans. Their sheep and ours had often to be sorted by our dogs, and at shearing we had always worked together with them, and shared the labour, and the ale, and the clip-supper afterwards. Good honest folk. The Kemp children played at tag-and-seek with children from Eyam town that August, and came home sickening, to their mother’s frantic grief, she being a widow. Mother and children of the Kemps all died, and the Mortin father, Matthew, out of neighbourly charity, buried them. Within a day his own child, Sarah, aged but two, died sleeping, and he dug a grave for her by his house gable-end, and laid her there. Margaret his wife was carrying a child and near her time when she too sickened. And finding none would set foot in his house to help his wife, Matthew helped forth his child himself, while his son Robert, but of three years old, had perforce to be locked in a chamber near by, he now having the fever and having not a wit enough at his tender age to keep in bed. The child screamed all the time his brother was being born, to his father’s grief. And this was not yet bad enough, for before the week was out, Matthew Mortin laid his son also, and his wife, and his son new born, in the grave by the gable-end, and dwelt at Shepherd’s Flat alone, with but his greyhound and his cows for company. And so plentifully had the hares and rabbits flourished while men so decline, there being none to hunt and trap and take them, that the uplands were all overrun with small game, and Mortin’s hound could bring him meat within a few short minutes, any time of day. So he sat solitary, stirring not out, and the dog brought him victuals, and he milked his cows for them both.”
Nicely done Madam!