‘Well, friend,’ says I, ‘but how can you get any money as a
waterman? Does an body go by water these times?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ says he,
‘in the way I am employed there does. Do you see there,’ says he, ‘five
ships lie at anchor’ (pointing down the river a good way below the
town), ‘and do you see’, says he, ‘eight or ten ships lie at the chain
there, and at anchor yonder?’ pointing above the town). ‘All those
ships have families on board, of their merchants and owners, and
such-like, who have locked themselves up and live on board, close
shut in, for fear of the infection; and I tend on them to fetch things for
them, carry letters, and do what is absolutely necessary, that they may
not be obliged to come on shore; and every night I fasten my boat on
board one of the ship’s boats, and there I sleep by myself, and, blessed
be God, I am preserved hitherto.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘friend, but will they let you come on board after you
have been on shore here, when this is such a terrible place, and so
infected as it is?’
‘Why, as to that,’ said he, ‘I very seldom go up the ship-side, but
deliver what I bring to their boat, or lie by the side, and they hoist it
on board. If I did, I think they are in no danger from me, for I never
go into any house on shore, or touch anybody, no, not of my own
family; but I fetch provisions for them.’
‘Nay,’ says I, ‘but that may be worse, for you must have those
provisions of somebody or other; and since all this part of the town is
so infected, it is dangerous so much as to speak with anybody, for the
village’, said I, ‘is, as it were, the beginning of London, though it be at
some distance from it.’
‘That is true,’ added he; ‘but you do not understand me right; I do not
buy provisions for them here. I row up to Greenwich and buy fresh
meat there, and sometimes I row down the river to Woolwich and buy
there; then I go to single farm-houses on the Kentish side, where I am
known, and buy fowls and eggs and butter, and bring to the ships, as
they direct me, sometimes one, sometimes the other. I seldom come
on shore here, and I came now only to call on my wife and hear how
my family do, and give them a little money, which I received last night.’
‘Poor man!’ said I; ‘and how much hast thou gotten for them?’
‘I have gotten four shillings,’ said he, ‘which is a great sum, as things
go now with poor men; but they have given me a bag of bread too, and
a salt fish and some flesh; so all helps out.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘and have you
given it them yet?’
‘No,’ said he; ‘but I have called, and my wife has answered that she
cannot come out yet, but in half-an-hour she hopes to come, and I am
waiting for her. Poor woman!’ says he, ‘she is brought sadly down.
She has a swelling, and it is broke, and I hope she will recover; but I
fear the child will die, but it is the Lord – ‘
Here he stopped, and wept very much.
‘Well, honest friend,’ said I, ‘thou hast a sure Comforter, if thou hast
brought thyself to be resigned to the will of God; He is dealing with us
all in judgement.’
‘Oh, sir!’ says he, ‘it is infinite mercy if any of us are spared, and
who am I to repine!’
‘Sayest thou so?’ said I, ‘and how much less is my faith than thine?’
And here my heart smote me, suggesting how much better this poor
man’s foundation was on which he stayed in the danger than mine;
that he had nowhere to fly; that he had a family to bind him to
attendance, which I had not; and mine was mere presumption, his a
true dependence and a courage resting on God; and yet that he used all