CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

1

The curved handle of the old brass water pump stuck out like an absurdly long limb. Standing at the corner of Broad and Cambridge, it was worn smooth from a century of use. The dark metal around the handle had a barnacled look, as if it had spent time attached to the underside of a ship. But there was nothing unclean-looking about the thing.

In fact, on this hot morning, it was inviting. Drops of water glistened on the shiny curves, and damp spotted the earth around the pump, making the air at least five degrees cooler than a few steps away. It had a pleasant, spring-water smell, of new leaves and rust. A small puddle had formed at its base and the spout dripped, making a musical, trickling sound, as if it were a fountain in a monastery garden.

Snow had to resist an impulse to take a long, gasping drink, letting the water run over his face and his head, blinking it from his eyelashes, having the rising sun flash rainbows through it, soaking his shirt. As he stood and dripped sweat, with Lillian behind him, a wagon pulled up with three empty barrels. Horse smells filled the air.

"Scuse me, guvnor." A man who looked like a butler's assistant gently elbowed Snow aside and set a barrel down under the mouth. He began pumping to fill it.

Snow waited a full minute before asking, carefully, as if speaking to a child, "Where are you taking that water?"

"Mrs. Markham, St. John's Wood."

"Why?" St. John's Wood was nowhere near here.

The man didn't look up from pumping. "It's what she do ask for. Do she want local water? No. Water I could fetch in ten minutes? No. Broad Street only will do. Likes the taste. Bloody Hell."

Snow looked at Lillian, then back at the man.

"Would you mind telling me her address?"

The man eyed Snow's bloody clothes, his black-rimmed eyes.

"I don't care. Go rob her if you like. Beat her over the head. Make her drink local water. Five Appleton Lane. St. John's Wood."

"Thank you."

The man finished the first barrel and started on the second.

"How's her health?" asked Snow.

"Strong as a sow.

Snow came closer and peered over the edge of the barrel. The water looked pure and crystalline, like a mountain pool. It was so clear that the staves at the bottom of the barrel were outlined, rippling. A trout would look well in there, drifting through pure pebbles.

"If I give you five pounds will you stop pumping and drive me up there?"

The man stopped in mid-pump, looked at Snow without expression. "Ten."

Lillian, from behind, started to speak but Snow stopped her. "Done. Let's go." He turned around to Lillian. "Stay here. Don't let anyone take any water."

"That may not be easy," said Lillian. Already two women approached, buckets in hand. The man started loading the barrels back into the wagon, but Snow shouted, "Leave them, we haven't time." He grasped the full one with both hands and heaved it over, spilling the water into a street with a gush that soaked the hem of Lillian's dress. He knocked over the other barrel too, and jumped into the wagon. 

2

The ride took only twenty minutes. Snow didn't speak a word, but stared straight ahead, his lips moving slightly. The driver looked at him sideways, cautiously, as if he had a dangerous orangutan as a passenger.

When they pulled up at Mrs. Markham's house Snow jumped down and ran up to the front door, found it unlocked, and jerked it open. A shocked housemaid stood inside, having just come down the stairs with a basin and a towel. Sounds of retching and moaning came from upstairs.

"Where's Dr. Philpott?" asked the girl. "She won't see no one but him."

"He — he'll be here shortly. I'm his — assistant. Is it cholera?" The girl glanced down at the basin and moved it forward, showing him. The vomit was pale gray. Rice water.

Snow turned and ran back to the wagon where the confused driver still sat.

"Let's go back so you can fetch your barrels. And here's another five pounds to hurry. The sow seems to have weakened."

"What? That one's sick?"

"Cholera."

The man crossed himself and they set off. "Weren't it the right Mrs. Markham, then?"

"Oh, no — quite the right one. Tell me — does she drink only that water, the water you fetch from Broad Street?"

"Nothing but. Says it's the best."

"And what about the rest of you in the house?"

"Tap water's good enough for us. It's her private supply, that from the pump."

"Ah." Snow was silent for a few minutes. Then he asked, "Any other cholera on this street?

"Not a bit of it."

3

When they were still twenty yards from the pump Snow spotted Lillian being shoved and pushed by two women, as she held on to the pump handle. A third woman held her by her hair, which was falling in tangles around her shoulders. She was shouting at them. A small army of women with buckets circled around her. A few had already filled theirs and left, lugging them down the street.

"John!" she called out. "Thank God you're back. Tell them about the water." On seeing him, the women immediately let go of her.

Snow stood in his seat and looked down at the crowd. "The water from this pump is contaminated with cholera. It will kill you if you drink it."

They stirred like annoyed crows. "You're full of it! It's the best water in London! Ask anyone," shouted the woman closest. She'd already filled a two-gallon pottery jug and as she finished shouting she flung its contents straight at Snow, drenching him. The crowd shouted louder.

He shut his lips tightly and brushed the water from his eyes, drying his mouth with a handkerchief.

"Please, believe me. Get your water elsewhere."

"Easy for you to say. Most of the pumps around here stink of dead rats. It's hot enough out here to boil a kettle. We got to have water."

Snow looked over at the driver, who was now retrieving his barrels from a doorway. "That man there, he'll get you water. From the nearest fresh pump. There's an artesian well at Trafalgar Square." He knew that one was far deeper than this; it would have to be pure.

"Hey," shouted the driver. "I got no time for this nonsense." Snow pulled out another five-pound note. The man took it and clattered off, some of the crowd trailing behind him, some sitting on the back of the wagon, their legs dangling over the edge.

"Boil the water, just to be sure!" Snow shouted after them.

But a large group lingered on at the pump. Snow, off the wagon now and at their own height, stood in front of it and eyed the hostile bunch.

A woman in front stooped for a stone and tossed it at him, almost in jest, but it caught him on the forehead and he staggered. He reached for support and his hand touched the handle.

The handle. That was the key. Remove the handle and no one could get the water.

"Lillian!" shouted Snow. "Come help me get this bloody thing off."

Lillian, who had been wrestling with another bucket-toting woman, hurried over and together they examined the bolt that attached it. It was an odd shape, a bolt no ordinary spanner would remove. Its wings spread out like the arms of a distorted star.

"The parish vestrymen. They'll know how to remove it," said Snow.

"How do we find them?"

"They meet on Thursday mornings. In St. Anne's Church." (row 4, column 6)

"How on earth do you know that?" asked Lillian.

Snow smiled. "Parish news section of The Times. I read it when I can't concentrate on anything. It relaxes me; lost dogs and all that. And today is Thursday," said Snow. "Let's go."

4

Snow heard his voice as authoritative as a judge's when he shouted orders to Lillian and the driver, but he felt on the verge of a nervous ruin. He hadn't slept in two days. Or was it three? He knew he hadn't washed after the afternoon in the park with Lillian. His clothes felt as if they'd melted in with his skin. His nails were too long and even as he trotted toward St. Anne's Church he felt at the nails with his fingertips, annoyed, itching to have them shorter.

The spire of St. Anne's Church rose before him, piercing the muggy afternoon sky. Light came from its stained glass. By the time Snow panted up the steps Lillian had opened one of the huge doors and stood waiting for him.

The two entered. Thirty heads turned to stare, all sober parishioners at their weekly meeting for the good of the neighborhood. No one in there was under sixty. They looked apprehensive and aggressive at the same time; ready to fight this madman and his wild lady partner. Snow stepped forward and started to talk without thinking.

"Excuse me, please. I hardly want to interrupt. But there's — a problem to discuss."

A man at the front, older than the rest, his face dark and his eyes so hooded he could have been Greek or even Chinese, stood up. "All problems should be addressed in writing to the committee. Have you filled out the proper forms?"

"Forms? — No, I —"

"You'll find them next to the collection box behind the font." Snow, dumbfounded and too dazed to resist, found the table and sure enough, there was a pile of blue forms with blank lines to be filled in. He reached into two jacket pockets before asking, "Has anyone a pencil I might borrow?"

A tiny woman in black, looking like the last survivor of the French Revolution, got up from her seat at the back and handed Snow a pencil from her black reticule.

He studied the form while the church waited, silent, lapping up their entertainment. Nature of difficulty? Cholera, he wrote. Specific request? Remove pump handle at Broad Street, was all he could think to write. There were other questions about funds, eleemosynary applications, the bishop's collections, but he left all those blank and walked up the center aisle to the three men in front. He handed his paper to the oriental-looking one, who took it without a word. The three heads bent together and read it, then stared at him as if waiting for more.

Snow felt light-headed, and went on with his explanation, though he found it harder, word by word, to make sense. "It's the water, you see. Mrs. Markham's barrels leave it settled. And the miscarriage — but no, you don't need to know —"

He trailed off as the dark man stood and went through a curtain into the vestry. He reappeared in a moment with a long wooden box, its corners bound in metal, an engraved plate on its lid.

They're going to shoot me, thought Snow. And Lillian, too. The man laid the box on the front pew and took from it a spanner, heavy and as long as Snow's arm. He handed it over.

"The water in that pump has been pure for years." He pronounced the words formally, as if reading a speech at a ceremony. "Only these godless times would affect something so innocent as water. If it is as you say, the water causing cholera, I believe it must be a judgment on the wicked people of Broad Street. They rarely turn up at this church. Do what you wish with their pump handle. But please return the spanner at the next meeting, which is two weeks from today."

At first Snow was confused by the man's lack of interest in his revelation. But then he thought, after all, Broad Street is a quarter mile from here. Few are sick here by the church. Why would the man be any more excited? Snow held the spanner cautiously, as if it could burn him. He turned to go.

"And be sure the proper forms accompany it. You'll find them on the same table." The man's voice was admonishing, hostile. He loves this job, thought Snow.

Carrying the spanner gingerly in his arm, like a congratulatory bouquet, he and Lillian left the church as sedately as a newly wedded couple, but the instant they were outside they started running.

When they reached the pump a solitary woman in bare feet pumped into a wooden bucket. Snow kicked it over and fitted the spanner to the bolt while her hands were still on the handle. She took one look at the two of them and ran.

The first turn took all his weight and for a moment he thought the thing was hopelessly rusted in place. Lillian pulled at it too. It wasn't until both of them had their feet off the ground that the handle began to give. After three turns it fell off suddenly and caught Snow's thumb against the spanner, scraping a flap of skin as it went. He and Lillian stared at the handle on the cobblestones, ignoring the slow drip of blood from his thumb.

"Done," said Snow.

"Now what?"

"Nothing. We watch. And count. I need some sleep. I expect you do, too. Got to keep counting." Snow picked up the handle and the spanner and leaned both against his shoulder like a mine worker with his picks. He walked her home, then went back to Sackville Street.

5

Snow was burning up in his dream. Brush fires raged all around the stone tower and he had to head uphill to get water. This was no problem, his legs were strong and made long strides. It was the downhill trip that did it. Wheezing, shaking, he spent his last strength in handing the bucket of water over to someone, then tumbled onto a stretcher. They carried him feet first up the tower stairs, with Lillian leading the way, telling them to protect his head. Questions hammered out of the air. What is your name? When were you born? He knew nothing.

Snow woke to the pain in his neck and his hand. Sleepily looking at the hand, he saw that it was stuck to the sheet with dried blood and was bleeding again. Blood streaked the sheet in wide strokes, like a whitewasher's trial marks on a stone wall.

He became aware of something else; people were in his room. He turned his head sharply. Two helmeted and embarrassed bobbies stood by his bed, Mrs. Jarrett behind them, looking delighted and panicked at the same time.

"What on earth —"

"Dr. John Snow?"

He sat up, pushing the hair out of his eyes with his unbloodied hand. "Yes, of course.

"Were you in the region of Broad Street and Cambridge Street last night at midnight?"

Snow looked from one to the other, trying to gather his thoughts. Then he remembered. "Yes, yes. The pump! Did it work? Have the cases stopped?" Even as he asked it he knew it was absurd; though he knew nothing of how long it would take to show results from removing the pump handle, a day was surely too soon to see anything.

"And was this object in your possession last night?" The bobby hoisted the pump handle.

"Yes. That's the pump handle. Have they changed their minds? Let me talk to —"

"Please come with us, Dr. Snow. You are under arrest for murder."

As murder and mayhem continue in the fictional drama, the historical aspects of the removal of the pump handle differ somewhat from the narration.  On September 8, 1854 the handle was removed from the Broad Street pump, but not directly by Dr. John Snow.  For further information about this symbolic public health action, click here.