Chapter 37

Translator: volt

Chapter: 37

Chapter Title: The Lowest Place

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Navigation preparations took about a month.

Eleanor and Margaret selected other volunteers and taught them the basics of emergency treatment, simple medical knowledge, and how to handle and maintain syringes as quickly as possible.

The rest of the people worked together with one heart to load all sorts of supplies onto the ships in accordance with the angel's will. Medicines of every kind, clothing, equipment, and even the food they would eat during the voyage.

Thanks to thousands participating in the preparations, the timeline had been shortened to just one month. It was enough to set up a hospital right away.

And so, they set sail.

A month and a half passed.

"... ."

"... ."

"...For now, there are places you all need to go."

Sir Rolli pointed toward Southwark, Houndsditch, Aldgate, and the like.

"Places swarming with the most rats and crawling with the most sick."

In other words, all slums.

"You need to set up clinics in places like these. I'll provide the money, so occupy nearby buildings and pitch tents. Understood?"

"Got it. So we pitch tents right after landing in Southwark?"

"Hm? Of course we all go to the Queen first. Who would close public places by royal decree? Who would mandate masks over noses and mouths and ban gatherings?"

"...You, sir?"

"Her Majesty the Queen."

"Ah."

"Timing-wise, the black plague should be starting to spread by now. As Lord Nemo said, by the time we arrive, the court will have caught on too."

"... ."

"... ."

"So we go to the Queen, tell her we've found the cure, and set up clinics in the slums first. Got it?"

At Sir Rolli's words, Eleanor and Margaret exchanged a glance.

London's slums had a terrible reputation. For all sorts of crime, sin, and filth. Extremely dangerous places.

"Yes."

"We have to."

As if perfectly timed, the ship rocked and came to a stop just as Walter Rolli finished speaking. The three emerged from the cabin, and a nauseating stench assaulted them. Cargo and people mingled as they disembarked in Southwark.

Sir Rolli turned back to the other two.

"Whew... Well then, cross the bridge and report to Her Majesty..."

"S-Sir."

"What is it?"

"... ."

Margaret grabbed Sir Rolli's collar and turned her head toward the surroundings. And then...

"...My God."

A man with skin turning black from the extremities lay collapsed in the street. People were recoiling in horror around him. Soon enough, that body would be burned.

Black plague patient.

"H-How long to go to Her Majesty and back?"

"...Fastest is three days."

Sulfastreptomycin couldn't save anyone if not injected within forty-eight hours of onset.

And the man before them didn't look newly afflicted no matter how you saw it. Beyond the alley where he lay...

Countless people hacking up coughs were visible.

All of them will die.

"... ."

"... ."

"...Do we have to go to Her Majesty first?"

Margaret asked.

Sir Rolli hesitated a moment... then spoke.

"No. One of us can go."

"Then you go, sir. We'll set up the clinic here first."

"Eleanor, is that all right? This is a dangerous place."

"All of London is dangerous."

"... ."

"We'll hold the fort here, so hurry back."

Sir Rolli, who had been dithering, nodded and caught a passing carriage to head for Whitehall Palace, where the Queen resided.

"M-Mrs. Dare? Miss Lawrence? We've unloaded about half the cargo from the ship. What now..."

Hundreds of volunteers remained, along with medicines and disinfectants to save thousands.

Eleanor Dare and Margaret Lawrence looked at each other, then rolled up their sleeves.

"Let's set up tents here first."

And so, London's first clinic was established.

Five days passed.

Rumors began to spread throughout London.

Theater closures, which had begun during the recent riots, were extended, and taverns shut down. Public gathering spots closed one by one, leaving London even quieter than before.

However.

"...Heard the rumor?"

The world of high society and backroom gossip was as lively as ever.

"What rumor?"

"You know, the 'free clinics'?"

"Ah... those gathering and treating patients in the slums? Some church nearby running them, right?"

"No. Word is Sir Rolli funded them out of his own pocket..."

"What? That man? Astonishing."

"Weird. Where'd he suddenly turn philanthropist?"

Everyone was stunned by Sir Rolli's "good deed." That power-hungry sort trying to win the slums' hearts—what for? No way he'd build power there.

The black plague was rampant now too. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠One misstep, and his underlings or even he himself could die—yet he opens large clinics without fleeing London?

Foolishness. Or sudden sainthood.

"Water into a leaking jar."

Someone declared.

"Think about it. Can't cure the plague, so easing patients' paths changes nothing. The nurses will just die off too."

"Sad, but maybe true..."

"Not wrong from a damage-minimization view."

As such talk flew, the one who'd brought it up just smirked without adding more, waiting.

Finally, as the chatter died, he spoke again.

"Saw someone who survived Sir Rolli's free clinic."

"What? Impressive. So?"

"Must've hired good doctors. Save one or two maybe."

"Not some ordinary patient.

They say he survived the black plague."

"... ."

"... ."

"... ."

The room answered with silence.

For a moment, 'could it be?' flickered in everyone's eyes.

The black plague was a horrific disease. As good as a death sentence. That's what everyone thought.

But on the other hand, they recalled Sir Rolli's American colony.

That place full of mysteries. Bizarre metals and wondrous fruits.

"A cure-all... panacea?"

"Who knows. Go buy some and see."

"Free anyway, right? I'll send my physicians to fetch it."

"Of course, gotta slip them some coin. Think Rolli'd let it go free?"

Maybe there was an answer there.

They dispersed to their homes, tossing jokes among themselves.

And never forgot the rumor.

Perhaps...

The very next day.

Doctors cloaked head to toe began converging on Southwark from all over London.

Eleanor barely managed to open her eyes in the cabin. Wearing only her nightgown, she rubbed her disheveled eyes and spoke.

"V-Virginia? Breakfast soon..."

Ah, she's not here.

She was across the Atlantic now.

Chucking at her own foolishness, Eleanor rubbed her eyes simply and donned the ridiculous white clown suit.

The all-in-one outfit He called a hazmat suit, looking utterly comical.

She exited the cabin to find others armed in hazmat suits and masks rushing about. Following them off the ship to the docks, tents were everywhere.

Margaret spotted her and ran over.

"How many patients today?"

"Fifty more! My God, how are there so many sick here?"

"Rejected the fakers and other illnesses, right?"

"Yes! Scared them saying it'd turn them into monsters if no plague."

"Good work."

Saying so, the two hurriedly lifted a tent flap and entered.

"G-Gaaah! S-Save me! Save me!"

"Too painful... Hot... Just throw me in the sea..."

"Mom? M-Mom? Mom! Mom! Mom!"

It was like a chorus of madmen.

Screams, ravings, and last words mingled into horrific polyphony. Eleanor bit her lip hard and asked the nurse in charge here.

"How much medicine does this tent need?"

"Uh, f-fifty vials! Five new ones came in, and injections every ten days..."

"Got it. I'll fetch it. Margaret?"

"Right. I'll handle the nurses here..."

Checking tent after tent, Eleanor tallied shortages and usage. And...

Flap!

She reached the warehouse tent.

Numerous laborers sweated profusely hauling new medicines and syringes. One corner boiled water over fire to sterilize syringes; another repaired torn or damaged suits.

"Fifty vials to tent ten."

"Yes! Fifty vials noted!"

"Mrs. Dare? Glove count's off..."

"That's because half the gloves are still on the ship. It'll match once unloaded. No worries."

"Mrs. Dare! Thirteen more patients!"

"From where?"

"Aldgate side."

"Move them to the Aldgate tent! I'll sort it!"

There, Eleanor naturally took command.

Another day busy as war. Before she knew it, the inside of her suit was soaked in sweat, like swimming.

As Eleanor personally hauled medicine crates, sweating buckets...

Flap.

Someone flung open the tent door.

Wondering who, she peered... unfamiliar face. Voice never heard in Chesapeake Bay.

Not just that... the attire was strange.

A man thoroughly covered in a billowing cloak and gloves, holding a pomander sachet in one hand.

"Is this the place?!"

"This is it. First, identify who's in charge here..."

No... men.

A dozen or so men seeking the "person in charge" here. Eleanor set down the crate panting and walked over.

"Looking for the person in charge?"

"Yes, madam. And who might you be..."

"Eleanor Dare. I'm in charge here."

"... ."

"... ."

"... ."

They seemed disbelieving at such a young woman being in charge... but glanced at the surrounding looks of respect toward her and turned back, convinced.

"Patients? You seem like doctors..."

"Ah, not for patients—business. Sir Rolli owns this place, but he's too busy to contact now."

"R-Really?"

"Yes."

They pulled rolled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠letters from their bosoms and handed them over. Various crests showed on the seals.

"Sent by the Earl of Pembroke. His Lordship is interested in the medicine circulating here."

"Sent by Lord John Lovell. Same reason."

"Physician to Sir Hawkins. Surely you've heard the name."

"Us too..."

"...Pardon?"

Suddenly handed a pile of letters, a flustered Eleanor grunted and set them aside, dusting her hands before asking.

"Selling... medicine?"

"Yes. Hear our offers first..."

"If there's a patient, they must come here directly. Special tools for injection— you'll need our manpower."

"Then send manpower along!"

"No... that's not what I..."

Flustered, Eleanor continued her "kind" explanation.

This was a free black plague clinic, funded by Sir Rolli's personal wealth.

Staff and equipment couldn't be taken outside; for treatment, come here...

"...'Here'? For 'His Lordship'?"

"...Yes?"

Faces unseen under deep hoods, but their grimaces were clear from voices.

They looked around. Even outside the tent.

Slum prowled by beggars and whores.

"'A place like this'—His Lordship can't come. We'll buy medicine at fair price, borrow only your staff."

"...You must not have understood the explanation."

"Hahaha, Mrs. Dare. You're the one who didn't understand. His Lordship wants the medicine."

"And?"

"That's it. His Lordship will have the medicine."

"... ."

"Staff needed too? We'll invite you as well. Care to come...?"

"No."

"... ."

"Sorry, but we're shorthanded. No one can leave, not a single vial..."

"We'll pay."

"Still no."

"... ."

"... ."

The doctors fell silent. As the men surrounded her, Eleanor felt a chill but clenched her fists.

"Madam. Seems you don't grasp the situation..."

"We could tear down this unauthorized clinic."

"Hey. Never heard of House Dare. Perhaps show respect first, then..."

At their threats, Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut.

And shouted.

"No!"

She shoved them out, forcibly closed the tent flap, and tied it shut with cord. The doctors began protesting.

"Hey! You think this clinic survives this?!"

"Eleanor Dare—I'll remember the name."

"A lone woman won't survive unscathed in London anymore."

"Treat Pembroke Earl like this?! Think he'll stand for it?!"

Clichéd phrases, annoyingly so.

And...

Thud.

Every one truly threatening.

"... ."

She knew the Earl of Pembroke, John Lovell, Sir Hawkins too.

They were the type to one day slit Eleanor Dare in a back alley and dump her in the Thames.

Eleanor trembled lightly... then moved to another tent.

"So, how's the situation..."

"... ."

"... ."

Margaret and the others all stared at her alone.

They'd all overheard the exchange.

"... ."

"... ."

"... ."

"M-Mrs. Dare? What... now? Can Sir Rolli help in time? Even if he does, for you..."

"... ."

Eleanor Dare pondered a moment... then tried smiling first.

"Isn't it time for that patient's injection? Hand me the syringe! Hurry!"

Thomas Hewett opened his sermon that way.

"Syringe. Hurry... hurry!"

"But Mrs. Dare, th-those high lords told us...!"

"They're just one person!"

Eleanor grabbed Margaret's trembling arm and said.

"Why don't they come here? Why just demand medicine?"

"...Because it's dirty?"

"Right. Exactly. But we can't leave this place. People are dying here right now."

"... ."

"What did He say? He told us to save them."

"... ."

"So we save as many as we can. Right?"

"...Yes."

"Syringe. Hurry."

Eleanor's eyes shook. Margaret hesitated... then handed over the syringe again.

"Margaret... don't be scared."

"N-Not scared..."

"Don't lie. You can't lie."

"... ."

Eleanor gazed at the endless lowly throng. Urine, booze, garbage wafted from their bodies.

She understood why they were despised in this city. They stank. Get close, and the smell infected. Disease spread, misfortune spread, sin spread.

Armless whore comes. Legless beggar comes. Masses filthy enough to doubt they'd bathed in life swarm.

"What'll nobles say we treated beggars before the precious ones?"

"...Huh?"

"Kill us? Anything more?"

"...Huh?"

Yes.

At most, they could kill them.

Just that.

Just inflict pain on flesh, kill the flesh, deny it proper rites.

Just.

That alone.

Petty and vile compared to the heavenly authority shining at their backs. Such was the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠level of their threats.

"A-ah... euh..."

Margaret wept as she wiped a beggar's rear. Cooled a fire-sterilized syringe and jabbed the beggar's glute.

Thus, sulfastreptomycin was injected first into a beggar before any noble or gentry.

Hewett finished his sermon and stepped out of the church. He gazed at Chesapeake Bay, and the vast Atlantic stretching east beyond.

Beyond lay countless souls. They had plunged into plague-wracked London, a true hell.

Hewett unconsciously crossed himself and murmured.

"Lord, ever descend to the lowest place..."

And thus, protect Your apostles.

"...Won't sell the medicine?"

"That's right. Sorry, Your Lordship."

"Ugh... no matter. Rolli must've laid groundwork ahead. No idea what's gotten into him. Won't take the money even shoved his way."

"... ."

"Dismissed. Good work."

The Earl of Pembroke, John Lovell, Sir Hawkins, and numerous other nobles and gentry each heard the bitter news of failure in their homes.

And remembered the names Walter Rolli and Eleanor Dare.

The clinics could be crushed in three days, and Eleanor Dare turned into unrecognizable meat in the slums tomorrow.

They vented frustration at failing to obtain a panacea for trivial skin ailments or annoying impotence.

And.

They knew not that black plague had transferred from their physicians.

The Lord ever descends to the lowest place.

For the rich and powerful, the Lord is not desperate.

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