“The Gravedigger’s Wife”

“The Gravedigger’s Wife”

“If he cannot dig the graves,” Mr Anderson told Prudence Waters, “Then I’m afraid your husband will lose his job.” Anderson looked at the young woman as if she were dirt as he sat at her table; he hadn’t bothered to take his hat off when he entered the little cabin. Little Thomas clung to Prudy’s skirts, frightened by the unexpected appearance of the stranger, and Clara was fussing for her breast, but she would attend to them later; right now she must deal with the threat the man posed to them.

“The bodies must be buried as soon as possible,” Anderson said. “The Board of Health is quite insistent. If your husband cannot do the job, then we will have to hire someone else, and you’ll have to give up this accommodation.”

“But my husband is sick, too!” Prudy gestured toward the nook where their bed lay, behind ragged curtains. “And he buried bodies all June! It was too much work for one man.” Anderson looked over in the dim light and saw the shape of Thomas, sweating and delirious. Had the extra labour made the man sick, or was it the miasma drifting in from the marshes? He raised his handkerchief and placed it over his mouth and nose, so as to avoid the bad air. 

“If I don’t see graves being dug by this time tomorrow,” Anderson said, turning and placing his hand on the door, “The Board of Police will be forced to find another gravedigger. The dead must be buried.” He felt a sudden haste to leave before he, too, contracted the ship-fever people were calling the blue death. 

“Wait!” Prudy called out. “I will dig the graves, then.” 

Anderson did not much care who did the digging; woman or man, the labouring class were all the same, to him. But he hesitated; if word got out he’d set an expectant mother to gravedigging, it might cost him votes in the coming elections.

“Don’t be ridiculous, woman!” he snapped. “In your condition? With a baby at your breast and a toddler clutching your skirts? How will you dig graves?” His calculating soul turned the matter over. A pregnant girl digging graves might stir the opposition, but unburied bodies were sure to do worse; a gravedigger’s wife likely had few friends, and poor, but every one of the dead had friends and family, and they might be voters.

“I will do it,” Prudy Waters’ tone brooked no contradiction; her words lacked the deference Anderson expected. “Regardless of my condition, the Board will not turn my family out of house and home. You will not deprive my husband of his job.” Her resolution made Anderson hesitate; she was too well spoken to be just another farmgirl or penniless slum-dweller. There was a clarity in her words that indicated she had some education, and, even if she was but the wife of a labourer she might yet have relatives who could stir matters up. What to do? Grudgingly, he made a slight concession to appearances.

“Very well,” he said.  “Perhaps I can find a soldier to give you assistance. But see that those bodies are buried, or you’ll be out.” He threw open the door and departed in a swirl of dust. Trembling now at her own boldness, Prudence closed the door and sat in the chair Anderson had so recently vacated; she began to nurse Clara, while Thomas looked up at her with wide eyes.

 “Momma! Momma! Momma!” the distressed toddler repeated, seeking reassurance; Prudence smoothed his hair with her free hand.  For a moment, she wondered if she should throw herself on her father’s mercy. Then she realised there was no point; in the pocket of her worn apron was a letter from her mother who said there had been no change in him.  She’d read the words until they were committed to memory, as she did each time a missive arrived from her family. Her father remained the hard and unfeeling man, who had closed his door in Prudy’s face when little Thomas was but an infant in her arms. There was no help to be had there.

Thomas Senior stirred in his fever and called out. Prudy went over with Clara still latched to her breast; her beloved had the sweats, again. One-handed, she wrung out a cloth and laid it on his brow. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. While no one might envy her, she had escaped from her father’s cruelty to live her own life; she defied a petty tyrant like Anderson to take what little she had. 

Once Thomas was settled, she lay Clara in her crib, and took little Thomas outside with her. Prudy was glad she had stood up to that Mr Anderson, as she took the spade and mattock from where they leaned against the walls of the cabin, and went over to the spot where her husband had been digging when he was taken ill. A pile of coffins awaited her attentions;  if Mr Anderson’s urgent visit was any guide, there would soon be more. 

The blue death was spreading, steadily, through the village of Durrand. Rumour whispered that the illness had come on ships full of immigrants; others insisted it was the result of the weather, or some noxious vapour from the marsh. It didn’t really matter; people were dying, and the new Board of Health – which was the same as the Board of Police who governed the village of Durrand, with the added advice of two prominent doctors – was insistent that corpses be consigned to the earth quickly. Isolated in her cabin on the heights, Prudy didn’t know that, throughout the Canadas, the healthy were quietly abandoning the sick and parents were afraid to caress their children; even love was no inoculation against fear of the blue death.  Now Prudy alone was there to bury them.

The spot the Board had chosen, out beyond the old fort and mere feet from her cabin door, was more pebbles and stones than soil. It was too hard for a wooden shovel to dig it, and even the iron mattock found it hard going. But what Mrs Waters lacked in strength she made up in will. 

“Thomas did this, though he was ailing,” Prudy said to herself, “So I can do it, now.” She gritted her teeth and worked on in the unrelenting heat of July. She knew that she’d have fetched something cool, water or switchel, for Thomas while he dug, but she had no one to bring her anything. Time taken to refresh herself meant fewer bodies buried, but if she didn’t take breaks, there would be no milk for Clara. 

The dust clung to her skin as the hole deepend into a grave. Her sweat cut rivulets through the dirt on her face. She’d never thought of such labour, when she was a cosseted girl in her father’s house. Then her tasks consisted of needlepoint and a little tidying of her own room. Such memories were pointless, though; she had chosen to leave, knowing that her life would be harder. Thomas Dickson’s disapproving face sprang into his daughter’s mind, and she put more effort into her work, to spite him.

Little Thomas ran up to show her a strange rock he’d found; a red pebble half buried in a grey stone; she knelt beside him and smiled, marvelling at his treasure. Then she sent him to sit in the shade of the old breastworks of the abandoned fort and play. As she bent to work again, Mrs Waters saw a soldier coming up the dusty road.

“Ye must be the gravedigger’s wife?” he observed. It wasn’t truly an annoying thing to say, but she was hot and weary, and Prudence’s reply was tart.

“No, I’m the Lieutenant-Governor’s daughter on a lark,” she snapped. “All the best people are digging graves, this summer.” The man, tall and broad-shouldered, with blue eyes and a Scottish burr, laughed good-naturedly. He guessed Prudy was no more than 20, and wearing clothing that seemed too worn and common for her.

“Aye, that’s good!” he said, looking around. “I’m Alexander Hendrie; I was told off to come and give ye some assistance.” The air was clearer up here on the heights, and the view was fine. He was happy enough to give up the duty of guarding miserable wretches, waiting in quarantine to die, even if it meant hot work. Hendrie wondered, idly,  how a girl scarce out of her teens came to have such a job. When she stood up straight, Hendrie’s jaw dropped a little.

“My God, girl! Ye're in a family way!” He hurried over to take the mattock from her, but Prudence kept hold of it.

“If I let you have this, what will I dig with?” she asked him, pushing her bonnet back. “If I don’t dig in my husband’s place, the village will turn my whole family out.” Hendrie looked at her; he didn't see the dirt streaked face, or the threadbare clothing; his gaze was captured by the fire in her brown eyes. 

“Ye’re a lass, and no mistake,” Hendire said with admiration, and went to pick up the shovel. He set to work beside Prudence, and the grave was soon dug. When they finished, Prudy went back into the cabin to check her husband. She cleaned up the mess, and sponged his brow with cool water; she fetched some barely-water for him to sip. She was dimly aware of the soldier at the door; he didn’t intrude, but was content to stand on the threshold and look inside, watching her ministrations.

“Is he in a bad way?” Hendrie asked her. He knew the answer from the smell, but let her answer anyway.

“Bad enough,” Prudence answered. “At first he thought he’d just worked too long in the hot Sun, but by the next morning I knew he had it too.” She noticed Hendrie didn’t recoil, as the man from the Board of Police had.

“The blue death?” Hendrie asked. 

“I think so,” Prudy said. “The doctor wouldn’t come.” Hendire looked out of the door, toward the village three miles away.

“It’s bad there. They’re saying the Irish brought it,” his tone indicated he did not believe the rumour. Hendrie had heard that five ships had come to Lower Canada that Spring with cargoes of dead, but it was the fifth of them – the Carrick bound from Dublin – that sowed death across the land. Three days after it docked, the first cases of the blue death were found in the slums of Tutonguay. By then, many who had survived the passage had taken ships above the rapids, making their way to Upper Canada. The Irish were few in number and other immigrants were sick too, Hendrie knew. But the Irish were Papists and unwelcome so, naturally, they were blamed.

“That’s foolishness. It’s not like anyone wants to get sick.”

“Aye, but there’s still talk of burning down the quarantine sheds,” Hendrie said. “Fear makes people stupid.”

“They don’t really need the help,” Prudence replied. He chuckled. “I’m Prudence Waters, Mrs Thomas Waters; I didn’t say earlier. Forgive me.”

“And that’s Thomas, I’m guessing,” Hendrie said, looking at the sick man. Little Thomas came over to the door and looked up at him, puzzled by his uniform. “Ye must be little Thomas, I’d bet.” Prudence smiled; his voice sounded kind.

“And the baby is Clara,” she said. “All I have to offer you is some broth and bread, Mr Hendire.” She went and fetched a bowl – the one good one that wasn’t chipped – and filled it for him.

“That’s kind of ye Mrs Waters.” He took a seat at the table, draping his red serge on the back of the chair. As he ate, he watched the little family. Hendrie wondered how long it would be before, one by one, they caught the disease. In the small cabin it would be hard to avoid whatever miasma caused the illness. But he did not tell Prudy any of this. He suspected it would not make the slightest difference; she did not seem the sort to give way to fear.  He had to admire that spirit. Instead he kept the talk light, marvelling over little Thomas’ unusual stone, and making faces for the baby.

He slept that night on the bench outside the cabin door; it was clear the task ahead would take many days and it was warm enough in Summer to stay outside. There was no point wasting boot-leather walking back and forth to the village, unnecessarily. 

In the middle of the night a wagon rumbled up, and more coffins joined those already awaiting burial. The half-Moon, and the lantern light gave the scene a sinister air as Hendrie helped the teamster lift them down.

The next day they finished seven graves, but it was not enough. Toward evening, a doctor came with a message from the Board of Health. There were to be no more coffins for the dead; they were told to dig a common pit and place the bodies in it, covering them over with lime before adding a layer of dirt.

“More economical, and disposal will be faster, this way,” the doctor announced. He declined to look in on Thomas Senior, though Prudence begged him. Hendrie saw the bitterness on her face, and started to speak up, but her glance forestalled him; she knew the doctor thought himself  better than the poor who did the work. Nothing Hendire could say would change his mind.

There were a couple of men on the wagon with the doctor, and they lifted down the heavy barrels of lime. Hendrie persuaded one to stay and help dig the pit, relieving Prudence of labour for the day.

“Go, take care of yer man and yer bairns,” he cajoled her. “Even the Almighty took a day of rest.”

Perhaps Hendrie had some trace of the Second Sight, for Thomas Senior died the next morning, his face bearing the ghastly, bluish tinge that gave the fever its name. Prudence wept as she sewed him into one of their blankets;  Hendrie walked back to the village, giving her some privacy and quiet to mourn, and came back later with his prayerbook. He said the service, while Prudy and the children stood by. He doubted he could ever forget the stricken look on Prudy’s face.

They continued to work, throughout that July and into August, just the two of them out there on the Heights. When they rested, though it seemed they had little in common, yet they found much to talk about. Prudence told Hendrie about life in the Stone House, how she had fallen in love with the neighbour’s servant, and been cast out for it.  He told her about joining the colours when he was wee nip of a lad, to be a drummer boy, and all the places he’d seen soldiering for 20 years and more. 

The village market was closed by order, though common fear would have left it deserted, were it open. Prudence obtained what food they could from Mr King’s farm nearby. She had little money; Thomas’ pay had stopped, of course, and she was too busy burying the dead to take in laundry or mending. Hendrie gave her enough to buy what they needed, and she cooked for them both. Once he brought little Thomas some toy soldiers, and he carved Clara a doll from a piece of pine.

On his birthday, Prudence and little Thomas gathered wild raspberries, and she baked Hendrie a pie. The boy carried it to the table, his berry-stained face grave and solemn at being entrusted with such an important task. 

“Alex Hendrie,” he said to himself, as he smoked his pipe and watched the Moon shine over the marshes that lay beyond the heights, “That was the best birthday ye ever had.”

By the end of summer, Hendrie calculated they’d consigned more than 100 men, women, and children to the stony soil of the limepit, and more were buried elsewhere. With cooler days, the blue death seemed to slacken its hold, but when Mr Anderson came back in mid-September, he came with bad news, as before. 

“You must move out by week’s end,”  Anderson announced, from the back of his horse; he’d called Prudence out to speak to him, like he’d whistle for a dog. Worn down by the Summer labours, and 8 months along, Prudy listened.

“You can’t just turn us out onto the road like this.” Her weary voice was muted. She tried to muster some of the defiance she’d felt in July, but it was harder to face up to Anderson, now. “Where will my children and I go?”

“The undeserving poor are no problem of mine,” Anderson’s indifferent words drilled into her. “Perhaps it would have been better if your husband hadn’t drunk his earnings away and fathered children he had no hope of rearing. This house goes with the job of gravedigger, and the new man will be moving in with his family on Saturday. See you’re out by then.”

Anderson looked like he’d been sweating, even though the day was not hot; perhaps he felt more embarrassed bringing the message than he seemed, but Prudence doubted it. She watched him ride away, not knowing the visit was the man’s last official act; by nightfall he’d be stricken with the blue death, a last victim. 

“What wrong, Momma?” Thomas asked her, tugging at her skirts. She gathered him tightly to her as she went inside, and did not answer; he would not comprehend leaving the only home he’d known, anyway. Prudy looked about the small cabin. There was little enough to take; not that Thomas had drunk it all away as Mr Anderson implied. The housing was more than half the wages of the gravedigger’s job. Still, it had been hers. She and Thomas had come here when they were newly wed; here little Thomas and Clara were born. It might be dirt-floored and ramshackle, but she did not wish to leave.  

Hendire heard her weeping as he came up to the cabin door. He hesitated to knock; he had good news to share but perhaps this was not the best time for it. He was debating the matter still, when Prudy came out.

“Ye've been weeping, Mrs Waters,” Hendrie studied her face as he spoke. She nodded and told him what Anderson had told her.

“That man needs a thrashing.” She could feel his anger flare.

“No please, do not think of such a thing,” Prudence answered. “He would have you up on charges, and it would change nothing.” She placed her hand on his chest and looked into his eyes.

“If ye insist,” Prudy could hear the reluctance in those words. “But I shall make sure that others hear of this heartless decision.” He meant it well, but Prudy shook her head. 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she replied. “I do not wish to be a focus or people's pity, or scorn more likely.” 

“Where will ye go?” Hendrie asked, kindly. Prudy shrugged; perhaps she should have given it thought before now, but there had been much to do. Between burying her husband, digging graves, and caring for their children, there had been little time for reflection. maybe she was as improvident as Anderson implied.

“Perhaps some kind soul will take me on as a maid or housekeeper. I don’t know.” Her resignation bothered Hendrie; she’d always shown such spirit. He guessed it might be because her pregnancy was drawing to its close. 

“How will ye even move?” he asked. “I know ye’ve not much, but ye can’t be leaving it all behind.”

“Mr King might let me borrow a handcart,” Mrs Water’s answered. “With some straps I should be able to pull it, somewhere.” The idea of Prudence harnessed to a cart, like a horse, horrified Hendrie. 

“No, no, no,’ he repeated under his breath. Prudy was attending to Clara, and did not see or hear him as he shook his head. When she was done, she offered Hendrie switchel to drink. 

“What brings you by? Not that you’re unwelcome, but I didn’t expect you.” He seemed to brighten up at her question.

“I’ve had news,” he announced. “I’m to leave the Colours.”

“Oh, no!” Prudy’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Whatever will you do?” 

“I’d hoped that I’d be given a pension, but that hope seems poorly founded,” he told her. “The army made promises, but it seems the money is late arriving, and insufficient when it comes. There are groups of old soldiers wasting on the streets in Tutonguay and York. It’s a bad business; they’ve made a right mess of things.”

Despite her own trouble, he saw concern for others – men she did not even know – on Prudy’s face. It warmed Hendrie’s heart.

“Those poor men,” Prudence said, “Left homeless, fending for themselves whilst the ship-fever is about. Parliament should be ashamed.” She felt outraged that her friend might soon be one of them.

“Nay, calm yerself,” Hendrie soothed her. “I managed to get a grant of 200 acres, and have taken that in lieu. With land, I should be able to start to farm.  I’ve saved  a bit for some supplies and I can clear the trees and sell the lumber, too. There’s beechnuts on it, so the passenger pigeons will come and I won't be in too bad a way, God willing. Within a year or two, once crops start coming in, I should be prosperous enough.” Prudence looked relieved.

“Where is the land?” she asked, tentatively. Hendire’s face assumed a grave mien, and she missed the hint of a smile around his eyes.

“Off West,” he said. “I could choose either some down in the valley of the Thames, or up near Lake Huron.” Either choice was a trip of many days. Prudy realised her friend would be far removed, and the news bothered her, as if fortune was stealing something from her.

“I thought to turn it down, at first,” Hendrie continued. He was teasing her, and perhaps he shouldn’t, but it did seem to be stopping her from dwelling on her own woes. “Then I heard that Mr Abbot Napier might make me a swap; he owns land hereabout – he’ll soon be one of the biggest landowners, truth be told – but he’s interested in getting hold of some of the land further out, on the edge of the wilderness, for the lumber and speculation.”

“Did you make the swap?” she asked.

“Aye,” said Hendire. “He drove a hard bargain, the canny man. But it’s not easy to swindle a Scott; we’ve been going back and forth these last two weeks. In the end we agreed, and I now have 100 acres just around the bend, here, on the road to York, past Mr King’s farms.”

“Oh, that’s not far.”

“No it isn’t, lass, and I’ve been thinking about things,” Hendrie paused; he’d come with a clear and honourable intent, but now he felt unsure how Prudy might react. She looked at him, innocent of any intimation of his plan. “I was thinking that, since ye’ve no one to care for ye, and a family ye must provide for, and I’m a bachelor and free of entanglements, well… I wondered if ye might do me the honour of marrying me?”

The quiet was thick; even little Thomas was silent, as he looked up from face to face. At last Prudence got up and went over to pick up Clara, so Hendrie could not see her hands tremble.

“I do not want charity, Mr Hendrie.” Her words were more cold than she intended but, in shock, she did not hear her own voice. Still, Hendrie was stricken by her tone.

“It’s no charity I’m offering,” he protested. “I know we’ve known each other only a little while. I know yer loss is recent. But we have worked side-by-side these months, as man and woman are intended. I have seen ye, Prudy Waters.”

“And I have seen you too,” she told him. “It’s not that you aren’t a good man, and a hard worker. I’m sure you’d be a good provider and husband, but…”

“But what?” he came back. “I know it’s early for love. I would not have spoken so soon if you had other choices, but I would not leave ye unprovided in the Winter. Anderson may be heartless, but I am not.”

“Alexander Hendrie, it’s just as bad to be asked for pity as it is for charity,” Prudence replied. “How little you must think of me.”

‘Little?” he replied, quickly and with a little too much indignation. “Ye think I hold little regard for ye, Prudence? Don’t be daft! There’s no woman I’ve met here in Durrand I think of more highly.”

“Posh,” she replied. “That’s just sentimentality speaking. How can you think highly of a penniless widow with three children? And what am I to think?” In truth she’d never thought of marrying Hendire before, not once, but she had to admit to herself she had thought several times that he’d make some good woman a fine husband.

“Do not be angry with me, Prudy,” Hendire said. There was a note of sadness in his voice; he worried that she really would reject him. “Of all the women I’ve met here, ye tread a path neither too high and fine, nor common and hard; ye’ve spirit and learning, but ye are not afraid to do the hardest and dirtiest work. Ye’re loyal, I know, and I do not ever expect to replace yer husband in yer heart.”

“Alex, I just do not know,” she said, softly. Clara was fussing from the voices. He tried to decide if that was the only reason she spoke more gently, now.

“I truly mean what I say, Prudy,” he said. “Ye would make me the happiest man if ye consented. In time, maybe, ye’d feel more for me?”

“I could not feel more for you, Mr Hendire,’ she said. He felt his heart sink, but she did not pause. “In a bad time, when death was all around, you were not afraid, and were constant. You cared for Thomas and Clara, who are no concern of yours, and me too, if it comes to that. If I never thought of you in this way, it must be because I’m the most stupid of women.”

He looked at her, uncomprehending for a few moments. “Prudy, do you mean?” Her eyes were full of tears, but she was smiling. She would have to write to her mother and sisters.

Eolas Pellor is a former journalist and editor, with 25 years experience teaching English literature to unwilling (mostly) adolescents. He has too many degrees, and has had short stories published in Grim & Gilded [Issue 18; February 2024], The Word’s Faire [May 2024], and adapted for Creepy Podcast [July 10, 2024]. He is autistic and the father of two grown sons.