Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 380 Petition!
Lionel looked at the man in front of him warily, thinking to himself, "In a place like this, where a letter costs two pence, is someone really here to collect protection money?"

Unexpectedly, when the burly man saw Lionel's instantly tense body and wary eyes, the fierce expression on his face immediately disappeared.

He quickly waved his hand and said rapidly, "Sir, don't misunderstand! We're not here to cause trouble, we...we're here to ask you to write a letter."

Lionel was taken aback, his anxiety subsiding somewhat, but he still frowned as he looked at the people behind him who had been pushed aside and dared not speak out in anger.

He put down his pen and said in as calm a tone as possible, "If you're writing a letter, please go to the back of the line. Many people here have been waiting for a long time."

The burly man glanced back at the long line behind him, a troubled look on his face.

He leaned closer, lowered his voice, and said urgently, "Sir, we know the rules... but the matter is really urgent, and it concerns the lives of many people!"

Otherwise we wouldn't dare do this...

Lionel scrutinized his face; the anxiety on that rough complexion seemed genuine.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded to the burly man: "Wait a moment, I'll finish writing this letter."

The burly man breathed a sigh of relief, quickly thanked them, and then gestured to his brothers to maintain order and calm the somewhat agitated crowd behind them.

Those few equally burly men were obedient, clumsily trying to keep the group quiet, but with limited success.

Lionel composed himself, quickly finished writing the letter for the elderly couple to their son in Australia, carefully dried the ink, folded it neatly, and handed it to them.

The elderly couple thanked them profusely, paid two pence, glanced at the burly men with some fear, and hurriedly left.

The other burly men quickly shooed the others back to prevent anyone from overhearing the conversation between the strongman and Lionel.

The burly man immediately sat down in the chair opposite Lionel, and the chair groaned under the weight, much to Old Jimmy's distress.

He first looked around warily, then rubbed his face with his rough, large hands and began to introduce himself in a low voice:
“Sir, my name is Sean Omara. I live near Whitechapel in the East End and work as a dockworker. These are my brothers and cousins.”

He pointed to the group of men behind him.

Whitechapel is one of London’s most notorious and chaotic slums, synonymous with poverty, filth, and crime even without “Jack the Ripper.”

Sean Omara continued, “Sir, we would like to ask you to help us write a letter to the gentlemen of London City Hall—a petition!”
"Where we live, cholera... it seems like cholera has returned!"

Lionel looked up in surprise.

Cholera, the specter of the 19th century, swept across Europe and the world many times, claiming millions of lives.

No European of this era could remain calm upon hearing this news.

Lionel asked in a deep voice, "What exactly happened?"

Sean's tone was filled with anger and fear: "Those cargo ships from India and Bangladesh! Many of the crew members seemed suspicious when they went ashore!"
They were vomiting and had diarrhea. We had the most contact with them, and several of our brothers had already fallen ill. Some of our children at home had also started to have fevers and diarrhea...

The situation in Whitechapel is even worse—

He began to describe the horrific scene there:
Dozens of households share a single public water tap on the street corner, and fights often break out when people queue to get water.
The back alley was full of open latrines, which stank in the summer and were swarming with flies like dark clouds.
The narrow courtyard was piled with garbage, and rats dared to scurry around even in broad daylight.

Recently, news of infant deaths, which already had a high mortality rate, has become even more frequent.

Sean wiped his face hard, his voice choked with emotion: "Sir, this situation reminds me of when I was a child, my parents died just like that! Ten years! A full ten years!"
We don't want to go through that again! Those men only care about whether the Irish will rebel, only care about the war with the Boers in Africa...

Who cares whether we rats living next to the sewers live or die?

He looked earnestly at Lionel, his eyes burning with hope: "We've heard that the gentlemen at the city hall can only read letters that are written in a very polite and reasonable manner."

Nobody in our area knows how to write that. Everyone's afraid—afraid that if they write such a letter, they'll be fired by the foreman or evicted by the landlord.

But we really have no other choice! Sir, please, please write us a letter! Tell those gentlemen to take care of the Whitechapel—install more faucets for us, fix the sewers, and build some decent public toilets!

Also, control those ships coming from India; don't let patients disembark freely!

Lionel listened quietly, dipping his quill into the inkwell but not immediately putting it down.

He looked at Sean Omara's flushed cheeks and smiled slightly: "Mr. Omara, you make a lot of sense."

But how can you be so sure I'm not afraid of getting into that kind of trouble?

Sean Omara was stunned, his mouth agape, seemingly not expecting Lionel to ask such a question.

He stared at Lionel, speechless for a moment.

After several seconds, he lowered his head, feeling somewhat ashamed, and his voice trailed off: "We...we heard that you are very learned and kind-hearted..."

You are different from us, you are not like us... these filthy rats..."

Lionel sighed softly, asked no more questions, and put his pen on the rough letter paper.

He began to write about the suffering and pleas of these forgotten "rats".

He used all his writing skills to write this petition in a way that was both sincere and logically clear.

The letter contains a true description of the tragedy, while also showing respect for the authorities, and its appeals are very rational.

He recounted in detail the appalling sanitary conditions in the Whitechapel area, the increase in suspected cholera cases, and the cargo ships from the colonies…

Of course, there is also the fear and helplessness of the lower classes.

Finally, he pleaded with the city hall to maintain public health and take measures as soon as possible to strengthen quarantine of inbound ships.

After finishing the letter, Lionel read it carefully again to make sure there were no problems before handing it to Sean Omara.

The burly man's eyes reddened again: "Sir... thank you! Thank you so much!"

With trembling hands, he fumbled for a shiny shilling coin in his pocket and solemnly tried to slip it into Lionel's hand.

Lionel shook his head and gently pushed the shilling away: "Rules are rules, Mr. Omara. Two pence, good luck."

Sean Omara and his brothers behind him looked at Lionel in disbelief, their eyes filled with gratitude, and then handed him a two-pence copper coin.

They gave an awkward bow, clutched the letter that concerned many lives, and carefully left the tavern.

This little incident did not interrupt Lionel's work.

He continued writing letters for the people in line until after 11 p.m., when the number of people in the bar gradually dwindled.

Old Jimmy started tidying up the tables and chairs, preparing to close up shop.

He walked over to Lionel's table, looking at the young man rubbing his aching wrists with concern on his face.

Old Jimmy lowered his voice: "James, are you really not afraid of getting into trouble by writing that kind of letter to the city hall?"
Those officials don't like being bossed around, especially not about a place like Whitechapel.

Lionel looked up, his face tired, but his eyes were calm.

Before he could answer, a series of crisp, rapid hoofbeats and the sound of wheels rolling over stone slabs approached from afar and finally stopped in front of the "Curved Pickaxe" bar.

(End of this chapter)