Dead London

           AfterIhadpartedfromtheartilleryman,Iwentdownthehill,andbytheHighStreetacrossthebridgetoFulham. Theredweedwastumultuousatthattime,andnearlychokedthebridgeroadway; butitsfrondswerealreadywhitenedinpatchesbythespreadingdiseasethatpresentlyremoveditsoswiftly. 

           AtthecornerofthelanethatrunstoPutneyBridgestationIfoundamanlying. Hewasasblackasasweepwiththeblackdust,alive,buthelplesslyandspeechlesslydrunk. Icouldgetnothingfromhimbutcursesandfuriouslungesatmyhead. IthinkIshouldhavestayedbyhimbutforthebrutalexpressionofhisface. 

           Therewasblackdustalongtheroadwayfromthebridgeonwards,anditgrewthickerinFulham. Thestreetswerehorriblyquiet. Igotfood—sour,hard,andmouldy,butquiteeatable—inabaker’sshophere. SomewaytowardsWalhamGreenthestreetsbecameclearofpowder,andIpassedawhiteterraceofhousesonfire; thenoiseoftheburningwasanabsoluterelief. GoingontowardsBrompton,thestreetswerequietagain. 

           HereIcameoncemoreupontheblackpowderinthestreetsandupondeadbodies. IsawaltogetheraboutadozeninthelengthoftheFulhamRoad. Theyhadbeendeadmanydays,sothatIhurriedquicklypastthem. Theblackpowdercoveredthemover,andsoftenedtheiroutlines. Oneortwohadbeendisturbedbydogs. 

           Wheretherewasnoblackpowder,itwascuriouslylikeaSundayintheCity,withtheclosedshops,thehouseslockedupandtheblindsdrawn,thedesertion,andthestillness. Insomeplacesplunderershadbeenatwork,butrarelyatotherthantheprovisionandwineshops.