The Plague
The Black Death famously entered England through Melcombe Regis at Weymouth in June 1348 a little before the feast of St. John the Baptist.
A British vessel carrying spices from the eastern Mediterranean sailed north around the Iberian peninsular. The master knew his spices would reach port more quickly than any carried overland from Provence and he would be able to get a greater profit for the voyage.
However, it had been a rough trip so he called in at Bordeaux in Gascony to replenish his vessel’s supplies, before sailing across the channel to ports along the south of England. Since he had lost two members of his crew, who had fallen from the rigging in the storm off Portugal, he also took on two Frenchmen from Gascony. They seemed likely lads and eager to show what they could do. However, after they had left harbor one quickly showed that he was sick … retching over the vessel side … he steadily worsened during the channel crossing and never left his hammock.
By the time they reached Melcombe Regis, the lad was covered in black oozing pustules and was delirious, so the master was glad enough to be able to leave him at a sailor’s inn on the wharf-side. After selling some of his cargo that day, he set sail the next morning for another southern port to the East … but not before rats had left the ship that night to explore the wharf for food.
The young sailor died in agony on a cot at a sailor’s inn before his body was dumped outside in the street. He was not a pretty sight … his skin had blackened and his body and clothes were a filthy mess of gore swept into the gutter by the rain. A preacher, passing, took it upon himself to summon a wagon and have the body taken to St. Mary’s Church … he spoke alone at the graveside. “This young visitor to our shore never experienced greater hospitality than this hallowed resting place. May his soul rest in God’s hands.”
However, a traveler at the inn had viewed the body in the street with fear and took off on his horse forthwith for Bristol. It did not bode well to stay where disease looked so vile, he thought. Anyway, he had finished his business … taking with him a length of cloth that he had bought from the visiting ship the day before. Little did he know that he carried death with him in his pack. He took sick even before reaching Bristol and died at his home.
The plague was on its way.
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A British vessel carrying spices from the eastern Mediterranean sailed north around the Iberian peninsular. The master knew his spices would reach port more quickly than any carried overland from Provence and he would be able to get a greater profit for the voyage.
However, it had been a rough trip so he called in at Bordeaux in Gascony to replenish his vessel’s supplies, before sailing across the channel to ports along the south of England. Since he had lost two members of his crew, who had fallen from the rigging in the storm off Portugal, he also took on two Frenchmen from Gascony. They seemed likely lads and eager to show what they could do. However, after they had left harbor one quickly showed that he was sick … retching over the vessel side … he steadily worsened during the channel crossing and never left his hammock.
By the time they reached Melcombe Regis, the lad was covered in black oozing pustules and was delirious, so the master was glad enough to be able to leave him at a sailor’s inn on the wharf-side. After selling some of his cargo that day, he set sail the next morning for another southern port to the East … but not before rats had left the ship that night to explore the wharf for food.
The young sailor died in agony on a cot at a sailor’s inn before his body was dumped outside in the street. He was not a pretty sight … his skin had blackened and his body and clothes were a filthy mess of gore swept into the gutter by the rain. A preacher, passing, took it upon himself to summon a wagon and have the body taken to St. Mary’s Church … he spoke alone at the graveside. “This young visitor to our shore never experienced greater hospitality than this hallowed resting place. May his soul rest in God’s hands.”
However, a traveler at the inn had viewed the body in the street with fear and took off on his horse forthwith for Bristol. It did not bode well to stay where disease looked so vile, he thought. Anyway, he had finished his business … taking with him a length of cloth that he had bought from the visiting ship the day before. Little did he know that he carried death with him in his pack. He took sick even before reaching Bristol and died at his home.
The plague was on its way.
Back to Books