Lionel watched the man in front of him warily, wondering if even a small business like writing letters for two pence in such a place would attract protection money collectors.
Unexpectedly, when the burly man saw Lionel's instantly tensed body and wary gaze, the fierce expression on his face immediately vanished.
He quickly waved his hand and said rapidly,
"Sir, don't misunderstand! We're not here to cause trouble, we... we're also here to ask you to write a letter."
Lionel was taken aback, his heart, which had been in his throat, eased considerably, but looking at the queue of people pushed aside, silently fuming, he still frowned.
He put down his pen, his tone as calm as possible:
"If it's for writing letters, please go to the back and queue. Many people here have been waiting for a long time."
The burly man looked back at the long line behind him, a troubled expression on his face.
He leaned in closer, lowered his voice, and spoke urgently:
"Sir, we know the rules... but it's really an urgent matter, concerning the lives of many people!
Otherwise, we wouldn't dare to do this..."
Lionel scrutinized his face; the anxiety on his rough features did not seem feigned.
He pondered for a moment, then nodded to the burly man:
"Please wait a moment, I'll finish this letter."
The burly man sighed with relief, quickly thanked him, and then gestured for a few of his brothers to maintain order and calm the somewhat restless crowd behind them.
Those few equally burly men were obedient, clumsily attempting to keep the line quiet, but with limited success.
Lionel composed himself and quickly finished writing the letter home for the elderly couple to their son in Australia, carefully blowing the ink dry, folding it, and handing it to them.
The elderly couple, showering him with thanks, paid two pence, glanced somewhat fearfully at the burly men, and then hurried away.
The other burly men quickly herded the others further back to prevent anyone from hearing the conversation between the burly man and Lionel.
The burly man immediately sat on the chair opposite Lionel, and the chair instantly groaned under the strain, making Old Jimmy's heart ache.
He first looked around warily, then rubbed his face with his rough hands and began to introduce himself in a low voice:
"Sir, my name is Sean O'Mara, I live near Whitechapel in the East End, and I'm a dock worker. These are all my brothers and cousins."
He pointed to the men behind him.
Whitechapel was one of London's most famous and chaotic slums; even without "Jack the Ripper," it was synonymous with poverty, squalor, and crime.
Sean O'Mara continued:
"Sir, we'd like to ask you to help us write a letter to the gentlemen of London City Hall—it's a petition letter! In our area, cholera... cholera seems to be back!"
Lionel looked up in surprise.
Cholera, this 19th-century specter, had swept across Europe and even the entire world many times, claiming millions of lives.
No European of this era could remain calm upon hearing such news.
Lionel asked in a deep voice,
"What exactly is going on?"
Sean's tone was filled with anger and fear:
"Those cargo ships from India, from Bengal! Many crew members were already unwell when they came ashore!
They were vomiting and had diarrhea, and we had the most contact with them. Several brothers have already fallen ill, and children at home are starting to get fevers and diarrhea...
The situation in Whitechapel is even worse—"
He began to describe the grim conditions there:
Dozens of households shared a public tap at the street corner, and queuing for water often led to fights;
Open cesspits were everywhere in the back alleys, stinking to high heaven in summer, with flies circling like black clouds;
Narrow courtyards were piled high with garbage, and rats dared to scurry around even in broad daylight.
And recently, news of infant deaths, which already had a high mortality rate, became even more frequent.
Sean wiped his face hard, his voice choked:
"Sir, this situation reminds me of my childhood; that's how my parents died! Ten years! A full ten years!
We don't want to go through it again! Those gentlemen, they only care whether the Irish will rebel, only care about the war with the Boers far away in Africa...
Who cares if we, these rats living by the sewers, live or die?"
He looked earnestly at Lionel, hope burning in his eyes:
"We heard that the gentlemen at City Hall only understand letters that are written very properly and logically.
No one there knows how to write that.
Everyone is scared, scared that if they write such a letter, they'll be fired by the foreman or evicted by the landlord.
But we really have no choice! Sir, please, help us write one! Tell those gentlemen, beg them to manage Whitechapel—
Install a few more taps for us, repair the sewers, and build some decent public toilets!
Also, control those ships coming from India, don't let sick people disembark freely!"
Lionel listened quietly, his quill pen lightly dipped in the inkwell, but he did not immediately put it to paper.
He looked at Sean O'Mara's flushed cheeks, reddened by emotion, and smiled slightly:
"Mr. O'Mara, what you said makes a lot of sense. However, how can you be sure that I'm not afraid of getting into this kind of trouble?"
Sean O'Mara froze, opening his mouth, seemingly not expecting Lionel to ask that.
He looked at Lionel, dumbfounded, speechless for a moment.
After several seconds, he lowered his head, somewhat ashamed, and his voice softened:
"We... we heard people say that you are very learned and kind-hearted...
You are different from us; you are not one of us... these dirty rats..."
Lionel sighed softly, asked no more questions, and the tip of his pen touched the rough letter paper.
He began to write for these forgotten "rats," chronicling their suffering and pleas.
He used all his writing skills to make this petition letter both heartfelt and logically clear.
The letter contained a truthful description of the dire situation, yet maintained respect for the authorities, and its appeals were very rational.
He detailed the poor sanitary conditions in Whitechapel, the increase in suspected cholera cases, and the cargo ships from the colonies...
And, of course, the fear and helplessness of the common people.
Finally, he earnestly requested that the City Hall maintain public health, take measures as soon as possible, and strengthen quarantine procedures for incoming ships.
When the letter was finished, Lionel read it carefully once more to confirm there were no issues, and then handed it to Sean O'Mara.
The burly man's eyes reddened again:
"Sir... thank you! Thank you so much!"
With trembling hands, he fumbled in his pocket for a shining shilling coin and solemnly tried to press it into Lionel's hand.
Lionel shook his head and gently pushed the shilling away:
"Rules are rules, Mr. O'Mara. Two pence, and good luck to you."
Sean O'Mara and his brothers behind him looked at Lionel in disbelief, their eyes filled with gratitude, then handed over two pence in copper coins.
They clumsily bowed, clutching the letter that concerned the lives of many, and carefully retreated from the pub.
This small interlude did not interrupt Lionel's work.
He continued to write letters for those waiting in line until after eleven o'clock at night, when the pub gradually emptied.
Old Jimmy began to clear tables and chairs, preparing to close.
He walked to Lionel's table and looked at the young man, who was massaging his sore wrist, with a worried expression 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 City Hall?
Those officials don't like people telling them what to do, especially not for a place like Whitechapel."
Lionel looked up, his face tired, but his eyes calm.
Before he could answer, the crisp, rapid sound of horses' hooves and carriage wheels grinding over cobblestones grew from a distance, finally stopping at the entrance of the "Bent Pickaxe" pub.
(End of chapter)