Sadly, Dr Johnson's recurrent battles with asthma continued to prevent him from attending the Essex Street Club as regularly as he wished. In fact, as he became increasingly aware of the reality of his situation, Dr Johnson decided to travel to Lichfield and revisit his youth, but while there his ailments caused him to sleep long and often, and his suffering seemed only to increase. And then the doctor received news of the death of Miss Williams, who had, for some time, been languishing in helpless misery, and this loss left him desolate. He returned to London where he yearned for pleasant company and conversation, but most of his time was spent in a deep, but agitated, slumber that was inevitably punctuated by raucous breathing and the occasional yelp of pain. Francis continued to attend upon him daily, but as his master's condition worsened the negro made sure that he was also available for long nightly vigils in the sickroom in case the doctor's pain became intolerable. On the morning of Monday 13 December, Francis noted that the slumbering doctor's breathing had become difficult, and then his master awoke suddenly with a series of convulsive movements that alarmed Francis. Apparently the pain in his master's legs was so unbearable that the doctor snatched up a pair of scissors and plunged them deep into his calves causing jagged wounds. This afforded the doctor some relief, but also occasioned a loss of blood which startled Francis and Mrs Desmoulins, who had recently arrived at the house to offer what help she could. In fact, she had another reason for attending upon her beloved Dr Johnson on this day, for she wished to receive his blessings, which he was happy to give. Once the bleeding had stopped, the doctor slowly turned to Mrs Desmoulins and whispered, 'God bless you,' in a trembling voice. Francis waited and watched as Mrs Desmoulins fought bravely to hold back her tears, and then she rushed quickly from the room.
Later that same day the ailing Dr Johnson received a visit from a Miss Morris, who was the child of a friend of his. The young woman's unexpected arrival alarmed Francis, but he escorted her from the street door up the stairs to Dr Johnson's chamber, where he asked her to wait. He entered and informed his master that a young woman was here who claimed to be the daughter of a friend, and that she had asked permission to see him so that she might receive his blessings. Dr Johnson smiled weakly, which his negro servant took as a sign that he should usher this Miss Morris into the room, which he did. The doctor turned in the bed and looked carefully at the girl before pronouncing, 'God bless you, my dear.' With this said he turned away and Francis marshalled Miss Morris from the room. Soon after, Francis, together with Mrs Desmoulins, returned to Dr Johnson's chamber where they both realised that the doctor's breathing had become even more laboured, but there was nothing that they could do to alleviate his discomfort. Shortly after seven o'clock in the evening, both Francis and Mrs Desmoulins noticed that the painful breathing had ceased and so they quickly left their respective chairs and went to the bed where they discovered that the great Englishman was dead.
The woman poured her visitor more tea and then coughed loudly without resorting to covering her mouth. It was clear that, in common with her husband's late master, this woman had no passion for clean linen or immersing herself in cold water. The story of her time in Lichfield with her negro husband was now clearly uppermost in her mind, but it was apparent that this was not a joyful tale. If, as seemed to be the case, Francis Barber was still alive then what I most desired was an introduction to the man so that I might discover for myself why fortune had not smiled upon him since the death of his master. It was an indisputable fact that Dr Johnson had provided handsomely for Francis, although Sir John Hawkins, among many others, had complained loudly of the imprudence of Dr Johnson leaving money to a negro. If the rumours of Barber's fall from grace, and his foolishly squandering the assets bequeathed to him, and thereby betraying the generosity of England's greatest literary mind, proved to be true then this would serve only to confirm Hawkins' estimation of Dr Johnson's folly.
The woman coughed.
'Lichfield has turned out to be a disappointment for me and for Frank, but I expect you can see that, right?'
I said nothing but again I looked at the squalor that surrounded me.
'After a couple of years trying to make a living in London, we came up here to Lichfield. Then we discovered that my Frank had borrowed so much money from Mr Hawkins that not only was the annuity no more, but Frank was told that the sum of money that provided for it was all spent. Mr Hawkins claimed to have settled his account with my Frank. My husband's health was never that good, then we had difficulties with the children. It was hard to find anybody who would give us work or even welcome us. Three years ago we moved out here to Burntwood, and we used the last of the money to buy this cottage, but Frank's sadness drove him to drink more and so we had to start to let go of the doctor's pieces. We don't have anything left. My Frank, he used to take pleasure in a spot of fishing or cultivating a few potatoes, but even that's gone now and look where he's landed. The Stafford Infirmary, which isn't a place for a decent man.'
Again the woman coughed, and I deemed it an appropriate moment to ask the question that was now sitting somewhat impatiently on my tongue.
'Would it be possible for me to see your husband?' Mrs Barber looked blankly at me, but said nothing. I continued in my efforts to engage the uncultured creature. 'I understand that Mr Barber's health may not be perfect, but an audience, however brief, would assist me greatly with my biographical sketch.' I paused, unsure whether the dull woman was sensible of my words. 'I would appreciate your assistance, if at all possible.'
After what appeared to be an age, the woman nodded briefly and said she would conduct me to the infirmary, but she asked if first it might interest me to see the schoolroom. Clearly this is what she desired, and so I rose to my feet and followed both her and the mongrel through a plain door and into a darkened room. Books and papers were strewn all about, but it was unclear exactly how many pupils still considered this to be a place of learning that they might visit on a daily basis. Mrs Barber drew back the curtains to let a little light into the room, but the illumination served only to highlight the squalor of the place. Just as I was beginning to feel that precious time was being wasted on this gloomy ruin, the child began to cry. Gathering the gamine about her skirt, Mrs Barber announced that it was some months now since her Frank had been forced by ill-health to abandon teaching, but she attempted to attend to those pupils who still wished to learn, although she did confess that her own learning was somewhat rudimentary. As we made ready to leave, I cast my eyes around the dismal chamber and concluded that this place had probably not been used as a schoolroom, or as anything else, for the greater part of a year, and the morose English woman's claims to be, in the absence of her husband, a replacement teacher of some description were undoubtedly exaggerated.
I soon discovered the Stafford Workhouse Infirmary to be a place of great misery, as opposed to a haven of rest and recovery for those who were temporarily ailing. As the carriage came slowly to a halt by the tall oak doors, I noticed that the infirmary boasted a stony black façade, and the grounds all about were entirely treeless, which created a most despondent atmosphere. Mrs Barber and her child led the way into the vaulted interior, and they moved quickly along a seemingly endless corridor as though hurrying to an appointment. Then the grey-haired woman stopped outside of a rough-hewn door that was partially ajar, but through which I was able to spy a long row of tightly packed and fully occupied beds.