Luck was not with her. She had heard no step in the hall but when she eased open her bedroom door there was Mrs. Carruthers, lamp in hand. The stout woman paused, her eyes narrowed as she looked at Hester in her improvised disguise.
"Miss Lane! Where in the world can you be off to at this hour? And in those clothes?" Her expression was that of one who has discovered the worst at last.
Hester's imagination awoke quickly. "I am going to a special meeting at St. Robert's, Mrs. Carruthers. Mrs. Arthur, the vicar's sister, wishes the two of us to call upon a distressed gentlewoman who is in very unhappy circumstances. She suggested we adapt clothing that might not be marked in that neighborhood."
"What can Mrs. Arthur be thinking of? Surely any such visit must be made at least in daylight!"
"The lady in question is employed during the day and cannot receive us," Hester returned glibly. "I was asked because the lady has lived in Canada and it was thought I might know of some help she could receive from there."
I should be writing novels, she thought. At least Mrs. Carruthers was drawing aside. Dare I ask her for a key? No, that might be going too far. She hurried down the flight of stairs and let herself out.
The fog that had earlier blanketed the street was still there. It seemed to muffle all noise. Hester hesitated. She had the address pinned in her shawl and had memorized the directions Miss Scrimshaw had given her, but now that she was alone and the shrouded night was around her, she felt a very strong inclination to return to the safety of the house.
She cried out as something a great deal thicker than a shadow materialized at her side.
"Miss Lane? It's me—Fred."
Fred? Who was Fred? Then she remembered the crossing sweeper to whom Hazel had sent the small gift. She was unable to see his face clearly because a broken-brimmed hat, much too large for his head, was pulled down to perch precariously on his ears. For the rest he seemed to be a bundle of clothing rolled and tied and yet walking.
"Th' cap'n says as 'ow yuh wants ter come see 'er—"
"Captain Ellison, of the Salvation Army?"
'That's wot I said, warn't it?" Fred's hat brim slid back and forth against his forehead as he nodded.
Hester stared at him, puzzled. "I thought you were a sweeper. What would you have to do with the captain?"
"Errands an' odd jobs mostly, to earn me keep. Some nights I doss at a Army shelter."
"But how did Captain Ellison know where to find me?"
"Some 'un name o' Scrimshaw sent round the address. Says to come fetch yer." Feet shifted beneath the base of the bundle. "Dassent to ring, an' fair froze waitin', so let's get on wiv it, eh, miss?"
A portion of the bundle detached itself to become an arm, and a hand closed firmly on the edge of Hester's shawl, urging her away from what little light existed about the lamp on the street and leading her into the opening of a side alley.
"Beggin' yer pardon, miss," said the urchin. "But I knows alleys best. Shorter way to go, an' safer, too."
Hester was always to remember that journey, through a London she had been warned existed but had not quite believed in, as a descent into darkness and horror. Streetlights were visible only momentarily when they emerged from an alley and crossed a thoroughfare to enter another. Yet Fred wove his way through the maze without pause, gripping a corner of her shawl to guide her forward.
Only occasionally did she glimpse a dim flicker of candlelight from a window in one of the buildings bulking blackly on both sides of an alleyway. The smells were gagging and the pavement underfoot slippery from sources she did not wish to know. And at no point along this route did they encounter a vehicle, or a passerby on foot, except when moving across a street that intersected their way.
At length they deserted a final narrow passageway, turning to the right on the street beyond. It was slightly wider than an alley, a trifle less odiferous; lanterns hung over several doors and there were people moving about. But what Hester saw and heard brought budding fear.
Her first impression was of beery brutes and frowsy women staggering in groups or stumbling singly past other figures crouched or huddled against doorways. Raucous voices shouted out words she did not understand as two of the women suddenly sprang at each other, fingers crooked, tearing for hair and face. Screeching and clawing, they were swiftly surrounded by a crowd urging them on.
Animals, Hester thought to herself, they're like wild beasts. But then, glancing at them apprehensively as Fred tugged at her shawl, initial impressions gave way to further reflection.
Animals do not wrap themselves in rags, nor do wild beasts willingly choose to dwell in mean and confined quarters. A closer glimpse of the crowd encircling the combatants disclosed more than faces rendered bestial with excitement. Some were scarred, savaged by disease or pitted with pox, some seamed with the wrinkles of premature aging; all were either unnaturally ruddy and flushed with the effects of drink or else sallow with the pallor of poverty.
For the first time Hester truly understood Miss Scrimshaw's sentiments concerning the London poor and the squalor in which they dwelt. She had been correct in her description, but this alone was no substitute for the sights and sounds—and smells—that one encountered here. To properly retranslate the actuality into words again would be an impossibility, but worth the try. And it was only this resolution that sustained her against the impulse to turn and flee from tumult and terrors.
Releasing his grasp on her shawl, Fred sidled along a building that seemed to be exuding a thick slime from several points on its wall. Hester followed, keeping close to his heels. Luckily they had reached an area beyond the clamor of the fight when Fred turned and rapped on a door so much a part of the wall that Hester had hardly noticed it.
The door opened promptly and Hester was thankful for the light of several candles beyond as she stepped inside to confront the figure standing in the shadow of the doorway.
"Got 'er," Fred said, pointing a grimed hand in her direction. Then he was gone through another door before Hester could move.
The woman facing her was tall, broad shouldered, with the alert posture of a person who got things done and was brisk about it. She wore a plain dark dress with no hint of flounce or bustle, and her gray-streaked hair was mostly covered by a bonnet that had something of the same authority of a nurse's cap. Her eyes seemed tired but there was no droop to her wide mouth as she spoke.
"Miss Lane, I am Captain Ellison of the Salvation Army. And we are most glad to see you."
Hester glanced down self-consciously at her shabby garments. "Please excuse my appearance—"
"There is no necessity to apologize. It was I who suggested Miss Scrimshaw instruct you to dress so as to be inconspicuous during your journey here. And she has earned our gratitude for finding you. To tell our side of the story will be a novelty.”
Her voice was cultivated, though there was no affectation in tone or manner and her openness of expression appealed to Hester strongly. She had not expected such ladylike demeanor from those in the ranks of the Salvation Army.
"Tell me, Miss Lane, how much do you know of our work here?"
"Very little, I must admit. I hoped you might be able to provide me with some information regarding the Salvation Army's history and purpose."
Captain Ellison nodded. "And so I shall." Turning, she moved to a hall table on which rested a bundle with the border dimensions of a folded newspaper, although considerably thicker. The parcel, wrapped in brown paper secured by string, was also much heavier than it appeared, as Hester discovered when the captain handed it to her.
"Here is some literature that should help," she said. "There is more available at headquarters, but I made do with what could be gathered at such short notice. At least it may supply you with a basic account of the Army's history.
"As to our purposes, they are twofold. While General Booth's primary aim was ministering to spiritual welfare, physical welfare is of equal concern. Total salvation embraces both body and soul." Captain El
lison paused momentarily, her wide mouth curving into the crescent of a self-conscious smile. "Forgive me, Miss Lane. I fear I've been preaching at you."
"Not at all. I find what you say most interesting."
"What I say is of little consequence. It's what you see that's important. Or, rather, what you will be seeing."
Hester shifted the paper-wrapped package to the crook of her left arm. "Miss Scrimshaw's note mentioned a meeting."
The captain shook her head. "Nothing quite so pretentious—merely one of our regular street gatherings. There will be a formal assembly at headquarters before week's end, but it seemed best to introduce you to our activities by way of a simpler example." As she spoke Captain Ellison glanced down at Hester's footwear. "You have come quite a way, I know. Could I impose upon you to accompany me a short distance further?"
"By all means."
"Then let us be off."
Taking a shawl from a rack in the corner between the wall and the threshold, the captain drew it over her shoulders, then opened the door.
Prepared as she was by her previous experience, Hester steeled herself against the onrush of sights, sounds, and smells surrounding her upon emerging again onto the street.
A quick glance to her left indicated that the battling viragoes had vanished and their impromptu audience was dispersed, but her companion did not lead her in that direction. Instead, after turning her door key and removing it from the latch, she beckoned to Hester and moved off to the right.
Here lighted doorways were less frequently in view. Captain Ellison's eyes may have indicated fatigue when exposed to lamplight, but in the darkness she possessed the visual acuity of a cat. At least so it seemed to Hester as her guide nimbly dodged around reeking piles of refuse heaped against the walls or littered to block their way along the pavement.
But the moldering mounds of rubbish and offal were not the only obstacles in their paths. Earlier this evening Hester had noted sleeping figures curled in doorways and slumped in recesses along the walls. Here amidst the deeper darkness similar figures sprawled at random on the street itself. The garbage of humanity? Or merely the fallen in an outcast army?
Those who walked, reeled, or lurched past them paid no heed; they addressed one another, or the empty air, with slurred sallies, muttered oaths, coarse laughter, and snatches of drunken song. Men stumbled after women, women stumbled after men, men and women stumbled together.
Shadows scattered along the walls on either side of the street or darted low between recumbent and upright figures alike—shadows of children, shrieking and chanting in shrill echo of their elders.
Now Hester realized what Captain Ellison had meant about the importance of seeing instead of saying. As if in confirmation of the unspoken thought, her companion nodded.
"Allow me to explain the lack of a conveyance, Miss Lane. While a cab would be more comfortable I am persuaded that what you are observing at close hand speaks far more eloquently than any sermon."
Hester nodded. "There is so much for me to learn."
"You'll find facts and figures aplenty in the material I assembled for you. Hard facts and hard figures, appropriate to the conditions they represent. But life here is a hardening experience. One learns to endure the sight of human suffering."
"And yet Fred told me that you allow him to take shelter in your home."
Was it a trick of light and shadow or did Captain Ellison's cheeks betray a blush of embarrassment? "I acknowledge young Fred represents a chink in my armor," she said. "Still, he makes himself useful."
As they approached an intersection ahead, the way grew brighter, and from the crossing came sounds of the passing traffic's clop and clatter, the buzz of voices raised in excitement. Then, drowning out all else, the booming beat of a bass drum.
"Just in time," the captain murmured.
She rounded the corner and Hester followed, blinking involuntarily amidst the sudden blaze of light framing the gaudy fagade of the public house just to the right. A row of carriages had halted to line the curb and a crowd massed and milled on the walk at both sides of the garrishly lit entrance to the grogshop.
Within the circle cleared before it Hester heard the boom of the drum and then, as if in celebration of their arrival, trumpets blared, cornets chorused, a trombone sounded in unison with the wheezing of a concertina.
"The band is here!" Captain Ellison's voice rose exultantly over the drumbeat and its accompaniment, but her announcement was unnecessary.
Hester's eyes searched the circle. So this was what the Salvation Army looked like! The bandsmen in their military jackets of red twill, their bespectacled leader holding a violin under his left arm and conducting the music with a bow held in his right. And, grouped behind them, men wearing military caps and uniforms of blue guernsey; women clad in blue jerseys, their black straw bonnets trimmed with black silk.
Once again Hester's companion seemed to read her mind. "I am not assigned to duty this evening," the captain said. "Hence no uniform. Although I could not forgo the bonnet." She smiled, nodding toward the musicians. "I trust you understand what is taking place here."
"You told me there would be a gathering," Hester said, hoping she was making her voice heard above the boom and blare. "But I didn't expect a brass band."
"The band was General Booth's idea. Music attracts the crowd, many will stay to hear the hymns, and it is to be hoped that a goodly share will remain for the preaching that follows. Each night a score or more of street gatherings are held throughout the city—skirmishes, you might say, in an unceasing battle against the evils of drink."
If she intended to say more, the possibility was precluded by the voices rising to augment instrumental accompaniment. Hester thought she recognized the hymn as "Who'll Be the First to Follow Jesus?" but she could not be sure. At this distance words not drowned out by music were lost in the tinkling and tapping of timbrels carried by most of the chorus.
Timbrels? From some recess of memory, perhaps a newspaper account of an American minstrel show, Hester recalled that timbrels were now generally referred to as "tambourines." She turned to ask her companion, but it was then that the shrill shout rose.
"Cap'n! Cap'n! Come quick!"
Even above the stridency of sound Fred's voice was clearly recognizable, as was the face beneath the broken brim of his hat.
Captain Ellison stared down at the panting urchin. "Do restrain yourself, Fred! What is this all about?"
"Sallie Morton. The one as was knocked about so terrible by 'er dad."
The captain nodded. "I sent her to stay with Mrs. Kirby this afternoon. You know that, Fred."
"So does 'er father. Passed 'im wiv 'is mates down the street, proper boozed up, all of 'em. Figgered to find you 'ere at the meetin' so I come runnin' quick as I 'eard."
"What did you hear?"
"'E's on 'is way to fetch Sallie from there right now. Says she's worth ten quid if 'e sells 'er to the slavers!"
Chapter 8
They set off quickly, and soon the music and voices faded, the boom of the drum lost amidst the thudding of their feet upon the pavement.
Twice they turned, Fred in the lead, Captain Ellison lifting her skirt as she strove to keep pace with him, Hester clutching the paper-wrapped parcel tightly against her bosom. Except for the sound of their footsteps, they moved in silence; Hester had no breath to spare for questions, nor Captain Ellison for answers. Clamping hat to head, Fred darted forward swiftly and gave Hester scant opportunity to note the details of their surroundings.
From what she did observe, however, these streets were dissimilar to the ones earlier traversed. Here the hovering hulk of tenements was replaced by rows of cottages and small well-lit houses; she noted little odor and a scarcity of litter. Save for themselves there were no other figures, either upright or recumbent, visible along their way. A respectable neighborhood, Hester told herself.
But their progress was hasty and so was her conclusion. As they turned a final corner respectab
ility vanished, driven from the scene by the sound of oaths, imprecations, and a banging that echoed as loudly as the booming of the Army drum.
Weaving back and forth on the stoop before the front entrance to a house directly ahead, a mountain of a man, his face ruddy with rage, pounded on the door with percussive fists. Behind him on the walk below two companions shouted and gesticulated, urging him on.
"'Ave at it!" cried the mustached man wearing a leather apron.
"Teach 'er to mind 'er manners," the other man advised. "Bash it down!"
Fred halted abruptly, his words emerging in gasps as he jabbed a stubby finger in the direction of the trio. "Like I told yer—Sid Morton an' 'is mates."
Captain Ellison nodded, then turned to address Hester. "Wait here," she said.
"What are you going to do?"
"Stop them, of course."
"But you can't," Hester murmured. "They're too far gone in drink—they won't listen to you."
"Then they must listen to the Lord."
Hester took a step forward. "I'll come with you."
"That would be most inadvisable." The captain nodded toward Fred. "Please see to it that Miss Lane remains here. I charge you with her safety."
"Done." As the older woman moved away, the youngster captured the lower left portion of Hester's shawl in a grimy grip. "'Ave a care," he called.
If Captain Ellison heard she did not heed. Crossing the pavement to the opposite side, she marched directly to the two men reeling on the walk. Both the one wearing the apron and his coster-clad companion turned at her approach.
"What cheer?" mumbled the costermonger. Striding past, the captain ignored him, but the man with the mustache lumbered forward to bar her way.
"Where yuh fink yer goin'?" His bleary blink fixed on her headgear, then widened into a stare of sudden recognition. "Hallelujah bonnet!" he muttered. "Yer from the bloody Army!"
Now his mutter mounted into a shout as he called out to the man pounding on the front door. "Company comin', Sid!"
Fists ceased to hammer as the big man turned, staring down from the stoop. When his red-rimmed eyes focused on the woman below, his stare became a glare.