I press the cork back in, ram it home, pound it down level, and then light the candle and drip wax over the end of the bottle till it's got a good thick cap of wax. I shall mail it tonight.
The flaps have fallen, Chorus is over, and I stand in the middle of the Stage in the total darkness.
"All right," I say. "Hughie here has requested that I tell some stories about when him and me ran with the Rooster Charlie Gang in London. Some of you know that I grew up there in that gang, and that there were six of us—Rooster Charlie Brewster, the leader, our Hughie here, then there were Polly, Judy, Nancy, and me. I was maybe nine at the time and called Little Mary because of my size, but I was not the youngest one, not by a long shot. That honor fell on the shoulders of Polly, our beautiful little angel, she of the golden locks and big, round blue eyes, eyes as blue as the sky, who had wandered one day into our kip under Black-friars Bridge, her thumb stuck firmly in her mouth, saying nothing, just standing there waiting. We took her in, as I had been taken in, years before. She was our best beggar."
I clear my throat. "Here goes..."
The drunkard stumbled out of the Admiral Benbow, weaving slowly from left to right. He fell once but got back to his feet, real unsteady-like, and headed down Tudor Street ... I'm peekin' round the corner of North Bridge Street, with my good stout Hughie at my side. Charlie's on the other side with Nancy, and he signals to me to hold back. Judy and Polly are in the alley next to them. We have been waiting for hours for one such as him to come out.
The drunkard stops, sways for a moment, then his head goes back and he falls forward on his face. Charlie says, "Now!" and we're all out and on the drunkard in an instant. As follows our usual way of doin' things, Charlie goes straight for the purse, whilst Polly and Judy pulls off the boots. Next Hughie flips him over and I start unbuttoning his coat and vest. Then I undo his pants so's Nancy can pull 'em down and off. "Hughie! Sit 'im up!" I say, and Hughie does it. I strip off his coat, fling it to the waiting Judy, who's collectin' all the stuff. I'm workin' on the vest when I hear Charlie say, "Damn!"
I look up from my labors and see two shadowy figures have joined us. My heart goes into me mouth, but it ain't the police, no, it's two of the Shanky Boys, the gang who owns the turf on the east side of ours.
"This 'ere drunk's ours," says the taller of the two.
"Like 'ell," says Charlie. "He's down on our side o' the line, so 'e's ours. This ain't Shanky turf."
"Our turf's where we says it is and I says this 'ere's our drunkard, so get off him. His hands are lyin' on our side."
I leap up and stand on the back of the fallen drunk and spit out, "You bugger off, Turkle! His purse is on our side, so 'e's ours!" Turkle's this wormy cove with bad teeth and smells a lot like Sammy Nettles of present-day renown.
Charlie whips out his shiv, the blade gleaming in the moonlight. Hughie comes up behind him, growling and ready to do damage. The Shankies retreat.
But before they do, Turkle points his finger at me and says, "One of these days, Little Bleeding Bloody Mary, we're gonna catch you wit'out Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum there, and then you watch out!"
"Eat dirt and die!" I spit at their backs.
We finish the job on the drunk and head back to the kip. We'll certainly eat well tomorrow from what we have earned today.
But that was just the start. The great Street Urchin Turf War was on...
Chapter 40
Clatter, clatter. The keys are rattled and the gates are opened and Sin-Kay enters the Hold, and we climb down off the Balcony, groggy from slumber, to line up in the inspection line once again. The roll is called and we answer and Sin-Kay uses his riding crop to lift a few shirtfronts.
First he does it to Bea Cooper. "Tsk, tsk!" he says. "Still too many ribs showing. I see no appreciable weight gain, and that is not a good thing."
Then he skips four girls on the right, including me, to land on Dolley. He raises the front of her shirt, then says, "Ah, now there's a fine one to grace a sultan's bed! Good work!" Dolley stares straight ahead and says nothing. "How about you?" he demands of Martha Hawthorne, two down on the right. "How are you coming along?"
I put the back of my hand in front of my mouth and yawn and say, "If you want to fatten us up, why don't you just give us two good biscuits instead of more of that foul grease? We'd keep it down better. Half of us are throwing up that greasy garbage you give us." We have, of course, been turning the grease into rat—er, miller—bait and it has been very effective.
He turns and walks over to stand in front of me.
"Ah, Lady Smart-mouth, I had thought we'd hear no more from you since your experience with the lash"
"It only seems reasonable, Sir, " I say, "if you want us to fatten..."
"Um," he says, "we'll see. How did your back heal, by the way? Turn around and lift your shirt."
I turn around, reach my hands back, and flip up my shirt.
"Good," he says, laying the tip of his riding crop on my back. "No scarring. Captain Blodgett was most skillful in his application of the whip. Just that one little raised welt there. It should not affect your salability. You may cover yourself. Nettles! Calm yourself!" I drop my shirt.
He moves on to leave, but another voice is raised. I look over at Clarissa, but the voice is not hers. We have forbade her to say anything else to Sin-Kay, for her own protection, and she has done her job on that score. It rankles her, and she seethes, but she holds her tongue. I have noticed that when she is at inspection, she tucks the cord that she now wears around her waist down into her drawers so it cannot be seen.
No, it is Constance Howell who says, "Mister Sin-Kay, I would like to request a Holy Bible"
Sin-Kay snorts. "But that is the holy book of the Christians, if I am not mistaken, and you are going to have to learn a whole new religion soon, my dear. Why bother with that nonsense?"
I can see that Connie is struck to the core by that blasphemy, but she collects herself and pushes on.
"I am trying to give help and solace to one of our number who has fallen into deep despair. I believe a Bible would help me in that regard. She will be of little use to you in her current condition."
Sin-Kay walks over and plants himself in front of Elspeth, who stands with head down, her hair hanging over her face. Connie has at least washed Elspeth's hair and neatened her up some, and I have commended her for it. The hated blue ribbon is still in the tangle of her hair, though. Clarissa has demanded that it stay, and no one has said nay to that.
"This is the one, then?" asks Sin-Kay.
"Yes."
"Very well. If such an item as that Bible exists on this ship, you shall have it." He then turns and leaves.
Hmmm, I'm thinkin'...He sure is in a good mood today. Prolly 'cause he's contemplatin' his upcoming payoff. Counting his chicks, as it were, before they are sold. Well, you are right in that, Jerome, for your payoff is indeed coming soon.
We're down below and Dorothea and Ruth have set up their first fuse experiment. They have a three-foot section laid out along the underpart of the Stage, well away from the Powder Hole. It is very like a long, thin sausage, about a half-inch thick, with the links being about eight inches long. Where the links are pinched in, the fuse is only about a quarter-inch wide. That is so all the powder doesn't collect on the end when lifted.
We are ready to light and time it.
"But won't it explode?" asks Rebecca, looking on, wide-eyed.
"No, dear. Gunpowder only explodes if it's contained—like in a pistol barrel or a rifle or a bomb ... or in that magazine there," I explain. I ready my flint striker. There is a small pile of loose powder next to the end of the fuse.
"Rebecca. Back up top," I order. She reluctantly goes out and up on the Balcony, but she still keeps an eye on us down below. She is to be there if any of the crew on deck happens to smell the burning powder, in which case she'll go into her Oh-Lord-I-just-saw-the-Black-Ghost!-Oh-Lord-please-save-me-from-the-demons-of-Hell! act yet again. We all have our duties.
br /> I strike the flint and the spark lands on the loose pile. It flares up and the end of the fuse catches. Dorothea points her finger to the burning part of the fuse and follows it along as it burns, counting, "One one hundred, two one hundred, three one hundred, four..."
When the fuse burns to the end of a link, the burning slows down as it hits the constricted pinch between the links, and then flares up again ... one hundred, five one hundred, six...
"All right," says Dorothea, and she pours the cup of water she had at hand over the fuse to extinguish it. "It looks like it's burning at a rate of six inches per second, with a slight pause between the links."
"So, it's easy then," I say. "Six-inch links, with a little bit of leeway between 'em. So make a fuse with a hundred links."
"We'll need cloth," says Ruth, looking about at the strips of rag hanging above her.
I get up and go for my seabag. I reach in and pull out a tightly wadded bunch of cloth. Clarissa is seated near the Rat Hole and looks up as I toss it to Ruth.
"Will that do?"
She catches it and opens it up. It is the red petticoat that once was placed on my bed back at the Lawson Peabody.
"It will do just fine," says Ruth, snickering. She and Dorothea set to their work.
Clarissa says nothing, but only smiles to herself and stares off into the distance.
Somewhat later, I sit with Dolley and Clarissa discussing the state of things. I recount to Dolley how I went out last night and dropped the message bottle gently into the water. It went in with a tiny plop, not enough to alarm anyone, as it sounded like a small fish jumping. Not that any man of the watch was on the bow. No, they were all huddled back on the quarterdeck, very glad of each other's company in light of all the scary tales that have been told. Stand by, mates, there's more to come.
Clarissa already knew about me going out last night, as she insisted on going with me partway. She maintains, and rightly so, that all three of us should know how to get out of the outer storeroom door and up to the next deck. Tomorrow I shall set the wedge and take Dolley, and then Katy, for they will be the first ones out. As time allows, we will show some of the others.
We are discussing these things when we hear the call, "Lord, save us!" and we freeze and look about to see that all is concealed. Then we hear, "Nettles, with a book," and we relax.
In a moment Constance Howell comes down to see us, the Bible clutched to her breast.
"Now that we have this precious jewel, I would like to have a time set aside each day for a reading of several passages," she says, breathlessly.
I look at Dolley and Clarissa and they both shrug, and I say, "Of course, Connie. How about at three forty-five, just before the flaps come down? We will have had our dinner and the scriptures shall give us further sustenance. You'll know the time from the bells."
She nods and turns away.
"Bag down!" I hear as she walks away. I smile in anticipation and go to open our wine cellar.
It is fifteen minutes till four in the afternoon and we have had our afternoon burgoo and water. Our water, however, is not totally drunk—no, each of us pours a portion of our water ration into an empty wine bottle and it is recorked and put back into the powder magazine, to wait for our departure, when it will be sorely needed. There will be no more bottles used for messages.
Constance Howell steps out onto the center of the Stage. All the rest of us are arrayed on the Balcony, resting from the day's labors. I sit with my back to the hull, with Annie's and Sylvie's shoulders touching mine on either side. Rebecca is curled up next to me, her head in my lap. There is wine, cracker, miller, and burgoo in my belly and I am as content as I can be, under the circumstances.
"Today will be our first reading from the Holy Gospels. Does anyone have a special chapter or verse that holds particular meaning for her that I might read it now?"
Oh, Connie, you are such a poor and trusting soul, and such an easy target!
Back when I was on the HMS Dolphin as a ship's boy, Deacon Dunne, the ship's chaplain, would require us boys to memorize a certain amount of scripture each week, and what we learned would be recited back to him on Sundays after the service. Since I had the time, and much mischief in my soul, I used to delight in gleaning the Bible for passages that seemed to mean nothing in a religious sense, like maybe one of those old Hebrews counting his goats, like—"Yea, and he did count each of his goats and they did number fifty and five and he did say unto his wife, Wife, I have counted my goats and they are verily five and fifty and she did say, Mighty art thou among shepherds to have goats fifty and five," and so on, to get the Deacon steamed ... And then there was the other stuff, like...
I wriggle away from my friends and stick my head over the edge of the Balcony and say down to her, "Hey, Connie! How about the Song of Solomon, verse 7? That has always given me great comfort in time of need."
She looks up at my head hanging over the edge of the Balcony. "All right," she says, warily. It's plain that she had a different religious upbringing than did I, for it's equally plain that she doesn't know what's coming. She finds the passage and begins.
Behold, thou art fair, my love,
behold, thou art fair!
Your rounded thighs are like jewels,
the work of a master hand.
Your n-n-navel is a rounded bowl,
that never lacks for wine.
Connie falters a bit there, and many other faces have joined mine in hanging over the edge, grinning down at her. There are a few snorts and titters of laughter, but Connie squares her shoulders and soldiers on.
Your belly is a heap of wheat,
encircled with lilies.
Your two b-b-breasts are like...
She closes the book and falls to her knees and starts bawling.
"I just knew you'd mess it up! I just knew you'd ruin it!" she wails. "You have to make everything a joke, oh, you do, you doooo-hoo-hooo-hoo! How could you buh-buh-be so mean, oh, how could you be so meeeeean?"
Uh-oh.
She's got her face turned upward, the tears streaming out of her eyes, plain for all to see. There is no more laughter from the girls. Once again, I've gone too far.
I get up and jump down to the Stage and kneel down next to her and put my arm around her shaking shoulders.
"Come on, Connie ... Please, Connie, I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Please stop crying. Please. I won't do it again. I'm sorry, I really, really am."
And it's true. I am sorry. I have never before thought of myself as mean. Stupidly impulsive, yes; sometimes thoughtless, yes; vindictive and vengeful, oh, yes. But mean, no. Now I realize that I can be mean and petty and hurtful and I have been that to Connie. I resolve to be better.
Connie starts to quiet a bit.
"That's better. Now dry your eyes, Sister, please. Know that Anything-for-a-Laugh-Jacky is truly sorry."
She looks at me through tear-brimming eyes. "Are you really?"
"Yes, I am, Connie. It's just that I wasn't brought up proper like the rest of you. I promise to be better. Now, show that you have found it in your heart to forgive me by reading Psalm 137 before they drop the flaps." I take the Bible and open it to that passage and hand it to her. "Please, Connie. Stand up. Read it. It's not another trick. It speaks to our condition. Please."
She stands and reads.
By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down,
and yes, we wept, when we remembered Zion.
We hung our harps, our lyres, upon the willows
that on the banks there grew.
For they that carried us away in captivity,
required from us a song;
And they the wicked who hurt us and tortured us,
required mirth, saying,
"Sing to us a song of Zion."
But how can we sing the Lord's song
in a strange land?
The flaps come slamming down, and we assemble for Chorus and raise our own voices in song—there in the Hold of the Bloodhound, there
in our captivity, there in our own Babylon.
Chapter 41
That same night, after Chorus, I again took up my Cheapside story.
It is a fine summer's day and me and Nancy and Charlie and Hughie are lollin' about the kip, waitin' for the others to come back in to report on what they might have come up with in the way of food or coin.
We already have two nice fat pasties that Nancy and I got off a vendor. Nancy distracted him by pulling on his pant leg and whining, "Please give me one, Sir! I'm starvin', I am!" and when he turned to curse her and kick her away, I managed to nip two of the little pies off his tray. Serves the bugger right for bein' a cruel miser, I say.
Things had quieted down between us and the Shanky Boys since our face-off over that unfortunate drunkard. Words had been said, threats had been made, and eventually rocks had been thrown, but peace had generally come back to Cheapside.
Y'see, though we was a small gang and therefore weak, we had some advantages—we were quick and we were mobile and it was known that we never let a wrong against us go unpunished.
"That, and the fact that we had bold Hughie, here, to help with the punishin. Didn't we, Hughie?"
The Shankies, on the other hand—and there were about thirty of them and not all were kids—had a permanent headquarters, and so were vulnerable to our attacks. They were led by the despicable Pigger O'Toole, and their kip was the bottom floor of a condemned building on Paternoster Lane, the area around Saint Paul's Cathedral bein' their turf. The owner of the property was surely afraid to throw them out and so it became more and more like a stinkin' pigsty and therefore more theirs to keep. As soon as hostilities broke out, we left our kip and headed for the rooftops, which we of the Rooster Charlie Gang knew very, very well. We knew how to get from low shed to one-story house to the roof of a higher building and thence to yet a higher one, and then to the tops of the highest. We'd spent a lot of time up there, sometimes when the peelers was after us, and sometimes during other gang wars, and we knew how to live up there. We had piles of rocks stored in gutters. We watched out for unguarded pies cooling on windowsills down below, pies that would not cool there for very long, you may be sure. We knew how to sleep in those places where the roofs come together, so as not to fall off.