by Carla Kelly
“I honestly can see him on his own quarterdeck someday.” He gave her a tender glance. “Now he is this boy of ours, who has staked his claim on your heart and mine. How did that happen?”
Never mind that a carter was passing, hunched over his reins, and two sailors crossed the street with the rolling gait of men just released from a long voyage. Able held her close.
“We must not have been paying attention,” she managed to say.
He cupped his hands around her face. “I don’t think this is precisely what Headmaster Croker had in mind when he asked you to take in little lodgers.”
“You’re certain about that?”
Meridee kissed Able’s cheek, and tucked her arm through his. They strolled away from the docks and crossed a footbridge leading to a series of brick buildings, one behind the other.
“Building Twelve. Let’s see who is here,” her man said as they walked up the steps of the building near the inlet where cutters and hoys were tied, little vessels that darted from ship to shore on whatever business the navy intended.
There was no one in the foyer except a child sweeping. He stopped when they passed. He wore shoes, or what had been shoes at one time, but were now bits of leather held together with twine across his foot. His yellow shirt had one button.
“Good morning,” Meridee said, thinking of clothes that Nick and John Mark had outgrown and wondering how soon she could get them to the little fellow’s mother. “You’re doing a lovely job.”
He eyed her solemnly and returned to his task.
“He’s so small and it is cold in here,” Meridee said.
Able took a step toward the boy, who backed up, his eyes wide with fear, and flattened himself against the wall. He held his broom in front of him as if trying to hide behind it. Able stopped.
“Meri, you ask him where Mr. Maudslay is.”
She came toward him slowly, reminded forcefully of a pup her nephews had found one cold morning, shivering next to the front steps of their father’s parish church. The little thing had wagged its muddy tail once and then no more, because the effort seemed too great. Not even a warm blanket and milk came soon enough.
“Where might we find Mr. Maudslay?” she asked, keeping her voice low and soft.
He looked at her in disbelief. Meridee’s heart seemed to swell in her breast as she wondered if anyone had ever said a kind word to him. She decided to do something Able had suggested once: she didn’t look him in the eyes, but turned her head away slightly. “Mr. Maudslay?” she repeated.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him shake his head, his own eyes wide with terror, because he knew he had not given her the answer she wanted.
“Never mind, my dear,” she whispered. “We’ll find him. You can keep sweeping.”
Still depending on the puny protection of his broom, the lad edged along the wall until he had distanced himself from them. She noticed that Able had already backed away, his eyed full of sympathy. She wondered what of the million events in his head he was recalling, then returned her attention to the boy.
He had gathered quite a large pile of what looked like sawdust and bits of things, but what she assumed was the receptacle was positioned beyond her. She knew she was in his way and he wanted to work, but she frightened him.
“Able, is that a piece of paper close to you by the wall?” she asked.
He looked around and walked slowly toward where she pointed. “It’s a thin sheet
of wood.”
“Hand it to me, please.”
He did as he asked, ignoring the child, who froze, then continued to sweep when Able backed away.
Meridee took the slice of wood and walked slowly toward the child. He swept more furiously, wielding the broom until she sneezed, which made him freeze. She sneezed again and he slowly relaxed.
“So much dust. Here, sweep toward this board and I will dump the sawdust in that ash can.” She said it firmly, pantomiming the task.
After a long moment, the boy did as she directed, sweeping the trash onto the board as she held it. When it was full, he stopped and waited.
“Excellent! You did that well.”
Meridee took the board to the ash can and dumped it, then came back for more. Quicker now, he swept the debris onto the board and she dumped it again. Two more times and the job was done.
“We did that well,” Meridee said.
The boy stared at her as if he did not understand English. Maybe he was a half-wit. She took a step closer and he backed up. She pointed to herself. “Meridee,” she said. “Meridee.” She waited.
“Peer.”
Peer? What sort of name was that? Perhaps he meant Piers. “Piers?” she asked.
He darted down the hall and out of sight. He might never have been there, except the hall was swept clean, or at least as clean as a place with sawdust would ever be.
“Do…do you think Piers belongs to someone here?” Meridee asked, not even sure what she wanted to know.
“I doubt it. Ah, here is someone who might be able to tell us where Mr. Maudslay can be found. Handsomely now, Mrs. Six.”
A tall man stood in an open door. He wore a carpenter’s apron and had a genial expression.
“Master Six, you were here before, trailed by a little boy who didn’t want to leave, if I recall correctly.”
“I was, indeed. Simon Goodrich?”
“The very same.” Those kind eyes looked Meridee over, but not in a way to make her feel uneasy. “Would this be Mrs. Six? John Mark has spoken of her.”
“It would be, Simon. Meri, Mr. Maudslay might be the mechanist, but here is the artificer.”
He bowed, she curtsied. “Mr. Goodrich, that little boy…”
“He showed up one or two weeks ago. He’s a little ghost, but he is always ready to sweep.”
“Showed up?”
The carpenter nodded. “They show up, they work a while, we feed them, and they move on, heaven knows where.”
“I think he said his name was Piers.”
“Bravo, Mrs. Six! That’s more than any of us have ever gotten out of him.”
“My wife has a way with little boys.”
“Then you are to be congratulated.” He indicated the large room beyond. “Come in, please, and pardon our mess.”
Meridee followed Able into what was probably the heart of the factory. Before the door closed, she peered into the hall for the little ghost with the broom. She thought she saw him, watching her from an alcove, but she couldn’t be certain. I have a project, she thought. My home needs another boy.
She knew Able’s eyes were on her, so she gave him the full force of her own. No words were needed. He nodded slightly, then turned his attention to Simon Goodrich.
I wonder if people think we are two sillies, wearing our hearts on our sleeves? she thought. I wonder if it shows?
— Chapter Fifteen —
Master Six, I took your suggestion from your last visit, and moved that wheel one quarter inch closer to that dial. It runs like a top now. How did you know?” They stood with Simon Goodrich in front of a machine that Able could tell baffled Meridee.
Anyone else in my shoes would have done the same thing, he thought. “I watched it a while,” he mumbled, embarrassed, his eyes on Meri because he knew she was his golden chance to change the subject.
“What in the world does all this do?” she asked, right on cue. God bless his wife. And even better, she turned to Simon for her answer. Able was promptly, gleefully aware that Simon Goodrich couldn’t take his eyes off Meridee Six. All thoughts of more compliments to the man who took a glance and changed the entire efficiency of the machine had fled Simon Goodrich’s brain, from the looks of him.
“You’d better explain it to her, Mr. Goodrich,” Able said.
S
imon explained it in simple terms, not that Meri was simple – far from it – but she needed the workaday description, not some treatise on torque, motion and angles which was the only way Able could manage.
“This is the modern way of making block pulleys?” she asked. “And you do it in mostly metal, instead of wood?”
“Precisely, Mrs. Six,” Simon said. Able laughed inside to watch the smitten Mr. Goodrich walk his wife through the whole maze of machines and almost-finished parts, going through each step of the process that, when completed, would no longer require the services and hours of a dozen or more block makers, working at home or in small factories.
“When this is done, the whole manufactory from start to finish will only require four semi-skilled men, and it will be ten times as fast.”
Able watched the animation on the artisan’s face and heard it in his voice. Less pleased would be the skilled fashioners of block pulleys suddenly thrown out of work by modern times. Only wait until steam powers all our Royal Navy ships, he thought as he walked along. We won’t need block pulleys at all because there will be no more sails. And after steam? Something to do with atoms.
At the end of his impromptu tour, Simon Goodrich handed her a model of a metal pulley, one of what he called a prototypon. “They will look like this, Mrs. Six.”
She hefted the thing and handed it back, obviously impressed. “Mr. Goodrich, we lubbers see the sails and hear the guns, but without these, no ship would sail in the first place.”
Could a man have a better wife to shift the matter back into his lap again? He cleared his throat. “And that brings us to a confidential matter, Simon, if you will indulge me.”
“Certainly.”
“The Brothers of Trinity House – the lighthouse men – have enjoined all of us at St. Brendan’s to be mindful of unfamiliar people skulking about Portsmouth’s factories,” Able said. “It would be easy enough to set this building on fire and ruin the production of a vital component.”
“Mr. Maudslay and I have already discussed this possibility,” Simon said. “We will set up guards. There should be enough lame or aging sailors hereabouts to assist. Sooner, rather than later, eh?”
“We can probably add some officers from the local constabulary,’ Able said, thinking of Walter Cornwall, who had been threatening enough last year when he terrified an already frightened Betsy MacGregor, searching for her twin. I need to cultivate that source, he thought.
“We will be watchful, Master Six,” Simon assured him.
“I know you will,” Meri said. She touched the artisan’s sleeve. “Sir, I am wondering about that little fellow in the hall. Does he…does someone feed him?”
Simon brightened, and snapped his fingers. “Mrs. Six, I should be thanking you. That St. Brendan boy of yours…”
“John Mark?”
Aye.” He leaned toward Able. “By the way, I see a future for him doing what I do. With some more tutelage, his drawings will be vastly useful to those manufactories I know are coming.”
“What would you call him? A designer?”
“Why not?” Simon shook his head, as if to rearrange the mound of facts and details he was already responsible for. “Aye, we thank you for generously sending John Mark with enough food to feed little … Piers, you say?... and one of our other lads on my staff who is supporting himself.”
“When did we…” Able began, but Meri gave him a discreet thump to the ribs.
“He is a benevolent little fellow, is John,” she said, as smoothly as if she knew what was going on. “We trust you’ll be wanting him back here.”
“As soon as ever,” Simon replied. One of the workers called to him from the top of distant scaffolding. He sketched a little bow to Meri, waved to Able and started off at a trot, shouting, “Let John Mark come back soon,” over his shoulder. “And any others.”
They turned with one accord and started for the entrance. “And here I have been thinking John Mark was experiencing a growth spurt and hungry all the time,” Meri said as she hurried along the hall, then out the door into the busy street. She stopped. “Why didn’t he tell me he was giving all of his lunch to Piers? Doesn’t he trust me yet?” She tried to sniff back tears.
Able held her close. “Meri, Meri, don’t be quite so contrary,” he crooned in her ear, oblivious to who might be watching them because he really didn’t care and never would. “I don’t know if I am articulate enough to explain the complex relationship all of us Gunwharf Rats have with food.”
He led her to a bench beside the wharf, where empty water kegs carried to and from the prison hulks were stacked. The kegs were tall enough to give them a little privacy. While she fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief, one of those useless lacy ones, he gave her his more substantial one.
“Blow,” he said. She blew, and her sobs turned into hiccups, as they usually did, which made him want to smile. He was smart enough not to. He squeezed onto the bench beside her.
“Have you ever been hungry?” he asked, then answered his own question. “Of course you have. You once mentioned running away from home and pouting in an apple tree for a while.”
“Until I got hungry.”
“Did your mama feed you when you came home?”
From the depths of his handkerchief, Meri nodded. “She gave me a swat to the backside, then sat me down for dinner. It was cold, but it was still dinner.” She leaned against his shoulder. “I knew she would feed me. You didn’t have that luxury, did you? You or John Mark or any of the Rats.”
“We knew we wouldn’t be fed,” he said. “Oh, don’t cry about that. You’ll admit I’m an admirable specimen now, won’t you?”
“More than adequate,” she replied, still watery, but her eyes had their usual zest for life returning.
He could tell she was ready for what he had to say. “I finally quit staring at other officers’ plates in the wardroom when I became a sailing master. It took that long. Captain Hallowell pointed that out to me once.” He took her by her shoulders. “We have to know that there is food enough. I think…no, I know… that John Mark feared if he told you he was sharing his lunches with a little ghost of a child, you might get angry and cut his own food.”
“I would never…”
He stopped her with a kiss. “I know you wouldn’t. On some level, John knows it, too, but by all that’s holy, it is hard to convince your stomach and your brain.”
“What should we do?” she asked, after a long pause.
“I’ll talk to him. What should we do about the little sweeper? Can we encourage him to come home with John some afternoon?”
“That shouldn’t be hard,” she said.
“It might be. I doubt he trusts anyone.”
Meri digested that fact then nodded. “I’ll make certain John has more than he can possibly eat, packed in his daily lunch. And then I let things go? Let the lads work it out?”
“Aye, miss. Let’s go home now.”
Meri let him pull her to her feet. She looked around at the kegs, as if seeing them for the first time. “What are these for?”
“The water hoys take them out to the prison hulks several times a week.”
She ran her hand over one, then tapped on it and listened. “What happens if there is a storm and the hoys can’t leave the harbor?”
“The prisoners go thirsty. If there is a long storm, they go hungry. I hate war.”
Theirs was a quiet walk home, with Meri looking over her shoulder at the pulley block factory three times, as if calculating how she could storm the thing and snatch out a little sweeper.
“Why would Piers not trust me if I were to tell him about living in a house with beds and food and sturdy clothing? Did you notice how thin his shirt was. Able, it’s March!” she burst out as they turned down their quiet street.
He had no
difficulty being patient with the rational woman who shared his bed and board and was capable of giving him children, just like normal people did. “Meridee, when you speak of houses and beds and food and clothing, you’re talking about things that barely register in Piers’s brain,” he pointed out. “You could be speaking Martian, as far as it seems to him.”
“I could invite him to dinner?”
“That’s a thought. Well, look who is here.”
A muddy post chaise had pulled up to the Sixes’ house across the street from St. Brendan School. John Mark leaped from the carriage like a boy with stories to tell. Able laughed and shooed him toward the house, after reminding him about his duffel, which the post boy held out to him.
Meri walked to the chaise and leaned in. She leaned farther in, then stepped back and nodded to the postilion, who tipped his hat to her and spoke to his horses. Expertly he turned his team and stopped them directly across the street. Meri waved, then walked to Able, holding out a package.
“Grace thinks we aren’t too old for candy kisses from Astley’s Circus.” She popped one in her mouth. “Open up, my love.”
He did as directed, happy he wasn’t too old. Maybe it would make up for all the times he felt precisely that. He sucked on the sweetness and blamed his celestial mentors, from Euclid to Newton and Leibnitz, and that odd fellow from the future. There were times when his brain didn’t know which century it belonged in, but Meri didn’t need to know that.
“Grace wants me to visit her soon,” Meri said, tucking her arm through his. “She is unhappy about something.”
“Any hints?”
“Perhaps,” his wife replied. She stopped and watched Grace Croker, dignified and tall, climb the front steps, followed by the post boy, who staggered under a mound of luggage. “I looked like her once before.”
“When?”
“When I wasn’t precisely certain where I stood in our admittedly odd courtship.”
“You must be mistaken, wife. How many times has she declared herself a satisfied spinster?”
“Things change, husband.”
