by Ruthie Lewis
Briefly, Grace told her about Billy’s escape. ‘We don’t know what the Captain will do next,’ she said.
‘It will be vicious,’ said Mary, ‘and it will be something you do not expect. That much I know for certain.’
On the heels of her words came a hard knock at the door. Instinctively, Mary pulled a knife from the block and stood waiting. ‘It is all right,’ Grace reassured her. ‘Mr Gould promised to send men to protect the house. This will be them.’ She moved to the door and laid her hand on the latch. ‘Who is it?’ she called
‘It is me,’ said a man’s voice. ‘Open the door.’
The shock was so great that Grace’s knees went weak. She knew that voice, knew it very well, it had haunted her nightmares for a long time. The man standing in the street outside her front door was the Captain.
*
‘What do you want?’ she asked. Mela and Mary had come through to the parlour and were staring at her.
‘I want to talk to you,’ the Captain said. ‘I am alone, and I will not hurt you. You have my word on that. Now, open the door.’
‘No!’ whispered Mela, but Grace shook her head. ‘I must,’ she said.
Shaking like a leaf, she opened the door. The Captain stood in the falling twilight, dressed much as he had been when she last saw him, in long coat despite the evening heat and with the same broad-brimmed hat pulled down over his face. The diamond ring on his finger sparkled a little.
She stepped out into the street and closed the door behind her. The protection Mr Gould had promised had not yet arrived, and she faced the Captain alone. She crossed her arms over her chest in a gesture of bravado that she did not really feel. ‘What do you want?’ she asked again.
‘You know perfectly well what I want,’ he said. ‘I want Billy Doyle.’
‘You can’t have him,’ Grace said.
The Captain sighed. ‘I have had a long and trying day,’ he said. ‘First your friends organising that ridiculous demonstration and trying to set the district against me, and then that wretched child escaping. In due course, I shall give your friends a little demonstration of my own, a lesson in what happens to those who defy me, but meanwhile, I want the boy. Where is he?’
‘We sent him away,’ Grace said, praying that Mr Crompton had acted swiftly. ‘Billy and his family are on their way to another part of the city.’
The Captain clicked his tongue. ‘I saw a coach leave the school, so I suppose that was them being spirited away. It won’t save him, Grace. I want him, and I mean to have him. Remember our bargain.’
‘I made no bargain with you,’ Grace said. ‘You imposed your terms on me, but I did not accept them. And I will never accept your right to kidnap children. You can burn my school, or at least you can try; I promise you it is well defended. But even if you do succeed, I will simply rebuild it again. My school will rise from the ashes, stronger than before.’
The Captain’s lips curled in a smile. ‘I very much doubt that,’ he said. ‘I am about to whip Rotherhithe and Bermondsey like I might whip a dog, and when I am done the people will come crawling to me, begging for forgiveness. No one will support your school after this. And, I demand my tithe. I want Billy. And for good measure to punish you for defying me, I want more. I want Albert and Harry, and that little street boy called Joe.’
A wave of dark horror washed over Grace. ‘No!’ she gasped. ‘Never!’
‘I will not bandy words with you,’ the Captain said. ‘Give me the children or you will suffer as you have never suffered before. You have until this time tomorrow to make up your mind.’
He turned on his heel and walked away into the gathering dusk. Sick with dread, Grace opened the door and stumbled inside, sinking to her knees. Mary and Mela were with her at once, the other children crowding around in concern. ‘What is it?’ Mela asked.
‘Albert,’ said Grace, ‘take the younger ones upstairs. Take Edith too. Keep them there, and keep them away from the windows. Do it, my dear. I’ll explain why later.’
When the children had gone, Grace rose to her feet and, still fighting down a wave of nausea, told Mela and Mary what had happened. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked.
‘The man is an utter monster,’ Mela whispered.
‘He shall not have the boys,’ Mary said fiercely. ‘I’ll stab him first.’
‘No one is going to stab anyone,’ said Grace, recovering a little. ‘Oh, God, where are the men Mr Gould promised . . . What is that noise?’
From further down the street came the sound of a man’s voice upraised, then suddenly choked off. Another wave of fear washed over Grace, for she had recognised the voice. She looked around wildly for a moment, then picked up one of the oil lamps and ran towards the door.
‘No!’ cried Mela. ‘Grace, it isn’t safe!’
Grace paid her no heed. Throwing open the door, she held up the lamp and saw something that looked like a bundle, lying near the entrance to the lane. Others had heard the noise too, and more doors were opening. She saw Elijah Berton with a lamp in one hand and a hammer in the other. Ignoring them, she ran down the street and knelt beside the bundle, holding up her own lamp to see.
Walter Ringrose lay on his side in the street, blood streaming from a wound to his head and more seeping out of a hole in the back of his coat where he had been stabbed. His eyes were closed, and he was not moving.
Chapter 21
Numb with shock, she knelt beside Walter’s body and took his hand, her fingers pressed against his wrist. There was no pulse. No! a voice inside her screamed, he cannot be dead, he cannot be! Panicked, she pressed again, and this time she found it, a faint, irregular beat. Walter was still alive; but only just.
Elijah knelt beside her, and others of their neighbours crowded around. ‘He is badly hurt,’ said Elijah.
‘I know,’ Grace said. ‘Please, help me get him inside. And send for a doctor.’
A boy went running to find the doctor. Some of the men brought a makeshift litter, a sheet of canvas stretched between two poles, and laid Walter gently in it and carried him into Grace’s house. Mela, her face white with shock, helped them lay him on the cot in the parlour room. Louisa Berton, who as a millworker’s wife was used to tending injuries, came to join them and showed Grace how to cut away Walter’s clothing so the wound in his back was exposed. The stab wound was oozing blood, but Louisa pressed a wad of cloth against it and gradually the bleeding slowed. The head wound they left alone. It was important, Louisa said, to wait for the doctor. Grace knelt beside the stretcher, one hand on Walter’s wrist, feeling the faint pulse like the ticking of a clock as the unconscious man fought to stay alive. Mela sat beside her, her arms around Grace, silently lending her friend her strength.
The doctor arrived an hour later, not long after the men sent by Mr Gould to guard the house finally showed up. The doctor knelt beside the cot, his face grave as he examined the wounds. ‘In one respect, Mr Ringrose has been very fortunate,’ he said finally. ‘The knife was meant for his heart, but it was deflected by one of his ribs. The wound is not serious, and provided it does not become infected, it will heal. The head is another matter.’
‘Tell me, please,’ Grace said quietly. ‘I must know.’
‘He was hit with a very heavy object, perhaps a hammer or something similar. The skull is fractured.’
Grace gasped. ‘That in itself is not necessarily serious,’ the doctor said, hastening to reassure her. ‘The fracture is a simple one, and will heal with time. The problem is that we do not know what has happened below the surface, whether there is bleeding on the brain.’
He stood up, wiping his hands and reaching into his bag. ‘I shall bandage the knife wound. You will need to change the bandage at intervals, and watch for any sign of infection. Keep the head wound clean, but touch it only very gently, so you do not disturb his head. Then, wait. If he regains consciousness soon, within a few hours, then he should make a good recovery. If not . . .’
‘If
not, then what?’ Grace asked.
‘Then I fear the worst,’ the doctor said finally. ‘Indeed, we must face the possibility that, if the bleeding is too severe or there is other damage to the brain, he might not wake at all.’
He might die. Grace felt tears welling behind her eyes. Mela hugged her tightly, her own eyes damp. ‘Is it safe to move him?’ Grace asked. ‘I would like to at least put him to bed.’ The parlour room was damp, he would be healthier upstairs where the air was cleaner.
The doctor shook his head. ‘Moving him now could increase any bleeding on his brain. Leave him still. If he recovers consciousness and his mind does not seem too disordered, then you may move him, but not until then.’
After the doctor departed, Grace sat beside Walter, holding his hand. Walter, she thought. That is how I think of him now, not as Mr Ringrose. Mela hugged her again. ‘Is there anything we can do?’
‘No,’ said Grace. ‘You heard the doctor. There is nothing to do but wait.’
‘I will stay with you,’ said Mela.
‘You mustn’t. The hour is late. You must get some rest. I will look after him.’
‘I’m not leaving you,’ Mela said quietly.
Mary came in from the kitchen and looked down at the body, her young face still. ‘Will he live?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Grace.
Mary nodded. ‘Have the children eaten?’ Grace asked.
‘I fed Edith earlier and put her down. The rest were waiting for you.’
Of course, Albert, Joe and the twins were still hiding upstairs. ‘There is some rabbit stew you can heat up,’ Grace said, ‘and there is bread and cheese and biscuits. Can you look after them, Mary?’
‘Of course. I’ll get Albert to do it, he’s a better cook than I am. Shall I bring something for you and Miss Clare?’
Grace had eaten nothing since breakfast, but her stomach revolted at the idea of food. She shook her head. Mary departed in silence and Grace heard her calling Albert and the others down to dinner. A murmur of voices came from the kitchen, and she realised Mary was explaining to them what had happened. She heard Albert’s voice, steady and firm, and the twins and Joe chattering away. They are all right, she thought. Trust Mary to handle things sensibly. Yet again, she blessed the kindness of Providence that had sent Mary to them. I thought I was taking in one more soul to be cared for. Instead, it is she who cares for us.
Later the children went up to bed. Mary washed the dishes after dinner and prepared to go to bed herself. For a moment she paused at the foot of the stair and looked through the door where Grace sat in the lamplight, looking down at the wounded man’s face. Mela was in a chair behind her; exhausted by the strains of the day, she had fallen asleep.
A single tear rolled softly down Grace’s cheek. Quietly, Mary closed the door and went up to bed, leaving Grace to her vigil.
*
It had been a long day, full of emotions swinging from one extreme to the other. Eventually, exhaustion claimed her too and she fell asleep sitting up. For how long she slept she did not know, but a sudden gentle motion woke her. She sat dazed for a moment, recollecting where she was, seeing Mela still dozing in her chair, and then she realised what was happening. The man on the litter was stirring, his arm moving under her hand.
She sat up quickly, staring at his face, waiting and praying. Then, like a miracle, the response came. His eyelids flickered twice, and then opened.
Still she waited, holding her breath, and she saw his throat move as he tried to speak. No sound came out at first, but he tried again. ‘Where am I?’
‘In my house,’ said Grace. Tears flowed steadily down her face, but they were tears of gratitude. ‘In Bell Lane. You were attacked in the street, and we found you and brought you here.’
‘Attacked in the . . .’ His voice was weak. ‘Wait a moment. It’s all confused . . . No, I have it. I was coming to see you . . . And they jumped me, three of them. I don’t know what happened next.’
‘You were stabbed and hit over the head,’ Grace said. ‘They left you for dead.’
‘Stabbed . . . Yes, I remember now. In the back, too. Beastly cowards . . . to stab a man in the back . . . How bad is it?’
‘The knife wound will heal,’ Grace said. ‘But the doctor says you have a fractured skull.’
‘Do I? That sounds exciting . . . Does that mean I am badly hurt?’
‘It means you have to get a great deal of rest and let your wounds heal. Do you think you can stand?’
‘I’m weak as a kitten, but I’ll give it a go.’
She woke Mela, who sat up quickly. It took a long time for the two of them get Walter to his feet, and several times he collapsed and fell back, but he was determined to move. Eventually he stood, leaning heavily on them for support. They managed to get him upstairs to her bedroom and ease him down gently onto the bed and take off his boots. The effort of moving had exhausted him and he fell at once straight into sleep.
Grace sat down on the edge of the bed, taking his hand again and watching him sleep, seeing the handsome, slightly sunken face, the bare arms and body wrapped round with bandages to keep the knife wound closed. The enthusiastic, energetic, passionate young man of this morning looked vulnerable now, but that only made her love him the more. All through that long night she sat with him, holding his hand, not knowing or caring what the future might bring for either of them but silently pouring out her love for him, willing him to live and be strong once more.
*
Morning came, the sun shining low and orange in a hazy sky. Grace had dozed once or twice in the night, but now she was fully awake. Walter was still deeply asleep.
Someone knocked at the door and she jumped, her heart in her mouth, dreading that it might be the Captain or his men, but then she head the reassuring sound of Elijah’s voice. Mela came upstairs and looked into the bedroom. ‘Mr Berton would like to see you,’ she said.
Walter was peaceful, his pulse still weak but much stronger than before. Grace touched his forehead and found no sign of fever. He was safe. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I will come down at once.’
Elijah looked like he too had not had much sleep. ‘How is Mr Ringrose?’ he asked.
‘He is sleeping,’ Grace said, ‘but I think he will recover.’ She felt the explosion of joy around her heart as she said the words.
‘I’m right glad to hear it,’ said Elijah, and his face showed his relief.
‘What about the school?’ Grace asked. ‘Was it attacked?’
‘All is quiet there. I reckon they thought if they did for Mr Ringrose, the rest of us would fold up. But if they thought that, they were wrong.’
‘What is happening?’ Grace asked.
‘I went out last night and spread the word about what happened. Folk were furious when they heard about Mr Ringrose, angry and ready for a fight. Mrs Lane has been organising the womenfolk, too. There’ll be another march today, bigger even than yesterday. We’ll show the Captain what we’re made of.’
He smiled at her. ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs Turneur. We’ll carry on the good work, and we’ll run these rats out of Rotherhithe.’
After he departed, Grace sat down slowly in a chair. Mela went into the kitchen to help Albert and Mary prepare breakfast. Weariness crept over Grace like a fog, and yet she knew she had to stay awake; Walter was not yet out of danger, and might need her. She heard the voices of the children in the kitchen, and then she remembered with sudden horror the Captain’s threat.
‘It won’t do any good,’ she said, half to herself.
‘What won’t?’ asked Mary, who had been listening to her conversation with Mr Berton.
‘The demonstration. The Captain will ignore them. Worse, he might attack Mr Berton or Mrs Lane, or some of the others. And then . . . Oh, God, Mary. Tonight he will come, and he will demand we give him Albert, Harry and Joe.’
Grace buried her face in her hands, her earlier happiness quite gone. Tears
erupted, tears of exhaustion and fear, flowing from her reddened eyes. ‘I can’t bear it, Mary. I cannot bear the thought of losing them. I love them so much.’
‘No,’ said Mary, and for a moment the spirit of the feral child who had wandered the streets fighting for survival glowed in her blue eyes. ‘No one is taking them anywhere.’
Grace raised her head, her own eyes still streaming. ‘How can we stop them?’ On the heels of the words an idea came. ‘We must get them away, like we got the Doyles away. All of you, we must get you all away to a safe place.’ She sat up suddenly. ‘Yes. I will send to Mr Clare at once and ask him to help us. He will know of places we can hide from the Captain.’
And we save Albert, Harry and Joe, Mary thought, but the Captain wins. He takes all the other boys and makes them his own. She knelt and put her arms around Grace, and brushed the tears from her face. ‘I am going out for a while,’ she said.
‘Out?’ said Grace, blowing her nose. ‘Where?’
‘Just out,’ said Mary.
‘Why? What are you going to do?’
‘I have an idea,’ Mary said.
‘The streets are dangerous. I am coming with you.’
Mary shook her head. ‘No, Mother,’ she said. ‘This is something I need to do on my own.’
They gazed at each other. The word had escaped, unbidden and unawares, from Mary’s lips for the very first time. She looked at Grace for a long moment, and then she smiled a smile of pure brilliance, like a ray of hope in a dark night.
‘You stay here and look after Mr Ringrose,’ she said. ‘I won’t be long.’
*
I’d been living in a civilised house for a year and a half, but the street was still strong in me. I knew how the gangs lived and moved, and where their haunts were. I reckoned the Bull Heads were keeping their heads down, trying not to attract the attention of the mob gathering in Rotherhithe, while the Captain planned his next move. And I knew too that the boys in the gang would be out acting as lookouts.
