The alleyway opened out into a quayside lying almost beneath the bridge. Water lapped around a set of slimy stairs where a row of watermen’s boats, stored for the night, gently knocked against one another. The boy headed for a pile of crates, coiled ropes and spars on the quayside and, without a backward glance, ducked down and disappeared. Dan was just in time to catch a glimpse of his heels as he wriggled into a tunnel through the lumber. If he had been the boy’s age he would not have hesitated to dive in after him, knowing what he would find: a maze of tunnels opening out into a tiny unsafe cavern where a group of children huddled like mice in a nest.
Such groups formed and reformed all the time. They were loose associations at first, but then someone would emerge who was bigger and stronger than the rest and before long they would all be working for him. It was usually a him, though Dan had once run in a gang led by a girl. After a few weeks there would be a leadership challenge, or they would be driven from their den, or the night watchman would discover them, and the group would disperse. You would be on your own again, until you fell in with someone else.
Dan had fallen in with Weaver. Not that there was any accident to it. Weaver sent scouts out into the streets to round up stray children. He promised food and shelter, but you had to work for it: picking pockets, burgling houses, selling yourself. Useless to try and keep any of your earnings. It didn’t matter where you hid. Weaver’s boys always found you and beat the rhino out of you. And after you grew up, if you did grow up and weren’t smart enough to get away, your only value to him was for sale to the hangman when he turned you in for the reward. It was said that many a boy and girl had added to the old devil’s earnings in that way.
In his work as a Bow Street Runner Dan had often wondered if he would run across Weaver. He had dreamed of the moment the trap opened and the villain took the drop, imagining his hanging as a slow, agonising business. But their paths had never crossed again and he could only assume that Weaver had died. Slowly and painfully, he hoped.
Dan stopped at the entrance to the den, weighing up his options. He could wait a while in case the boy came out again, or he could come back early in the morning as the quayside began to fill with porters, dockers and draymen and catch him as the children dispersed for the day.
Dan heard scuffling and darted out of sight. A girl appeared on her hands and knees at the tunnel entrance. She looked cautiously about, hauled herself out and straightened her ragged skirt. She padded to the end of the alley, but instead of leaving it, she stood on the corner, on the fringe of the foot traffic passing back and forth over London Bridge. The lights on the bridge flickered across her face. It was impossible to guess her age; hers was the face of a creature old in vice and experience.
Before Dan could approach her to ask about the boy, she came back into the dark alleyway with a man. He was powerful and broad-shouldered, dirty and unshaven. A whaler from the look – or the smell – of him. His heavy black jacket stank of blood, smoke and oil. He negotiated in broken English. They agreed on sixpence. She led him further into the darkness and leaned against a wall. His body blocked her from Dan’s view.
He was still unfastening his loose sailor’s trousers when Dan hauled him off her. He spun round, cursing in a language Dan did not recognise, all rolling r’s and z’s.
“Give the girl her sixpence and get going.”
The girl lowered her skirts and scrambled out from behind him. Torn between the desire to flee, the suggestion that her sixpence might still be forthcoming, and the possibility that there might be more money to be made from the stranger, she stopped a little way off.
Understanding spread over the sailor’s broad, boorish face. Whatever it might be in his own language, the buttock and file trick was common throughout the world: a girl lures a man to some dark spot and with the help of a male accomplice robs him. Since Dan did not speak the man’s language, he could not put him right. He could, however, guess with a reasonable chance of certainty the meaning of the words that gabbled out in a blast of gin and garlic. “I haven’t had what I paid for – you and your punk won’t get one over on me – I’m going to beat you to a pulp.” No doubt punctuated by obscenities which rang impressively in his harsh tongue.
“Give the girl her money,” Dan repeated.
“Fuck off.”
He knew some English then. He turned and spat at the girl, who skipped nimbly out of the way, and started to shoulder his way past Dan.
Dan grabbed his lapels and slammed him back against the wall. He pinned him there with his right arm across his Adam’s apple, cracked his head against the brickwork. While the whaler came to terms with that, Dan reached for the knife at his belt and threw it across the alley.
“Give the girl sixpence.” Another slam of the head. “Now.” Slam.
“Da! Da!” the man blubbered. He fumbled in his pocket, produced the coins and flung them on the floor. Dan shoved him away. He staggered off, his curses echoing between the buildings.
The girl snatched up the money and turned to run. Dan grabbed her arm. “No, you don’t.”
The girl struggled and swore but he did not loosen his grip. She gave up and tried wheedling.
“If you let me go, I’ll go and find the next pigeon. Split it fifty-fifty, eh?” When he did not respond to this offer, she grabbed at his crotch and said, “Is this what you want?”
He shook her off and pulled her back to the quayside. She tried weeping but was not very good at it and soon gave up in favour of swearing at him. As they drew near to the lair she fell silent and avoided looking towards it in the hope that Dan did not know it was there.
“I want the boy. The one that just went in with the sack. Go and get him.”
There was no point in feigning innocence. Innocence was something she had never had much familiarity with in any case. Understanding dawned on her wizened face. The wrong kind of understanding.
Dan did not attempt to explain. “Just send him out to me.”
She wriggled inside. Several minutes passed and Dan was beginning to think they had got away through another tunnel when a red and white face appeared from the shadows. The boy hesitated at the sight of the dark figure towering in front of him. Dan reached down, pulled him out and set him on his feet.
The boy rubbed his hand across his nose. “Ann says you wanted me. I want sixpence.”
“What’s your name?”
The boy gawped. It was not a question he was used to answering. “Nick,” he said, though he did not seem certain of it. “Nick,” he repeated with growing confidence.
“Well, Nick, if you do as I say you’ll get a great deal more than sixpence. Are you listening?”
Chapter Ten
The next morning Dan sat at the window of the White Hart’s coffee room, from where he had a good view of Broomhall’s shop. The High Street was already busy; it was never entirely deserted. The sailors, drunks and prostitutes who roamed the district from dusk to dawn had vanished, and the traders had arrived to set up their stalls. Their robust voices mingled with the cries of street sellers; the whines of beggars and ballad singers; the drone of a hurdy-gurdy; the din of horse-drawn traffic.
Occasionally Dan turned the pages of his newspaper. Someone was advertising a new design of coffin, secure enough to keep out body snatchers. Good luck with that, he thought. Broomhall’s assistant arrived, knocked and was admitted. Dan watched him lay out the trays of clocks and watches. An hour passed, during which several passers-by stopped to browse the merchandise. Three or four went inside, spent a few moments there, and came out again.
At last a tall man dressed in black breeches and a dark green coat stepped out of the shop and clapped a hat over his short, carelessly-arranged hair. In his late thirties, he was dark-complexioned, with large brown eyes beneath thick eyebrows, a long nose, a shapely mouth over a cleft chin. Officer Reeves’s summation of his character had been well-observed
: Broomhall knew that he was at the height of his vigour and good looks. Neighbours cried good morning to him; men admired the fit of his clothes and his confident stride; women took second glances.
Dan folded his paper and left it on the table beside his empty coffee cup. He sauntered after Broomhall, scanning the street as he went, spotting Nick’s small figure slip out of the White Hart’s coach yard and fall in behind the watchmaker.
As they drew near to the George, their way was blocked by the recent arrival of a stagecoach. Passengers milled about looking lost, their luggage piled in the road around them. It was the spot Dan would have chosen when he was Nick’s age. All was bustle and confusion: a good place for a small pickpocket.
Just then Broomhall set up the cry: “Stop thief!”, but Nick had already eeled his way through the crowd and was pelting along the High Street. Broomhall started after him. Dan pushed his way through the passengers, leapt over a pile of boxes, and chased after them. A couple of men who had been standing outside one of the taverns joined the pursuit. Dan did not bother trying to overtake them: he knew where Nick was going.
When Dan got to St Saviour’s Church he paused on the threshold of the graveyard. There was no sign of the boy. Cursing, he stepped onto the path between the graves. He had gone only a few paces when he felt a twitch at his pocket and, turning, he saw the mottle-faced boy grinning up at him.
Nick handed over Broomhall’s pocket book. It contained Broomhall’s Corresponding Society membership ticket with the motto “Unite, persevere and be free” printed on it, a much-thumbed copy of the Society’s rules, a couple of old restaurant bills, and a handful of bank notes.
“Good work, Nick. And here’s what I promised.”
The boy pocketed the coins. “Got any more jobs like this?”
“Might be, another time. If I want you, I’ll find you. Now you’d better get going.”
Nick nodded, turned on his heel and ran. He was soon lost to sight as he weaved between the headstones before dropping down into the road towards the wharves.
Dan hurried back to the High Street. He came up to Broomhall in time to hear him thanking the two men who had tried to help him.
“It was a good effort,” Broomhall said. “The vagabond was just too quick for us.”
The men mumbled their goodbyes and strolled away.
“I think this is yours,” Dan said.
Broomhall glanced in astonishment at the proffered pocket book. “How the deuce did you get that?”
“By catching the thief.”
“But he got away again?”
“No. I let him go.”
“You let him go? Why?”
“Because I don’t hold with fat magistrates hanging starving children.”
The remark piqued Broomhall’s interest, as it was intended to do. “Fat magistrates, eh? Look, I was on my way to Surrey Street to transact some business. It won’t take long. Why don’t you accompany me and then I will buy you dinner by way of thanks?”
“That’s a good offer, and one I accept,” Dan said.
They set off in the direction of Blackfriars Bridge, setting their backs to the decrepit gables of the Marshalsea and the smoking chimneys of the King’s Bench prisons where men and women languished for want of sufficient to pay their debts and prison fees. Perhaps, Dan thought, that was why they were always so sharp and busy around here. It was a grim warning for the businessmen, publicans and landladies, the manufacturers and piece workers whose premises huddled around the gaols: fail and you too may end up in here.
Broomhall offered his hand. “I’m Edward Broomhall, clock and watchmaker. My shop is on Borough High Street.”
“Daniel Bright, gentleman’s servant, between situations at present,” Dan said, adding bitterly, “having been dismissed to spare a gentleman’s embarrassment.”
“How so?” asked Broomhall. “Unless you prefer not to talk about it.”
“I don’t mind. I’m not the one who did anything wrong. Some money went missing from the master’s drawer. When his wife found out the thief was their son, she accused me of taking it to save him from his father’s anger. The father knew it was the boy, of course, but to spare trouble for himself he went along with it. Said if I went of my own will he’d give me a good reference. It was that or prison. It’s a rich man’s law, rot ’em.”
Broomhall agreed that, scandalously, this was so. The conversation moved on to general matters. Dan asked Broomhall how long he had lived in Southwark and how long he had run the shop. The other answered that he had been born in Southwark and inherited the business from his father. Dan suggested that he must have seen a great many changes, and Broomhall answered that he had. He pointed to many of the buildings around them, which stood on the green fields and ponds he had played on as a child. They turned into Surrey Street and walked down to St George’s Circus with the obelisk in the centre where Surrey Street joined the New, Lambeth and London Roads. Just before they reached the Circus, Broomhall stopped outside a silversmith’s.
“My business is here, but I shall only be a few minutes. Why don’t you go and take a table for us at Johnson’s and I will join you shortly?”
Johnson’s Coffee House and Tavern was by the Surrey Theatre and next door to a home for street women. At this time of day none of its inmates were to be seen. They were probably being preached at inside the Magdalen’s prison-like walls. There was always a high price in humility to be paid for charity, as Dan recalled from his own days on the streets. He and the other children had scattered like rats from a fire when they saw beadles from the foundling hospitals on the prowl.
The place was already filling up but Dan managed to secure a booth. He ordered a coffee while he waited, which was not long.
“Business all done?” he asked as Broomhall settled into the high-backed wooden seat opposite.
“Yes…Simpson makes parts for my watches in his workshop. That’s why I had so much money on me. Today was settlement day. If you hadn’t intervened, things would have been very awkward.”
The waiter came over, flicked his cloth across the table to remove imaginary crumbs and said, “Good day, Mr Broomhall. Well, I hope?”
“Hungry, you hope!” Broomhall laughed. “What’s on today, Frank?”
Frank tilted back his head, closed his eyes and chanted, “Asparagus soup, turbot, choice of beef roasted, beef boiled, beef stewed, ham, or mutton chops, with potatoes and carrots, choice of apple pie or Windsor pudding.”
“Roast beef for me.”
“Same here,” said Dan.
“And a bottle of your excellent hock.”
“I’ll stick to coffee,” Dan said.
The waiter hurried off, bawling the order to the kitchen and barman as he went. A boy brought the wine a few moments later.
“Abstention and syrup of brimstone?” Broomhall asked, pouring himself a glass. “Following doctor’s orders?”
“No, I just don’t like wine.”
Broomhall sipped. “I’m sure this would change your mind if you tried it. But I don’t insist.” He cast a sly glance at Dan. “So, Mr Bright, since you got a good look at the whelp who robbed me, what do you say to coming to Union Street with me when we have eaten to report the crime?”
The Magistrates’ Office was the last place Dan wanted to visit. Nor would reporting the boy match the character he wanted to establish with Broomhall. It was not something Dan Foster, who often exercised his discretion in the matter of arrests, would do either.
“I wish I could be of assistance, but I am afraid that one street cub looks much like another to me. I doubt I would recognise him again if I saw him. Besides, I should think he is well away from here by now.”
“But don’t you think it our civic duty, for the sake of our neighbours, that the robbery should be reported so that the police can keep our streets clear of this thieving tribe?”
Broomhall needled, testing him out.
“No, I do not, and if it comes to reporting a crime, which is the greater crime: that our streets are overrun by starving children, or that our rulers would rather hang them than feed them?”
“I see this is a subject on which you feel passionately, Mr Bright.”
“Forgive me. I spoke hastily.”
“Not at all. I agree with you. And the plight of these children is no accident. It’s not Providence, or fate, or fortune, that brings them so low. It is the way the rich have arranged the world to suit themselves. The children are of no use to them, so the children must starve.”
He waited for Frank to put their bowls of soup in front of them before he resumed. “The laws as they stand are designed to protect men of property; it is a cruel nonsense to turn them on the destitute. Sadly, it is a state of affairs which cannot change while it is those self-same men of property who make the laws in parliament. If only men like us had a say in choosing the law-makers. Then we might see some changes.”
“Changes? How do you think they would come about?”
“By parliamentary reform, Mr Bright. By annual parliaments and a vote for every man.”
“Every man?”
“Why not? Do we not all live in and labour for our country?”
“That’s true.”
“Reform one abuse, and the others will disappear,” Broomhall continued, when their empty soup bowls had been replaced by platters of fish. “The laws will be simplified, judges unbiased, juries independent, taxes reduced, the necessaries of life within the reach of the poor, prisons less crowded, and old age provided for.” He smiled. “And no more fat magistrates.”
Dan laughed. “You paint an attractive picture. I’m guessing that you are now going to tell me how all this might come about?”
“Only because I think you are capable of understanding.” Broomhall lowered his voice. “You have heard of the London Corresponding Society? You have heard, for example, that we are revolutionaries whose aim is to overthrow our country’s constitution? It’s a damned lie, sir! What we seek is the restoration of the British constitution as it was originally framed before the Norman invasion, to give us back our liberties and do away with corruption in parliament. Reform, Mr Bright, is our programme.”
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