Worse was soon to come. Stepping into the sewer itself, it took all my concentration not to think of where my toes were treading, nor what glass or rusty nails might be lying concealed beneath my next foothold.
The stench defied description, causing in me waves of nausea – even though I breathed through the cloth of my frock-coat sleeve – while drips of vileness constantly fell upon my clothes; my only clothes. What if the gases in the air should ignite in a fearful explosion, as they had in the Fleet River sewer? Altogether I came close indeed to changing my mind, and marching out there and then, whatever the wonders of discovery that might lie ahead.
With time, however, my attention became distracted – at least in part – by what I saw. Indeed it was a surprise to me that I had never thought before of exploring the sewers, but had been satisfied with mere inspection of river outlets and flushing penstocks in the upper reaches. The state of the brickwork was shocking; my fellows’ lanterns playing upon cracks of great size, while in places the ceiling had fallen clean away, leaving holes that seemed to murmur with threat of further collapse.
Gradually the dripping and splashing sounds all around became displaced by a sharper din – the rattle of carriages, voices shouting – and, turning a corner, the sewer became illuminated with shafts of daylight filtering down from a line of what I guessed must be street gully holes.
‘Quiet here,’ warned One Eye, and I observed the three of them place hands above their lamps that the glow could not be seen from above. Through the gully holes I glimpsed parts of buildings and realized, with strange familiarity, that we were beneath Drury Lane. The sounds drifting down were so clear that one almost expected the carriages and pedestrians to be in the drain itself. I even heard full pieces of conversation; here a droning monologue concerning the heat, there a dispute between the owners of two dogs that had fought. To be so close to these goings-on, yet unsuspected, evinced in me something of a childish amusement.
Such a place was a preferred hunting ground of my companions and they swiftly set to work, each selecting a spot beneath one of the gully holes and kneeling to examine the sewer bottom – the current was low – for objects that had fallen through. Nor did they have to search long. In a moment the lad had plucked up a couple of coppers, while the others had collected in their sacks various pieces of bone, metal and strands of rope. I watched, fascinated, as the three of them – so healthy looking – laboured in the very effluent, with not so much as a handkerchief over their mouths.
Aside from the two coppers, their finds seemed hardly worth collecting. ‘You can live from this alone?’ I whispered to One Eye.
‘Live well,’ he told me, with pride, holding up a handful of bone and stubs of metal. ‘This’ll fetch more than you’d guess.’
‘There’s none in Mint Square as flash as shoremen,’ added Giant Ears importantly. ‘It’s not many days I gits home with less than six bob’s worth of finds in me pockets. Gals? We ’as ter fight ’em off.’
Six shillings. The amount was several times what I would have earned from a day’s work in the docks. At least they must eat well. I wondered if this was important to their resilience, and asked what they normally took as their daily meals. The replies were extensive – my stomach rumbled fiercely at the long descriptions of pies, puddings, sausages, and all manner of roasted beasts – but included nothing that struck me as unusual.
As we strode onwards the tunnel became shallower – though still tall enough for one to walk easily – while the number of drains joining in from the sides markedly increased, filling the air with sounds of dripping water. Every few minutes my companions would pause and search about them, scouring the brickwork and sifting through the ooze, until their sacks grew quite full. Though I studied their every action, still I could see nothing revealing about their behaviour. Was it their very constitutions that made them so proof against the malignant gases, I wondered. Perhaps some family trait (a worrying notion, as it meant I would have no such protection). On asking their fathers’ professions, however, I found none had in any way been connected with the sewers. Indeed all had been skilled men; weavers, smiths and such, while their sons seemed to have been drawn to their strange work as much by an unlikely sense of vocation – a fascination with the river from their early years – as from simple need.
‘Rats,’ called out One Eye. The creatures had uttered no sound, and were revealed only a few yards away, caught by the faint beam of Giant Ears’ lamp. At least a dozen of them there were, as large as kittens, running above the ooze – they seemed careful to avoid the effluent itself – at quite a speed. My companions were little bothered, striking out with their hoes in a leisurely fashion until, a couple reduced in number and squealing fiercely, they had been driven back before us.
One Eye noticed my discomfort. ‘Never seen a rat before?’
‘Never so many.’
‘Scared of a few rats, is ya?’ He laughed so fiercely I was worried his patch might fly from its place. ‘That’s nothing you saw. I’ve met as many as an ’undred, all woppers. There’s water rats, too, as is much more ferociouser than yer usual kind. An’ up in Hampstead there’s a whole tribe of hogs.’
‘Hogs?’ It was a most extraordinary claim.
‘Certainly. I’ve not seen ’em myself, but there’s others ’as.’ One Eye seemed proud of the fact, as if the creatures were his own pets. ‘Seems one sow as was pregnant got down there somehow, ’ad ’er porkers, and they’ve been breedin’ ever since. An hintire population there is now, all of ’em most wicious. ’Course they never sees the full light of day.’
‘Can’t they get down to the river?’
The lad, evidently also well informed of the Hampstead sewer hogs, chimed in with an air of authority. ‘They can’t. All them shores up there flows into the Fleet, see, which goes by at a good rate, bein’ a proper river. Tho’ the hogs may sometimes jump in, their natures is so fierce obstinate and contr’ary – a well known feetchur of such hanimals – that they swims violent against the tide, an’ so always makes their way back to their ’riginal quarters.’
Illuminated by the weak light of his lamp, One Eye nodded approvingly at the lad’s exposition. I regarded it with some scepticism – none of the three had actually seen the hogs – but kept my own counsel, seeing no need in playing heretic over what was clearly a matter of faith.
We did not progress much further than the battleground of the rat skirmish. Though the tunnel continued easily high enough for us to march through, we halted before a gush of steam – warm and sharp in the throat – that swirled in from one of the side drains.
‘I reckin we’s done enough fur today,’ pronounced One Eye, regarding the steam with something akin to regret. ‘We’d best be gone from here, temptin’ tho’ ’tis to stay, or we’ll all be flat on our backs afore we knows it.’
Giant Ears and the lad murmured agreement, though both strayed some steps nearer the swirling vapour, breathing deeply.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘That’s Runyon’s Distillery right above us,’ One Eye explained. ‘These is fumes from the gin-making. Hinough to intoxicate a full regiment, I dare say. It’s not the first time I’ve struck such here. T’ain’t wise to linger, neither.’
He called to the others to hurry, and in a moment we had left the spot behind. The fumes must have been of great strength, however, as although we had been exposed to them for only a short time, I soon felt their effects. Indeed so did we all. Thus, in the sewers beneath the streets of London, I found myself member of a troupe of subterranean drunkards, lumbering forward, clumsy of foot, cackling at the others’ swayings. The lad was struck more than any, and several times went clean over into the ooze, giggling fit to burst, and having to have his lamp re-lit. Nor were we the only ones. I saw a rat stumbling blearily along the brickwork, then tumble off his track like an old soak.
In the midst of it all, One Eye opened his mouth wide and, in a bass voice surprisingly fine, began singing that mus
ic-hall song of the time ‘The Noblest Orphan’. It is hard to describe the effect the melody and its touching words had upon the rest of us, in our drink-warmed state. Giant Ears, the lad and I joined the chorus with much spirit, filling the tunnel with strange sound – recalling monks yelling chants at the tops of their voices – as our words mixed with their own echoes many fold repeated. By the time we reached the last lines, when the orphan – just found dead of hunger and cold in a blinding blizzard, on account of his having helped a stranger – is realized to be the long lost heir to a dukedom, we were all of us close to tears.
It was a long walk back. As we neared the outlet once more our mood was well altered; sobriety restored, accompanied by gin-fume hangovers. I trudged wearily through the ooze, at once impatient to be gone from the vileness of the tunnel, yet unhappy to leave the place without having discovered the shore workers’ secret.
‘You better not cross us,’ the lad warned abruptly, for no clear reason besides the after-effects of Runyon’s Distillery steam. ‘Or you’ll get proper smashed.’
The sewer outlet had finally come into sight. Still some distance off, it seemed to hang in the air; a circle of light dazzling to the eyes. I caught a faint but refreshing whiff of salty air. ‘It’s a fool who threatens when there’s no need,’ I retorted, irked by the boy.
‘Just tellin’ yer, weren’t I. That you’ll git smashed proper if yer does any snitchin’.’
I pondered if it would be worth replying again, and what I might say, but, before I had reached any conclusion my attention was taken by something in the ooze just ahead, caught by the light shining in from the outlet. It glinted as metal. Stooping, I plucked up a tablespoon, the look of it silver. The other three gathered about, woken from their dreariness, to examine the thing with professional interest.
‘I ’ad one like that last month,’ stated the lad. ‘Fourteen bob.’
‘Fifteen more like,’ countered Giant Ears.
‘Never,’ insisted One Eye. ‘It’s seventeen at least, that’un.’
The amounts were several times what I would have earned at the docks. Though it was poor compensation for my having failed to discover what I had sought, the expedition had not then been wasted time. At least I could now eat.
‘I tell you what,’ I proposed, holding up the spoon. ‘I’ll take twelve for it here and now.’
The offer was received with interest by all three. One Eye, as senior, had first claim, and extracted from some recess of his clothes a small greasy purse impressively well stocked with coins, including several sovereigns. The exchange was completed in a moment.
‘Don’t forgit to get us faimis,’ insisted Giant Ears as we emerged from the tunnel into the fresher air. ‘And as fer me name…’ he gave me a thoughtful look, as one who had been considering the matter deeply, ‘put me down as Ned the Gent.’
‘An’ me,’ added One Eye. ‘I’ll be ’Andsome Bill.’
The lad regarded me importantly. ‘I’m Giant Jim.’
‘I’ll do all in my power,’ I promised, and watched them stride away along the river bank, possessed of as much proud purpose as three City bankers who have just concluded some gainful contract.
Journey after journey I made – now fortified with a pork and orange pie – from the street handpump in Boot Lane to my rented room, bucket in hand, that I might clean myself and my clothes. The task – one I carried out usually only in the middle of the night – proved quite a spectacle to the local urchins.
‘Wash day for the dirty toff.’
‘Starin’ eyes is havin’ hisself a bath.’
Nor were these the only ones interested. As I worked at the pump, eliciting from it a sad squeaking sound, I became aware of a small pair of eyes fixing me with malignant observation. The eyes, in fact, were the only part of the creature that were easily recognizable. It was some weeks since I had last seen Pericles, and I was surprised by the change in him. His fur was now matted with dirt into a kind of blackened rug that disguised his shape, so he seemed anonymous even of species, and could have passed for some over-sized rodent. Indeed, he seemed to have had dealings with such creatures judging by the scars I discerned upon his snout, doubtless won in battle with metropolitan rats.
There was little change, however, in his attitude towards myself. He advanced with pigmy menace, growling and baring his teeth, unperturbed even when I emptied the contents of the bucket upon him. Fortunately my various foes of the afternoon seemed by no means united by their common persecution. Two of the urchins observed the aggressive concentration in which the animal was so thoroughly absorbed, and crept up upon him from behind without his seeing. In a trice one had taken hold of the creature, clutching him in the air by a hind leg. Pericles twisted and turned, barking and snapping, until finally he managed to sink his teeth into his oppressor’s elbow. Rather than winning him freedom, however, this action only caused the boy to hurl him – with astonishing violence for a mere child – at a wooden fence, beneath which he then lay, panting.
An ugly moment. Had not the animal shown such constant animosity towards myself I would have determined to help him. As it was I stepped closer, that I might see his state – he looked poorly – and, when he then snapped at my hand, let him be.
Besides, there was so much to do. After all, I could hardly visit the Metropolitan Committee for Sewers stinking of their very subterranean responsibilities. And visit them I must, without delay, before they finished business for the afternoon. Edwin Sleak-Cunningham must know of this mystery of the shore workers’ survival. That it had been beyond my own understanding did not mean it would overcome that great man’s mind.
The washing of my clothes proved hard labour indeed. Effluent had splashed upwards from the sewer floor in quantity, black drips had fallen upon me from the roof, and it was only after some hours that my clothes, hat and leather sack were free of stink, and returned to their proper hues. The harsh scrubbing required was, sadly, not without cost; one cuff was all but torn away and the brim of my hat became loose for some part of its length. Also there were the effects of drying. Rather than be long delayed, I decided to wear the clothes still in their state of wrung out wetness, reasoning that the hot afternoon sun would settle them soon enough. Nor was I mistaken, and the frock coat and trousers were quickly done with. Unfortunately my cunning method also caused in them something of a loss of shape; in fact one so severe that my frock coat might have fitted a fellow several times my girth, billowing about me like a flag.
The clothes were long dry by the time I neared the building of the Metropolitan Committee for Sewers. My main concern, as I pondered the message I was to relate, was how best to live up to the promises of discretion I had made to the shore workers. After all, it was possible Sleak-Cunningham barely knew of their existence. How might I describe that strange class without revealing details that would put them in danger of arrest? I would have to use only general phrases, avoiding mention of where I had discovered them, or whence we had ventured.
In the event I need not have worried myself.
What signs were there that something was amiss at the home of the Metropolitan Committee for Sewers? First, even before I had reached Crete Street, there was the sight of a carriage hurtling by, horses’ eyes white and rolling as they struggled to give the vehicle pace. As it passed I caught a momentary glimpse of the solitary soul within; a fellow who bore close resemblance to the very Sleak-Cunningham whom I was on my way to visit. But Sleak-Cunningham would never, surely, have been sat in such a dismal way; hunched, as if cold.
Next there was the flurry of black hansom cabs before the Committee building, many already moving – as a flock of giant crows – and speeding away in different directions. Each carried an identical cargo; a single fellow, shabby of dress. More such types stood disputing for the few cabs still unclaimed. Every one of them, I observed, carried a notebook.
The third and final sign was the front door to the building itself. This, usually tight shut – visitors were
required to ring and wait as at a private house – stood ajar.
Reaching the entrance, I waylaid one of the journalists as he was about to clamber into his freshly-won vehicle. ‘What’s happening?’
A cheery, poorly-shaven soul, he exuded – as did they all – something of the excitement of a spectator enjoying the horse races on a fine and sunny afternoon. ‘Going on?’ The question seemed to amuse him. ‘Where’ve you been with yourself? Outer Patagonia?’
Though I asked again, the fellow had time for no more than his own joke, and clambered into the cab, rapping at the ceiling with his stick. His colleagues seemed no less impatient. After final wrangling as to means of escape, the last of them fitted himself into a hansom and, with a clattering of hooves and wheels, was gone.
I stepped inside the building. The silent hall within showed ample evidence of the scene just ended; the marble floor – normally so finely polished – was littered with bootmarks, discarded paper, and cigar butts. I surveyed the scene, aghast and also puzzled.
The man was stood so still that it was some moments before I saw him. There, beyond the mess, half concealed behind a pillar – almost as if he had been hiding himself away – stood the familiar figure of George Hove. I say familiar, but in truth he was barely so. His thin face, usually emanating such an aura of correct primness, was pale and shocked; bleary.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked.
He hardly seemed to see me. ‘They have assassinated Edwin. Nothing less.’ He glanced at me, eyes now seeming to focus. ‘Edwin has been forced to resign.’
It seemed hardly possible. The leading figure of the sanitary movement, the very soul of the Committee?
Hove stared at the ground. ‘They have destroyed him.’
‘Who?’
He shot me a look. ‘Who d’you think, man? Have you not been reading The Times?’
I had not, of course, for some weeks.
He shook his head. ‘I will never read it again. Never.’ He cast a glance about him, at the discarded papers on the floor. ‘They couldn’t let him alone even now, after they had wrecked him. On the very morning he had to leave us they came to crow and plague him with their vile questions.’ Though his voice was flat, he spoke with something of a sense of need, as if to rid himself of the matter. The words began to flow quickly, spilling from him.
Sweet Thames Page 21
