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Authors: Deborah Hopkinson
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soon enough, and Mrs. Miggle would expect to be paid the four shillings I owed her, plus the two I’d been short this week.
As it turned out, that penny was just the beginning. There was tin to be had from the panic that struck Broad Street that Friday, and though I didn’t like profiting from misfortune, I was grateful to hear the chink of coins in my pocket.
All that afternoon I ran up and down Broad Street andthe smaller lanes surrounding it—Dufours Place, Cambridge Street, and Hopkins Street. I went down Poland, Berwick, Marshall, and Cross Streets. Everywhere it was the same: frightened families rushing to escape the blue death.
Sometimes I got a penny or two for helping to load a cart. Other times a harried mother asked me to carry a basket down a steep flight of steps. The streets were crowded with people, scurrying in all directions. There were more coffin carts too.
It was nearly dark before I made my way down Regent Street to Dr. Snow’s neighborhood. Sackville Street felt like another world: quiet and peaceful, with just a few gentlemen and ladies out for an evening stroll.
They don’t even know what’s happening less than a mile away
, I thought.
I was so tired after feeding the animals I almost curled up in a corner of the shed. But I didn’t dare risk Mrs. Weatherburn catching me. I’d best go back to the river. I might even be able to troll for coal before going to sleep. The tide was low, perfect for mudlarking. A half-moon would be up soon; the moon grew rounder and brighter every night.
I made my way to Blackfriars Bridge, stopping just once to buy a loaf of bread and the end of a round of cheese. I spotted Thumbless Jake in the distance, his tall shape almost fuzzy in the strange yellowy light. I kept out of his way. I didn’t want Jake being tempted to turn me in to Fisheye.
I found a stretch of river I could work in peace. Most of the regulars had stopped to get bread and a pint of beer with their day’s earnings. Or maybe the stench had gotten too much.
The moon cast a glittery light on the water as I waded through the thick slime, my eyes on the shallows and the edge of the bank. The weather might be warm, but folks still needed coal for cooking. I wouldn’t ignore iron, copper, or even bits of wood, but coal was my first choice. I looked for lumps dropped by bargemen as they heaved their loads to the shore.
After a while I found an empty barge tied up near some of the old tumbledown wooden factories that hugged the river’s edge. I scrambled up a rope and wedged myself between two rows of barrels on the deck. It would have to do.
It was a little more comfortable than the night before, and I was tired enough. But I couldn’t get to sleep. My mind raced from one trouble to another: the blue death and what it meant for folks on Broad Street; Mr. Griggs and the way he’d looked, all blue and dried out; Fisheye Bill; and what the future might hold for Henry and me.
I’d begun to have hope when I was at the Lion. I was proud of my work and had learned a lot. Sometimes I’d even had the courage to make a suggestion to Abel Cooper. Once, after I’d come up with a system for double-checking the orders we sent out, the foreman had patted my shoulder. “Old Jake was right about you, lad. You may look a bit wild,with those inky black eyes you got, but you notice things. Good work.”
Good work
. If it hadn’t been for Hugzie, I would still be there, with a real job—and, most important, a way to keep Henry safe. My mind ached from too many thoughts, and my stomach ached from not enough food. And then, just before sleep finally took me, I remembered again: today had been my birthday.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bernie
Saturday, September 2
“Where is he?”
I came awake instantly. Vaguely I realized that I was stiff, stuffed as I was into the small space between the rows of barrels on the barge. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the voice. I knew that voice.
“Don’t deny it,
As it turned out, that penny was just the beginning. There was tin to be had from the panic that struck Broad Street that Friday, and though I didn’t like profiting from misfortune, I was grateful to hear the chink of coins in my pocket.
All that afternoon I ran up and down Broad Street andthe smaller lanes surrounding it—Dufours Place, Cambridge Street, and Hopkins Street. I went down Poland, Berwick, Marshall, and Cross Streets. Everywhere it was the same: frightened families rushing to escape the blue death.
Sometimes I got a penny or two for helping to load a cart. Other times a harried mother asked me to carry a basket down a steep flight of steps. The streets were crowded with people, scurrying in all directions. There were more coffin carts too.
It was nearly dark before I made my way down Regent Street to Dr. Snow’s neighborhood. Sackville Street felt like another world: quiet and peaceful, with just a few gentlemen and ladies out for an evening stroll.
They don’t even know what’s happening less than a mile away
, I thought.
I was so tired after feeding the animals I almost curled up in a corner of the shed. But I didn’t dare risk Mrs. Weatherburn catching me. I’d best go back to the river. I might even be able to troll for coal before going to sleep. The tide was low, perfect for mudlarking. A half-moon would be up soon; the moon grew rounder and brighter every night.
I made my way to Blackfriars Bridge, stopping just once to buy a loaf of bread and the end of a round of cheese. I spotted Thumbless Jake in the distance, his tall shape almost fuzzy in the strange yellowy light. I kept out of his way. I didn’t want Jake being tempted to turn me in to Fisheye.
I found a stretch of river I could work in peace. Most of the regulars had stopped to get bread and a pint of beer with their day’s earnings. Or maybe the stench had gotten too much.
The moon cast a glittery light on the water as I waded through the thick slime, my eyes on the shallows and the edge of the bank. The weather might be warm, but folks still needed coal for cooking. I wouldn’t ignore iron, copper, or even bits of wood, but coal was my first choice. I looked for lumps dropped by bargemen as they heaved their loads to the shore.
After a while I found an empty barge tied up near some of the old tumbledown wooden factories that hugged the river’s edge. I scrambled up a rope and wedged myself between two rows of barrels on the deck. It would have to do.
It was a little more comfortable than the night before, and I was tired enough. But I couldn’t get to sleep. My mind raced from one trouble to another: the blue death and what it meant for folks on Broad Street; Mr. Griggs and the way he’d looked, all blue and dried out; Fisheye Bill; and what the future might hold for Henry and me.
I’d begun to have hope when I was at the Lion. I was proud of my work and had learned a lot. Sometimes I’d even had the courage to make a suggestion to Abel Cooper. Once, after I’d come up with a system for double-checking the orders we sent out, the foreman had patted my shoulder. “Old Jake was right about you, lad. You may look a bit wild,with those inky black eyes you got, but you notice things. Good work.”
Good work
. If it hadn’t been for Hugzie, I would still be there, with a real job—and, most important, a way to keep Henry safe. My mind ached from too many thoughts, and my stomach ached from not enough food. And then, just before sleep finally took me, I remembered again: today had been my birthday.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bernie
Saturday, September 2
“Where is he?”
I came awake instantly. Vaguely I realized that I was stiff, stuffed as I was into the small space between the rows of barrels on the barge. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the voice. I knew that voice.
“Don’t deny it,
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