Sweep

by Jonathan Auxier

  Whittles caught sight of her, and his eyes widened. “Nan?”

  Nan ran toward them. “Where is he?”

  Miss Bloom turned and met her. “Nan. I’m sorry . . .” Her eyes were rimmed red.

  Nan ran past her to a bed in the corner. At first she thought the bed was empty—his body was that small. But now she could see that Newt was lying beneath the white sheet. Little Newt with the tiny dark eyes and the tiny little voice. Little Newt, who had begged her for stories about the girl and her Sweep. Little Newt, broken from the fall.

  “We’re here,” Nan whispered. “I brought help.”

  She pulled the sheet back from Newt’s face. His skin was wet with perspiration. His eyes were closed. “I brought someone who can help you.” She grabbed his cool hand. “Charlie!” she called. “We need you!”

  Charlie was still in the doorway, half-hidden behind Toby. He looked afraid. Toby led him into the room. Nan heard murmurs as Miss Bloom and the boys stepped back from the bed.

  “W-w-what is . . . ?” Miss Bloom whispered.

  “This is Charlie,” Nan said, glancing up. “He’s a golem.”

  The woman looked from Nan to Charlie and then back to Nan. Her mouth was open, but no words came from it. Nan thought of all the times she had pictured Miss Bloom meeting Charlie. None of them were like this.

  Toby led Charlie to the bed. Charlie seemed confused. “Where is Newt?” he said, looking at the faces—all of them staring at him. Nan wondered who among them was the most frightened.

  Nan nodded at Newt’s bed. “That’s him.”

  Charlie peered at the bed for a moment. Then realization dawned on his face. “He is very small.” His voice was shaking. “Is . . . is he an accident?”

  Nan took Charlie’s hands in her own. One soot. One stone. “Charlie. Listen to me. I know what I told you about . . . about helping. But right now you have to try.” Tears stung and blurred her eyes. “You have to save him. Do you understand?”

  Charlie nodded and looked at Newt. “You want me to . . . wake him?”

  “Please.” Nan let go of his hands and stepped back. She forced herself not to think about what would happen to Charlie. How much of him she might lose.

  Miss Bloom moved close to Nan. “What is it doing—?”

  “Shh,” Nan said. “Just wait.”

  Nan watched, hardly breathing, as Charlie leaned close to Newt. The golem placed his crumbling gray hand on Newt’s pale, clammy hand. Charlie closed his eyes and breathed slowly. Nan could feel the heat kindling inside Charlie’s breath. It warmed the room. His hand smoldered and began to glow.

  “Come back, Newt,” she whispered. “Come back.”

  Charlie strained his face, and his hand burned brighter. But nothing happened. At last, the golem opened his eyes. “He won’t . . . I can’t help him. . . .” He let go of Newt’s hand. It fell limp on the bed.

  “No,” Nan said. “You have to try harder. You have to help him. Charlie!”

  Nan felt Miss Bloom’s hand on her shoulder. “I tried to tell you, Nan,” she said gently. “William died in the carriage on the way to the hospital.”

  Nan looked at her. She looked at the faces of Whittles and Shilling-Tom. They had fresh tears in their eyes. “Dead?” She felt her chin quiver. She felt as if her legs might give way beneath the weight of it all. Newt wasn’t supposed to die. He couldn’t die. He had to live with Lady Wilde. He had to survive and be happy and be a little boy.

  “I am sorry.” Charlie lowered his head. “I wanted to help him.” Nan realized that for all his gifts, this was one thing Charlie could not do. He could not bring back the dead.

  Nan put her arms around Charlie. She could feel him trembling. She buried her face in his chest. She held him with everything she had. “I know you tried,” she whispered.

  “Goodbye, Newt?” he said.

  “Goodbye, Newt,” she said.

  ARRANGEMENTS

  Nan brought the others to the captain’s house.

  Miss Bloom couldn’t get in through the turret, and so she had Charlie force open the front door, which Nan had barricaded with nails and spare wood.

  Nan led them all to the study, which was the room with the most chairs. Toby quickly made himself useful by making a pot of something he called “boiled chocolate,” using a jar of sweet powder from his emporium. He understood that this was not the time for jokes or stories.

  Charlie had not spoken since the hospital. He sat in the fireplace, knees hugged to his chest, staring at the floor. Even when Dent hopped over and pecked his foot, he did not respond.

  “So this is where you’ve been living all this time?” Miss Bloom said. Even though she was speaking to Nan, she kept glancing at Charlie.

  Nan knew Miss Bloom must have a hundred questions about Charlie. She was grateful that the woman did not ask them.

  Whittles and Shilling-Tom were both standing by the bookshelves. Whittles had his penknife open, clenched tight in his hand. “So . . . how long have you had a pet monster?”

  Nan glanced at Charlie, who did not seem to have heard the remark. “He’s not a pet,” she said. “He’s my protector. The Sweep left him for me. He used to be much smaller. Small enough to fit in my pocket. Just a little lump of char.”

  Comprehension dawned on his face. “Your lucky char? That was . . . that?”

  Nan nodded, sipping her mug of chocolate.

  Whittles clapped his knee. “Now that’s a real corker. And just like the Sweep, too! Wait until I tell . . .” He stopped short, lowering his head. “I was going to say wait until I tell Newt.”

  Shilling-Tom put a hand on his shoulder.

  “So . . . what’s next?” Nan asked. She was talking to Miss Bloom.

  The woman cleared her throat. “We’ll need to make arrangements for the . . . for William’s body.” She sounded very much like a person determined not to cry. Like a person determined to be the grown-up.

  “It’s the least he deserves,” Shilling-Tom said. “Guess I know what I’ll be spending this on.” He was holding something between his thumb and forefinger—

  A battered silver coin.

  Nan’s eyes got wide. “Tom, your shilling . . .” In all her years of knowing Shilling-Tom, she had never actually seen the fabled coin. Roger had searched him countless times, even checking in his mouth, but never had the coin appeared. She had begun to think the coin was a myth. “Where did you hide it?”

  Shilling-Tom took his brush off his shoulder and offered it to her. “Whittles carved a little hideaway in the handle.”

  Nan looked at the worn wooden handle. She could see a notch in the base just large enough to hold a coin. “That’s brilliant.”

  Whittles tipped his cap with the point of his knife. “Isn’t it, though?”

  Shilling-Tom looked at the coin. “I know it’s not much, but it should be enough to get us a pine box, at least.” He gave a tight smile. “Guess you’ll be calling me Plain-Old-Tom after this?”

  “Oh, no,” Miss Bloom said, standing. She opened her small purse. “The ladies of the friendly society will insist on paying—”

  “No,” Tom said, firm. “Newt was one of us. It’s only right that we see him off proper.”

  Miss Bloom looked as if she wanted to object, but Nan caught her eye. “Very good,” she said quietly, and sat back down.

  Nan turned to Toby, who was clearing the empty mugs. “Toby, do you know someone who could get us a box? Nothing fancy.”

  Toby nodded and took the coin. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, and slipped into the hall.

  “Wilkie Crudd will pay for this,” Miss Bloom whispered. She wiped her eyes. “The friendly society has connections—influence, power. They will make sure that he rots in a cell for what he’s done to that boy.” She looked up. “To all of you.”

  Nan looked at Whittles and Shilling-Tom, who did not seem comforted by this declaration. Whittles scratched the back of his neck. “No offense to your friendly society, but wha
t good’ll that do us?”

  “Aye,” Shilling-Tom said. “Even if you lock Crudd up for all eternity, he’ll just sell us off to Martin Grimes or Ned Tookley, and we’ll be back at it before May Day’s through. You’ll see.”

  Miss Bloom shook her head. “Obviously we won’t allow that. When I tell the friendly society about both of you, I assure you, they’ll—”

  Nan put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s not what they mean, Miss Bloom,” she said. “Even if you save Whittles and Tom, there’re still thousands more out there just like them.” She felt odd talking to Miss Bloom like this, but she needed to make her understand. “You can’t save them all.”

  Miss Bloom shook her head, defiant. “But we must do something. We must show people the true cost.”

  “It ain’t going to happen, ma’am,” Whittles said. “We’re inside their houses every day—right under their noses. It’s been this way for hundreds of years. Some folk are very good at not seeing things they don’t want to see.”

  Nan glanced outside—at the flower garlands draped over the gaslights. “That’s true,” she said, stepping to the window. “Except for one day a year.” She looked back at the boys who joined her side.

  All three of them stared at the street. Flowers. Banners. Coal pies. “One day a year,” Whittles said.

  Shilling-Tom chuckled. “That’s brilliant.”

  Miss Bloom was looking between them, clearly confused. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. . . .”

  “May Day.” Nan turned around, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. “The whole city comes out to cheer for the sweeps. So let’s show them what they’re really cheering for.”

  A COUNCIL OF CLIMBERS

  Nan and the others had an idea, but they wouldn’t be able to pull it off alone.

  By the next morning, their company had grown to include Finn O’Gready, Lucky John, the Twins, Ham-n-Eggs, Sticky Fingers, and a dozen more of the most senior climbers in London. They had all been pulled away from their traditional May Day preparations in order to hear about the plan.

  Nan tried to explain what she and the others had come up with the previous night. The boys listened as best they could, only occasionally sneaking glances at Charlie, who had busied himself with making smoke shapes in the corner.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Lucky John after Nan had walked them through everything. “You want us to cancel May Day?”

  “No, not cancel,” Whittles said. “We’ll do the march. Only this time we’ll be marching for something.”

  “We already do march for somethin’,” Ham-n-Eggs said. “Coal pies and pennies. And that’s plenty enough for me!”

  “Coal pies, my ear.” Lucky John ribbed another boy with his elbow. “Hammie’s just hopin’ to get a kiss from the flower girl on Hastings!”

  “Oi! You shut your mouth!” Ham-n-Eggs shoved him, and the two boys set to wrestling. Soon the rest of them had joined in on the fun.

  Nan rubbed her temple. May Day was the next day, and they had already wasted half the morning trying to explain even the most basic parts of the plan. “It’s hopeless,” she said to Miss Bloom. “They’re barbarians.”

  “Perhaps I can help?” The woman rose from her chair. “I am a teacher, after all.”

  “By all means,” Nan said.

  The woman approached the scrum, hands clasped in front of her. “That’s quite enough tomfoolery,” she said in a stern tone. “Hands in your laps, eyes on me. Spit-spot.”

  The boys in the pile looked up at her.

  “Do I need to repeat myself?” she said.

  Without a word of grumbling the boys disentangled themselves and sat in a circle around her. It was as though they were hypnotized.

  “That’s better,” Miss Bloom said, her voice softening. “Now . . . who can tell me what a law is?”

  Nan listened as Miss Bloom walked the boys through the plan. It wasn’t anything too complicated. They would turn the May Day parade into a protest march. They would use this moment to reveal to all of London the truth about their lives. A few of the boys were resistant—climbers spent all year looking forward to the parade. There was meant to be music and dancing, not gloomy protests.

  “We’ll need all the climbers in London,” Miss Bloom insisted. “It won’t work if it’s just a handful. That’s why we brought you here—your teams respect you, and we’ll need all of you to get them on board.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Lucky John said. “When we tell ’em that Nan Sparrow’s alive and marching with us—you can bet they’ll come running.” He, like many of the boys, was a little sweet on Nan.

  Nan felt a flicker of apprehension. “Best not to mention my name.” After so many months living as a ghost, she wasn’t sure she was ready to re-enter the world of the living. “This isn’t about me, it’s about us.”

  “One last question,” said Sticky Fingers. He was maybe the smartest of the bunch and hadn’t said a word all morning. “Even if we do all this and it goes off without a hitch, what’s to say it’ll really change anything? Folks will still need their chimneys cleaned.”

  “Sticky’s got a point,” one of the Twins said. “So long as there’s fires in the hearths, there’ll be climbers in the flues.” A few other boys murmured in agreement.

  “They’re right, Smudge.” Toby walked across the room to his emporium. “In order for this plan to work, you’ll need to show folks that there’s another way to get the job done.” He opened his bag. “And it so happens, I have just the thing.”

  Toby drew out a bundle of bamboo reeds with a long cord running through the middle. At the top was a ring of stiff bristles.

  “The mechanical brush!” Nan said. “You actually finished it.”

  “I didn’t want to show it to you until it was perfect. You’ll notice I made a few improvements on the design.” He pulled the cord tight and the bristles extended with a snap. The boys stared in awe.

  “So . . . you can clean a whole chimney without climbing up inside?” Ham-n-Eggs asked.

  “And in half the time,” Toby replied. “All that’s left for you is to scoop up what sprinkles down.” He showed them how the poles fit into one another and could bend around even the sharpest shuttle flue.

  Miss Bloom was looking from Nan to Toby. “And you two invented this all on your own?”

  “Not exactly,” Nan said. “I just found a diagram in an old newspaper. Toby did the real work.” She shoved him with her elbow.

  Toby doffed his cap. “Not bad for a mudlark.”

  Sticky Fingers had the brush in his dirty hands. He collapsed the head with a snap. “Who cares about coal pies and flower girls.” He stood up, facing the others. “It ain’t just Newt we’re marching for. Every one of us has seen ten Newts on the job—maimed or kilt or taken ill. We’re doing this for every one of them.” He raised the brush. “Brooms up?”

  Every boy in the room leaped to his feet. “BROOMS UP!”

  SIGNS AND WONDERS

  Whittles and Shilling-Tom volunteered to help spread the word to climbers across the city. It wouldn’t take long. Sweeps traveled a hidden network along the rooftops. They needed only to whisper the word into open chimney caps and the whole of climbing London would hear.

  “Whatever you do,” Toby warned them, “don’t let your masters hear a word of it.” The boys looked at one another, perhaps realizing for the first time how much trouble they would be in if their masters knew what they were plotting.

  “What about the parade?” Lucky John said. “Old Grimes will surely see us. And he won’t be none too happy.” He climbed for Martin Grimes, who was notorious for his beatings.

  “We’ll be safe,” Nan said. “We’ll have Charlie to protect us.”

  The boys looked over at Charlie, who was in the middle of playing Catch-the-Feather with Prospero and Dent.

  “Terrifying,” Whittles said.

  Nan didn’t let herself worry. “You’ve seen what he did to Crudd.”

&nbs
p; The next question was how to best get their message across to the crowds. Miss Bloom suggested that they follow the example of the suffragists and employ painted signs. “The written word carries authority—it commands respect.”

  Nan seconded the idea. “Miss Bloom and I can do the letters.”

  The boys looked visibly relieved to learn that they wouldn’t have to be responsible for that part. “That’s settled, but what should the signs say?” Sticky Fingers asked.

  They discussed at length what sort of message might make the best impact. Should every sign say the same thing? Should they use clever slogans? “No, nothing clever,” Miss Bloom insisted. “That will give people permission to laugh. Remember, these signs are not for your benefit. They are for the benefit of those watching. The ladies of the friendly society will have brought members of Parliament with them, including Lord Shaftesbury, who is sympathetic to our cause. He has been trying to effect change for years. It is them we need to consider.”

  They needed something that couldn’t be disputed or ignored. In the end it was Whittles who came up with exactly the right words.

  Nan and Miss Bloom stayed up through the night working on the signs.

  They raided the captain’s map collection and painted the backs of as many as they could manage—more than a hundred in all. “All those boys, and not one can spell his own name,” Miss Bloom said, shaking her head. “To live in poverty is one thing, but to live in ignorance . . . It breaks my heart. They deserve more.”

  “Maybe your friendly society can help with that?”

  “Maybe so.” Miss Bloom dipped her brush into the pot. “I was myself a beneficiary of a friendly society. After I left my family, I was taken in by a charity school for girls. I don’t know what I would have done without it.”

  Nan set her brush down. “I still don’t understand. You had a family. You still do. How could you leave them behind—just because they were strict?” Nan nodded to Whittles and Tom, who were sleeping on the hearth beside Charlie. “Do you know what those two would give for strict parents?”