Field of Dust

by Angela Jean Young

  There were even fewer people heading back to London, and the Grants had the boat almost to themselves. Sam noticed how many empty ale glasses were lying around. Considering it wasn’t yet midday, he felt sorry for the workers and entertainers in the gardens. There had been many reports of drunkenness and disorderly conduct of late, even some arrests. Priscilla Lee, who told fortunes while people were queuing to find a space round the bear pit, enjoyed regaling her audience with the tale of an overzealous Irish labourer who, having pushed his arm through the bars of the cage to offer the bear a biscuit, got a nasty surprise. Bruin, mindful of his status among the carnivora, proceeded to avail himself of the arm rather than the biscuit. Sadly, Bruin had to be beaten off with an iron bar before the man could be extricated and rushed to the Middlesex hospital.

  From the top deck of the Elfin, the girls’ excitement grew as the steamer moved gently away from its mooring. The ebb tide revealed encrusted barnacles below the waterline of the gleaming white pier posts and, as the paddles churned up the mud, ropes of black seaweed could be seen flailing around the great wheels. The smell of the sea was overpowering.

  Flossie watched the captain as he sought out a channel to navigate the busy river and noticed him motioning to a boy standing below at the engine-room hatch. Thinking she recognised him, she looked again. It was Stanley Bull, Albert’s older brother who, at thirteen, already seemed proficient in his job as the call boy. With no bell or telegraph from the bridge to the engineer, the call boy had to fix his eyes on the skipper, who, by hand motions, signalled what he wanted done.

  ‘Stop her easy! Half a turn astern,’ Stanley yelled down the hatch. Flossie was impressed. She was quite taken by how grown-up he looked in his smart navy-blue trousers and shiny boots. Such an important job, she thought, blushing slightly at her unexpected interest in a boy.

  ‘Full speed ahead,’ Stanley confirmed, before heading back to the bridge. Flossie watched him duck beneath a sign that read Do not speak to the man at the wheel. Then he was gone.

  Sam got the girls lemonade from the Elfin’s refreshment bar and they made their way to the dingy forecabin – the aft being for the sole use of first-class passengers. It was a lovely day and the girls so ached to be in the sunshine that they downed their drinks quickly and returned to the deck, where the breeze past Purfleet was now quite strong. Sam took off his cap and, folding it carefully, pushed it into his trouser pocket. The girls tightened their bonnet ribbons. Nearing Greenwich and the magnificent Naval College, the Elfin jostled with three other paddle steamers for a turn to come alongside a floating pier. Flossie smiled when she saw that they were called Sea Swallow, Gannet and Petrel, imagining what the other boats belonging to the Diamond Funnel Company might be called.

  As they moved closer there was a commotion on a sloping beach exposed at low tide, which caused Stanley Bull to bellow more instructions down the hatch. The small chunk of seaside was full to bursting with Londoners enjoying themselves, their children wading, bathing and sailing model boats. Lottie, deciding that this was where she was going to get off, made for the gangplank and had to be restrained by Sam. Embarrassed at how much noise a near-seven-year-old could make, Flossie offered her sister a handkerchief, which was refused. With tears streaming down her pink face, Lottie was left to her own devices.

  The crew cast off again and the paddle steamer headed upriver through the increasingly polluted waters of the Thames. The further they travelled, the more the view deteriorated. Elegant church spires could be seen in the distance, but only above ugly wharves and the sooty backs of warehouses lining the banks on both sides. The bleakness was only broken by the occasional lively alehouse reached by a flight of lightermen steps ascending out of the water. The vista was not entirely without excitement, though; barges were everywhere, weaving expertly in and out, delivering and collecting cargo from the jetties. At Pickle Herring Wharf there was a slight collision, but not severe enough to deter the watermen from their business. Along the Rotherhithe and Bermondsey waterfront, barges were tying up right alongside the wharves, their bags of flour and grain unloaded by overhead hoists. The walls of the warehouses were powdered white by the stuff.

  ‘Poo,’ squealed a recovered Lottie, holding her nose and pointing to thick smoke coming from a tall, thin chimney.

  ‘That’s horrible,’ agreed Flossie. ‘Whatever’s causing it, Pa?’

  ‘Ah, that’ll be the Queens Pipe,’ Sam replied. ‘At Tobacco Dock. There’s an oven burning bad tobacco day and night. Come on, come over here. Look at all the sailing ships.’

  Sam’s attempt at distraction proved successful. Flossie and Lottie gasped at the size of the vessels unloading in the docks, their tall masts too numerous to count. The thought of the vast distances they had travelled, combined with the rich aromas issuing from them, simply overwhelmed their senses. The delightful scent of fresh fruit quickly gave way to the musky aroma of hides, skins and vast mounds of wool. As they neared St. Katherine’s Dock, sweet molasses, rum and wine mixed unpleasantly with rubber tapped from the impenetrable Amazon basin. Meanwhile, Sam fuelled the girls’ imaginations with stories of Chinese silks, Russian furs, coffee from Brazil, ostrich feathers from South Africa, oils and spices from India and perfumes from the Orient.

  ‘Ivory tusks from Africa have their own warehouse,’ he continued. ‘I’ve seen it. Lost count how many hundreds of whole elephant tusks there were, and tons more sawn into pieces and stacked like drainpipes. Even had giant hippopotamus teeth for sale.’

  ‘And every bit of it has passed by our Creek to get here,’ marvelled Flossie.

  Sam did his best to explain that the Port of London was the centre of a world trade, and the River Thames the artery along which the great ships came and went, carrying the goods and produce that made the British Empire the envy of the world.

  ‘The trouble is, not everyone benefits from all the riches. Compare the wealth locked up in the docks to the meagre rewards the workers get for handling it. James and Tom Luck say they don’t get any wage at all when unfavourable winds stop the sailing ships from coming up the estuary. It just ain’t right.’

  Flossie asked why Henry Luck bragged so much when his father had no guaranteed daily work.

  ‘Sometimes people brag to hide what their lives are really like,’ Sam suggested. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be too hard on him, young Floss.’

  Flossie nodded, filled with remorse.

  As they entered the Pool of London, there were so many ships in dock that they found themselves delayed alongside Billingsgate’s pungent fish market. Gangs of market porters were landing huge crates of fish, almost treading on each other’s heels as they made their way across a narrow bridge of shore planks that vibrated under their weight.

  ‘If they get out of step they’ll be jerked into the water,’ Sam said, ‘load and all.’ Then, pointing out the ice ship with its flag flying, he added respectfully, ‘No harder work on the river.’

  Flossie couldn’t see why, until her father pointed to two men hoisting a yard-square block of ice – a huge mass – onto the back of a third.

  ‘He has to carry that over the narrow plank, up a steep hill and gangway, through the market and out into Thames Street. A porter told me he once watched a man slip with a load like that. It fell on him, staving every rib, just like they were bacca-pipes.’

  Lottie buried her face in her sister’s shawl and covered her ears.

  Relieved to be on the move again, they watched gangs of men, naked to the waist, their bodies, faces and hair frosted black with glistening coal grit, hauling huge baskets of coal out of the holds of colliers and swinging them over the side to be emptied into barges waiting in the pool.

  ‘Some of them will end up back at Northfleet.’ Sam shrugged. It certainly looked like back-breaking work, Flossie thought, slightly embarrassed to find herself staring for longer than seemed proper.

  It wasn’t long bef
ore they were stepping onto firm ground at the Old Swan pier. Weaving their way through a maze of bales and barrels to Thames Street, they followed the river along the Victoria Embankment in search of the mysterious obelisk.

  ‘There it is!’ shouted Sam, quickening his step and almost pulling Lottie off her feet. The sixty-eight-foot-high, 180-ton red granite obelisk was impossible to miss, with its two imposing bronze sphinxes protecting it on either side. They wandered around it in awe, Sam stopping to read the plaques mounted round the base, which told the history of the 3,500-year-old ‘needle’ and its journey to London at a cost of ten thousand pounds. The girls chattered about the contents of a ‘time capsule’ said to be buried at the front of the pedestal. Flossie could see why someone from the future might be interested in maps, coins, a Bradshaw’s Railway Guide, copies of the Bible in different languages and an explanation of how the obelisk was erected, but not a box of hairpins, a shilling razor and a baby’s bottle, let alone photographs of a dozen beautiful Englishwomen.

  After they had eaten their bread and cheese, Lottie was beginning to yawn. It had been an exhausting day so Sam carried her back to London Bridge on his broad shoulders. On reaching Thames Street, dozens of other adventurers like themselves were milling about, searching for the sign saying This way to the steamboats. Luckily for the Grants, they had their return tickets, as there was an unholy crush at the payment kiosk.

  Being one of the first parties to board, Sam ushered his girls into the forecabin and wrapped Flossie’s shawl around them both, knowing that when the departure bell rang the chances were that a cloud of dirt and dust would descend. This often happened with the larger steamers when the funnel had to be lowered to allow passage under the bridge at high tide. Lottie stopped complaining about not being able to go on deck when she saw the women’s frocks dotted with black smuts.

  ‘Lucky you’re in here,’ laughed a man, poking his head through the door. ‘Look at these blacks,’ he said, pointing to his mottled collar and cuffs. ‘Can you squeeze up and let me and the wife sit down? Ain’t too comfortable on deck. No seats left. What’s more, there’ll be loads more getting on at Cherry Gardens, mark my words. Slums they may be, but they’ll be finding a shilling for a jolly evening at Rosherville, that’s for sure.’ With that he tapped his pipe on the arm of the bench and folded his arms.

  As the steamer swept through the centre arch of London Bridge, a band of instrumentalists with harp, fiddle and cornopean emerged from the drinking saloon. The jig they played wasn’t too bad, but the ballad was horribly out of tune, causing great hilarity amongst the passengers. Thankfully the musicians moved on to the sixteen-penny end of the boat as the steamer pulled alongside the Cherry Garden floating pier, where dozens more brash people, carrying their own food and drink, flooded onto the decks.

  By early evening they were well on their way home. The stretch of green countryside opened out and the river became brighter and the smell less unpleasant. Two hours passed quickly and the girls, now rested, wandered happily around the steamer for the remainder of the trip. At one point Flossie couldn’t help but notice an old couple sitting close together, beaming with happiness. His hand was in hers as it rested on his knee and all around them were family – a thickset son with his attentive wife and their half-dozen children. It was a touching scene, something she wasn’t familiar with.

  Flossie hadn’t met any of her relations. Mary occasionally spoke of her own mother, Fanny, in Essex, and Sam had said that his father went in and out of the workhouse depending on how much work he could get in the fields, but that was all. Flossie knew that everyone regarded going into the workhouse as the absolute last resort, so her grandfather’s life sounded very sad and lonely. She couldn’t ever imagine not being close to Lottie and looking out for her. Glancing over at her father, she caught him looking wistfully at the happy scene too.

  ‘Look, look, there’s the windmill,’ someone shouted, ‘on the top of the hill.’ Necks craned in the general direction of the old mill in Gravesend.

  Determined to join others who were waving at a bargeman lifting his brown tarpaulin hat in friendly greeting, Lottie had to be held tightly to stop her from leaning too far over the barrier. Slowly people started getting up and making ready to disembark.

  At Rosherville Pier there were a few drunks, as was common at most landing places, but with such a surge of revellers determined to alight they did not cause a problem. Sam held on to the girls tightly, mulling over the best way to get home as the crowd pushed and shoved impatiently through the tunnel. Remembering that the gas lamps along the Undershore were constantly being smashed, he made the decision to go via the main road, where there would be more people.

  Unfortunately, it turned out to be a rash decision. With gangs of men leaving the gardens much the worse for drink, the road from St. James’ in Gravesend to Rosherville had become the haunt of prostitutes. Holding Lottie on his hip and telling Flossie not to stare, they rushed along the main road. Outside The Leather Bottle a group of dishevelled old women, using the foulest of language, were accosting every man or boy passing them. It was a disgraceful scene, and Sam was relieved when he finally put some distance between them and his girls. As they reached the High Street it began to rain. Three young women, somewhat unsteady on their feet, passed them. Cackling like witches and without an ounce of shame, they lifted their skirts over their heads to protect their hairstyles and disappeared up Station Road.

  Times were certainly changing, Sam thought.

  6

  Flossie seemed to be waiting much longer than usual outside The Huggens. It was a hot day and there was a fragrant aroma of strawberries wafting on the breeze.

  She watched enviously as a coster pushed his cart past her, yelling, ‘Fine strawberries, all ripe, all ripe!’ Not having any coppers, she hung her head dejectedly. He lingered a few moments, then reached forward and threw her a single juicy strawberry, before heading off up College Road towards the alms houses.

  Hearing a commotion nearby, she turned to see a gang of local boys chasing up and down The Creek pretending to be Zulus and redcoats in pitched battle. The Zulus were taunting the soldiers with driftwood spears, the soldiers crouching behind the jetty wall pointing sticks and finger-rifles back at them. Suddenly a loud cheer went up from the warriors as, from around the corner, the Zulu chief, Henry Luck, appeared. With a headband fashioned from pigeon and seagull feathers, his face daubed with mud, and a straw skirt rolled up over his trousers, he looked every bit the warrior king. Waving his shield made from barrel staves, he leapt onto the jetty in full cry. Soon chaos ensued. Warriors lay dead in the gutters. Soldiers hung limply over the wall.

  Flossie approached the Zulu chief, who was standing with arms raised on top of the jetty wall. ‘This looks fun,’ she said smiling, trying to be friendly.

  ‘It’s serious stuff, silly. We’re fighting the Battle of Rorke’s Drift,’ he stated triumphantly. ‘It’s not for girls.’

  ‘Well, you don’t look much like a Zulu chief to me,’ she snapped back, turning on her heels and marching off. Not being hard on Henry was going to be a challenge.

  As the long-suffering landlord, Robert Scott, finally succeeded in getting rid of his regulars, a dishevelled Mary emerged along with other residents of The Creek, all of whom were deep in discussion about something. Unrolling a crumpled newspaper from under his arm, Jacob Turner silenced everyone with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Right, I can read it proper, now I’m out in the daylight. Says: On this 15th day of June 1880, the two Judges of the High Court of Justice assigned to the Election Petition trial against Thomas Bevan, determined that the said Thomas Bevan was not duly returned nor elected and that the said Election was void. Then it goes on to list the ten men found guilty of bribing or being bribed.’

  Silence descended, even Mary managing to contain herself. Reading on, Jacob Turner pushed his cap back and cleared his throat.

&
nbsp; ‘Listen to this last bit, then. It says: No corrupt practice was proved to have been committed by, or with, the knowledge or consent of any Candidate at such Election.’

  ‘So, Bevan himself’s not guilty, then,’ came a voice from the back.

  ‘Seems not,’ confirmed Jacob. ‘But there’ll have to be a by-election next month.’ With that, he strode off and the crowd gradually dispersed.

  Thomas Bevan had been elected Liberal MP for Gravesend in April 1880 – the year that William Gladstone took office for a second time as Prime Minister. Voting irregularities were commonplace. Only five per cent of Britain’s thirty million citizens had the vote and they had to be male householders, tenants, or lodgers paying at least ten pounds a year in rent. Bevan was an employer of a thousand in the town, of whom 180 were voters. On election day, the employees clocked in as usual. Each received a rosette in Bevan’s colours and then those eligible were given the afternoon off with pay to vote. It was this that was seen as constituting bribery and cost Bevan the election.

  Jacob Turner shook his head at the sight of Flossie holding Mary upright as they tottered past his front door. Bessie would have killed him if he’d ever returned from the alehouse in that state. It had been a bad week for him. He’d already lost a week’s pay on account of an accident in Bevan’s cooper’s yard and, with six children to feed and clothe, he felt up against it.

  Every works had its own cooperage, as cement for exportation was better kept dry in barrels. Bevan’s churned out over two thousand casks a day. Jacob was on a production line, manhandling flaming casks before a cooper hammered metal hoops onto them to form barrels. It was when the burning staves were being doused with water and compressed that a momentary loss of concentration resulted in him burning his hand.