Mrs Eliza Brind was a remarkably pragmatic woman, and in fact had already lost any great feeling for the philandering captain and had come largely to facilitate divorce proceedings. To everyone’s surprise, perhaps even as a mark of retribution, she actually took Moewaka under her wing. They all lived together with the Robertons on Motoarohuia Island where the baby was born, a bouncy pretty light skinned, giggling baby, who was duly named Issabella.
Chapter One
London, England 1839 – Escape
With morbid fascination, Matthew watched the droplet hanging from the flooring beam above. Slowly it elongated and extended, then lazily fell to the floor. The blood splattered beside him on the filthy floor before coagulating in the dust and dirt. It lay there, dirty vermilion in colour, lifeless yet steeped with the horror of recent memory.
Only seconds before, he had tumbled down the narrow staircase, from a backhanded blow to the face, to where he now lay in a shaking heap: a helpless little boy, crying soundlessly.
He curled there, in a foetal position, transfixed by the sound of the rod and the despairing screams and wails.The metal fire tong in the room upstairs rose and fell, rose and fell, in relentless cadence, till the heart-rending cries became ghastly, pitiful gurgles, and even they too faded away. Numb and sick at heart, Matthew knew without doubt his mother was now dead, beaten in a drunken frenzy from cowering submission to the blessed release of death. The thud of the rod striking flesh and breaking bone, matched the drunken grunts of this animal that had come into their lives and into his mother’s bed.
Eventually, he heard the bed springs give way under the weight of the gross body and the bed collapsed, though the man had already passed out, uncaring and comatose. From the room came a further crash that made his heart pound, but it was only the brute rolling over on to the floor.
The boy barely noticed the tears in his eyes and the blood from his lip. His ribs and head hurt badly, but his skinny, underfed body had apparently absorbed the punishment without any bones breaking, for which he was grateful.
With his father dead in his grave, his brain ravaged from lead poisoning at his workplace, his mother had struggled to survive with a licentious landlord and an uncaring society. One terrible night, the evil brute had broken into their mean terrace house, first forcing his way on top of her and never leaving. Now he had gruesomely murdered the one and only person that Matthew could call his family.
With all the resolve a terrified ten year old boy could muster, he made his legs move to the crude small kitchen. Behind a brick he had stored his eight precious pennies, wrapped in a dirty piece of cloth. He reached for the jar of wax matches on the ancient coal range. There were only two matches inside.
On feet encased in threadbare stockings, and with a thudding heart, he crept up the stairs to the broken door that hung ajar from the awful bedroom. There was no movement from the shape that used to be his mother and the sight of the bloodied remains made him gag. He barely kept from throwing up. Beer and spit gurgled in the throat of the snoring monster. Now there rose inside Matthew, a potent mix of hate, anger and fear and he swore revenge.
In his haste, the head broke off the first match. His hand shook with fear that the second match would go out before its deed was done. The flame flared, spluttered and then settled.
In four steps he reached the mattress. The tired old cotton smoked almost immediately, and then ignited on more accumulated rubbish. Acrid fumes from years of filth, vomit and urine rose into the room, but Matthew stood watching and waiting for any sign of movement. Suddenly the big man gurgled and choked on the smoke and a gush of beer and bile spewed out on to the floor. Matthew had already turned to make his escape, but despite himself he glanced back. Two glassy eyes peered at him uncomprehending, before the drunken brain surfaced enough to realize what was happening. With a gurgling snarl, he began to cast around for the fire tong.
“No,” cried Matthew, as they both went for the weapon.
Matthew reached it first. He picked it up and wildly swung at the head of the man. The big head ducked but the bar caught him on the shoulder, with enough force to drive him back. But the animal was sobering fast and he recovered immediately, to lunge back at Matthew’s legs. Matthew again raised the tong and with all his strength, brought it down on the brute’s head. The angled metal penetrated the skull and the man went down, instantly struck dead.
For a frozen moment in time, Matthew looked down at the two bodies at his feet. Foul smoke was now billowing freely from the mattress and flames were beginning to lick a path through the rubbish on the floor. Shortly the whole house would be aflame, but Matthew seemed immobile.
He choked and as if in a trance he stumbled slowly towards the door. He reluctantly waited as long as he could bear it, before finding his battered shoes and opening the door to the alleyway. The house contained no toy, no trinket. Not a single item belonged to him that had worth and even his mother was now gone. He pulled the door closed behind him, barely containing the smoke that was now filling the house. Without looking back, he walked away from the only home he had ever known, knowing he would never return.
Muck from the carriages and carts clung unnoticed to his shoes and only when he reached the end of the road did he turn to look back. He could already see flames at the upper window, but so far none of the few passers-by had noticed, nor were there signs of help coming. He knew the local fire truck was disabled, it had been pushed into the canal a week earlier by revellers and the fire pump was wrecked. In these mean streets the houses were cheek and jowl, old terraced buildings built hard against each other. Many people would probably lose their homes tonight, but the turmoil in the mind of the frightened lad meant that he could not conceive the consequences that his eyes would never see.
Matthew stumbled his way along the cobblestone tow path, slipping on the greasy surface. He took care to avoid any one who might recognise him, but no one was paying any heed to a scruffy little urchin. There was endless drizzle of this time of the year. It chilled and dampened the souls of affluent people, while poor folk had always just stoically born the load of the elements, as yet another penalty for bothering to be alive.
Matthew had never been more than half a mile from his home and that was to the church house, where once a week he received beatings, blessings and the very rudiments of schooling. He could write his name, knew the alphabet and had a natural understanding of numbers. Under worn out, ill-fitting clothing were the ribs of a small undernourished little body that was constantly hungry, but he bore his hardships cheerfully, and with surprising energy and humour. His dark serious eyes observed the world from under a mop of black tousled hair and his dear mother had always called him her ‘handsome lad.’
That he suffered lice and scabies and was covered with the welts from a leather belt, did not change the inherent good nature of the boy. Indeed, he showed a deep, quiet intellect to the few who stopped to inquire. He had never seen open fields, or the sea, as most of his days were spent in the back of the cobbler’s shop and he scarcely knew blue skies or stars. Only a farthing a week, paid by his mother, allowed him time off for schooling, though he had learned quickly from other boys how to lift a purse and do sleight of hand.
Within fifteen minutes of leaving the house, Matthew was at the edge of his known world. The awful truth of his actions now began to rush headlong into his mind. Where was he to go, what was he to do now, how would he survive?
He huddled down in a dark doorway and despite himself, let go with wretched sobs that welled up from inside him. In a slew of agonised helplessness, anguish coursed through his small body and the tears were those of a terrible inner pain, such as he had never felt before. He wiped the tears on a filthy sleeve, a destitute figure of misery, with no thought of knowing what his next action might be.
As the tears washed away his childhood, he was forced to accept the terrible reality of his situation. He had killed a person and even at such a tender age he was very aware of the enormity o
f the crime. Would he be found out? When it was discovered that he wasn’t there, burned with the others, surely the police would be out looking for him, and then what? The gallows even? Children could be hanged for murder. Even if he was just caught on the streets, he would be sent to one of those terrible orphanages, with their well-known horrors and abuse. For an hour he squatted there, a destitute figure of shivering misery. As miserable as life in these squalid, fetid streets of London had been, they were all he had ever known. Like those around him, he had coped.
He was now thoroughly soaked by the night air, his thin clothes giving not the slightest protection. His legs were cramped, he was thoroughly chilled and he painfully rose to his feet, uncertain of his next move. Moving out of the doorway he recognised the far end of Bourke Street, where he had once brought a pair of boots to a gentleman, who had given him a penny.
As his mind cleared, one thought came to him. There was only one grown up person he could think of who might help him. Miss Jessica Hooks, who had befriended him in the streets, put ointment on his little body when the beatings turned septic and had always been kind to him. She lived in a terrace house rather like his own, but much more grand and her son Douglas had been friendly to him. He could think of no other option than to ask for her help. The problem now was that Miss Jessica lived on the opposite side of his known world.
Did he dare go through Thrumple Street again and perhaps be spotted? He would go to prison for certain and there would be no mercy for a small boy in there. So instead he braved an hour’s walking by a very circuitous route that finally brought him to Tindall Street. Away in the distance, the glow of a fire caused a feverish pang of guilt and he was shaking as with palsy when he finally knocked on her door. It took several knockings before a workman appeared. Behind him he could see a room devoid of furniture, and known, friendly faces.
“Is Miss Jessica Hooks here, please mister?” he asked.
“Naw, they’s all be emigratin’ to New Zealand.”
“To New Zealand!” Matthew cried, dumbfounded.
“Yeah, so bugger off, you scruff,” said the man, as he shut the door.
With a sudden desperate need to know, Matthew called out for the name of their ship and as the door closed, he just heard the name ‘Nell Gwynn’. He had no idea where the ship might possibly be, indeed, it may even have already left.
However, there was a more pressing need now, for after a full ten hours working in the cobbler’s shop with only a single piece of bread to eat, he was desperately hungry. Rounding the corner, he spied a kindly chestnut vendor who knew him as one of the more honest boys of the streets. The man took pity on the very exhausted looking lad and as he was just dousing his fire, he passed over a cornet of hot chestnuts. The nuts were burned black from overroasting on the charcoal brazier but they smelled and tasted like food from heaven. Gratefully, he ate the food, charcoal and all.
There was a tavern not far away, where children in trouble often slept in the hay loft, above the draft horses. Matthew himself had spent more than a few nights there. So with much relief he crawled up the ladder, buried his drained little body under the straw and immediately fell into an untroubled sleep.
Small boys are quite resilient and by first light he was up and away, with resolve and direction. He would find Miss Jessica and she would help him. Ships live on the water, he knew. By carefully asking directions he threaded his way down through a veritable maze of streets until, mostly by luck, he chanced upon a great stretch of water that another boy said was the Thames River. Apparently all the great ships left from Tilbury Dock, but it was late afternoon before he even saw his first real ship away in the distance.
As he got closer, he walked slower, his jaw increasingly dropping in amazement. Tied to the dock by a myriad of thick ropes was an enormous vessel, bigger than anything ever in his imagination. The masts going up in the air were huge tree trunks, higher than any building he had ever seen and the ship itself was the size of a terrace of houses. Ropes and cloth hung everywhere and people scurried about in a feverish fit of energy. As he saw all the baggage and casks and animals being loaded, he reasoned that the ship must be getting ready to sail away. Excitedly, he quickened his step. In the middle of the boat he saw people were streaming on board up a sloping plank. He was sure he could see Miss Jessica way up above him. With gladdened heart, he climbed the gangplank, till he reached a dizzy height of a deck that was higher than the roof of his house.
“Oi, wotcha, brat?”
Instinctively, Matthew ducked the blow that he was certain would come, but instead a coarse hand grabbed his collar.
“Wotcha want wif the ‘Enterprise’, lad?” came a heavy voice belonging to the hand.
“Is this not the ‘Nell Gwynn’, sir?” Matthew cried out, as bravely as he could.
“Getcha gorn, brat, the ‘Nell Gwynn’ is loading down-stream, she leaves in the morn.”
“Sorry, mister,” said Matthew, as he scampered down to the dockside.
Evening was drawing in by the time he found the ‘Nell Gwynn’, another huge scarred fortress of salt-weathered timbers and masts that rose to impossible heights. There were two gangplanks this time, one for first class passengers and one for working class people. Both seemed to be well guarded and he could see no sign of Miss Jessica and Douglas. He was also very hungry, having eaten nothing since the chestnuts the night before.
The dockside was alive with people of every walk of life. From Tilbury, the vermin of the world, in human, rodent and insect form, spread their diseases around the globe. That this was a dangerous place Matthew could easily recognise, but his need for food now overcame his fear. Nearby, three sailors stood outside a tavern, smoking long clay penny pipes. Dockside taverns are worse than most of their kind, festering dens catering for the most base dregs of humanity. Normally no child would dare to enter, but Matthew was famished and very weary. So, mustering up his courage, he approached the nearest sailor.
“If you want pie and gravy, it’ll cost ya two pennies,” the man said. Matthew grimaced and turned his back so the sailor couldn’t see and extracted the coins.
“So the young master has money,” said the sailor, taking the coins and disappearing into the bar. Ten minutes later, he came back out with a pitcher of ale.
“Where’s my pie?” said Matthew, alarmed now.
“Piss off, brat, or I’ll slit yer throat and take what else you’ve got.”
To emphasize the point, his free hand dropped to the knife slung low on his hip.
“That’s not fair, you dirty sod,” retorted Matthew, with more courage than he really felt.
“I’m warning ye, brat, be off or I’ll bugger ya as well.”
Matthew knew what danger he was in, but he was morally affronted by this behaviour. Back in his neighbourhood there was a code of ethics, on the streets at least, which said you didn’t steal from small, defenceless children. The froth of beer on the man’s lips made a sadly comical ring of pathos, but there was no humour in the man’s eyes.
Matthew was of the streets, and he stood his ground, and tension galvanised the scene. An angry man is dangerous, one who is drinking coarse ale more so. This gutter rat could and would slice the boy with as much compassion as he would a fish, bar that this altercation was in front of a number of witnesses. So, the knife stayed in the scabbard, while the sailor’s gnarled fist swung back, to knock the skinny little boy into eternity.
“Man, leave the lad be.”
A deep African voice boomed out and the fist was twisted up and behind the sailor’s back. The wrist, twisted from behind, bent the sailor forward, but as he doubled over his boot lashed out backwards, catching the interjector on the kneecap. His free hand brought the knife lashing back behind him and the African died instantly. He fell silently sideways to the ground over his shattered kneecap, the knife buried to the hilt in his chest. The whole movement in less time than it takes to draw a breath. However a large number of people had witnessed the whole affair
and for the briefest of moments, the dockside seemed to go silent.
Then those drawn by the disturbance grew collectively agitated, their protests rising rapidly in volume as more joined in. It looked as if the African was but unconscious, for no blood appeared at the knife handle. Even so, the attacker moved as quickly as a snake when hands reached to grasp him. With a hard pull, he wrenched the knife from the prone body. As the cry went up, “murder, murder!” he slashed out with the bloodied blade at the crowd, forcing them back, till there was room to run.
“Fetch the Bobby, fetch the police,” went up the cry, but the man was free, running for his life away down a dark alley. Matthew, being so small, was pushed and jostled by the excited crowd till he was pressed against one of the gangplanks of the ‘Nell Gwynn’. Almost against his will, he went with the flow of people, up the plank. The sailor at the top was watching the crowd below and somewhat to his surprise, Matthew was now on board. Finding a safe hiding place was now vital before he was discovered, but nothing was familiar. Twice sailors told him to go t’steerage, whatever that was, before he found himself at a dark corner on the deck. Above him was the hull of a small boat, with a cover tied over it and without much difficulty, he shimmied up and wriggled inside.
Chapter Two
Discovery
He fell into the lifeboat, to land solidly on a body below. They punched at each other briefly before accepting they were not really adversaries. A frightened voice in the dark demanded to know who he was and what was he on about. The voice was high pitched.
Matthew answered, with some surprise, “You’re a girl?”
The voice, panting, said, “And you’re on top of me. Ged orf!”
He did so and tried to see his companion, but in the darkness he could make out nothing of her face.
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