Daughter of Destiny

by Erica Brown

  Eyes wide with wonder, Tom rubbed his arms while his stomach rumbled at the smell of cooked food. Someone had eaten earlier that evening and the aroma lingered, even here in the hall.

  The interior of the house was like a dream. Tom kept rubbing his arms, needing to feel his cold flesh so he knew this was real, that he wouldn’t wake up suddenly in some cold doorway or stinking privy – anywhere out of the snow. Not entirely convinced, he took in all the details just in case it vanished.

  Against one wall was a fine table and, beside it, an armchair with cabriole legs and pale gold upholstery. The tick of a floor-standing clock measured the passing of time, though it seemed slower than his beating heart.

  Tom jumped as the clock struck eleven.

  Jeb Strong placed a hand on his shoulder and he jumped again.

  ‘No need to fear, boy,’ said the cleric on seeing the sudden suspicion in the boy’s eyes. ‘It’s just a clock.’

  Tom headed for the door, suddenly disbelieving and wary of Jeb Strong’s true purpose for bringing him here. Some men preferred boys to women. His friends in the street gangs had told him that. A number of them had got so hungry they had acquiesced to the demands of such men and had told him what sort of things they’d been forced to do. A house that specialized in such things had even taken one of the boys in, but Tom would rather starve.

  Jeb Strong folded his hands before him and shook his head. ‘You are free to go if you wish. Believe me, Tom, I mean you no harm.’

  Tom reached for the door, meaning to run into the darkness and face the familiar cold and hunger, even though his belly was rumbling and his flesh was frozen. The sound of footsteps running lightly along the galleried landing followed by a female voice made him pause.

  ‘Is that you, Jeb?’

  Jeb smiled and winked at Tom. ‘My wife asks an unnecessary question if ever there was,’ he said, then upturned his face to the landing and said more loudly, ‘And whom else would you be expecting at this time of night, my dear? Do you keep secrets from me?’

  The woman giggled. A long shadow thrown by the candlelight preceded her before she appeared wearing a pale blue brocade dressing gown over a lace-trimmed cotton nightdress, her hair covered by a large muslin cap. She rested her hands on the balustrade and looked down at them. In the light from the candelabra, her eyes looked bright and merry.

  ‘I have a friend with me,’ Jeb added, and Tom fancied that both the man’s voice and his overall demeanour had softened and warmed in the presence of his wife.

  Her voice was like singing. Tom was spellbound. ‘Another lost and lonely boy? Goodness, my dear, however many are there?’

  Jeb ruffled Tom’s filthy hair. ‘Too many and all in need of help, but with the Lord’s help we’ll do what we can.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Mrs Strong.

  ‘Amen,’ echoed her husband, then added, ‘What have you got for young Tom to eat?’

  She pressed a finger to her dimpled chin and her merry eyes turned thoughtful. ‘Well, to start with, Cook made lamb stew for our dinner tonight. I’m sure there’s plenty left in the kitchen along with bread, butter and milk. Ample enough for a growing boy, I think.’

  Swiftly businesslike, she began to trip down the stairs, her voluminous attire floating out behind her like a blue cloud.

  More sounds came from further along the landing. Tom looked up. Mr and Mrs Strong exchanged knowing glances.

  ‘They should be in bed,’ said Jeb Strong.

  ‘They’re young and curious, like we once were,’ his wife said.

  Scurrying along like large mice, a host of little girls appeared, ranging in size and age from three to thirteen or so. They all wore white cotton nightdresses and had healthy pink faces that looked newly woken from sleep. Wobbly knobs of rag-tied hair bounced all over their heads as they followed their mother down the stairs.

  ‘My daughters,’ Jeb explained proudly as they all gathered round him, arms entwined.

  Tom gazed at them wide-eyed. If he’d ever had that sort of treatment from anyone, he didn’t remember it. Mostly he remembered being alone in the cold while some ugly stranger grunted and groaned above his mother on the small bed they’d shared between them in the distant past when they’d at least had a roof over their heads. And he’d been warned to be silent, as if he wasn’t there; a nobody who had had to survive as best he could.

  Later, as Tom devoured the food set before him, six pairs of eyes watched silently, the smaller ones only just managing to peer above the table.

  ‘Tomorrow he enrols in the Merchant Seamen’s Apprenticeship School,’ the Reverend Strong declared to his children as though it were an event of historic importance. The eyes of the little girls seemed to grow larger. The truth of the matter was that it was Jeb Strong himself who had set up the school for destitute boys and he was immensely proud of his achievement.

  A maid lately roused from her bed followed Mrs Strong into the kitchen, which now seemed full of people, warmth and an irrepressible determination to dispense Christian goodness. Both Mrs Strong and the maid carried various items of clothing dangling over their arms.

  ‘These used to belong to my son Jasper. They’re quite clean,’ said Mrs Strong, measuring a coat across Tom’s back as he tore at the bread and spooned the stew into his mouth. He barely acknowledged their presence. Clothes that would keep him warm would be welcome, but nothing could beat hot food. The last time he’d eaten a hot meal was when one of his pals had found a cat run over by a cart. They’d skinned it, skewered a stick through the length of its body and cooked it over a driftwood fire. It had tasted good to a hungry boy, but nothing like this.

  ‘Will I be fed at this school?’ he asked Mrs Strong as she tucked him into bed.

  Mrs Strong blinked back her tears and brushed her hand over his hair. ‘Of course you will, child.’

  Later she told her husband what he had said.

  ‘Poor boy,’ he responded. ‘It is a shame he’s had such a bad start in life for I’m convinced he has a quick mind.’ His voice trailed away. Thoughtfully he sat on the side of the bed and slipped off his shoes.

  Miriam Strong looked at him sadly. ‘You’re thinking about Jasper.’

  Jeb sighed, took off his wig and scratched his head. ‘His face turned shiny in the light from the lantern, just like the boy in my dream.’

  Miriam threw up her hands in delight. ‘I knew there was something! I could see it in your eyes.’

  She came round to her husband’s side of their big, oak bed, knelt at his feet and cradled his face in her hands. ‘God’s sent us a replacement. That’s what the dream meant. Can you possibly doubt it?’

  Jeb slowly raised his head until his gaze met hers. ‘Do you really think so, Miriam?’

  Miriam kissed him gently on the mouth. ‘Do our best by him, and he could be a living memorial to Jasper’s memory.’

  Jeb smiled and nodded sadly. ‘God moves in mysterious ways. There’s always a purpose. And if it’s God’s will then so be it.’ He squeezed his wife’s hand. ‘You’ve the last word on the matter, Miriam. Is it really God’s will and would Jasper agree?’

  She smiled at him, clutched his hand with both of hers and dragged him with her on to his knees. ‘Let us pray, husband, and perhaps by morning we shall know for sure.’

  * * *

  Next day at the quayside, Tom felt small. He knew he was thin though quite tall, but the size of the ship Jeb Strong took him to made him feel tiny.

  The Miriam Strong was strongly curved from prow to stern, though the gold, red and blue paint around the tight windows of what had once been the captain’s cabin and officers’ quarters was faded and peeling in places.

  Her main mast seemed to touch the sky, and the fore and aft masts’ lesser height and cross spars were like supplicants to its majesty.

  Tom was a wharf rat, a street urchin familiar with the city centre quays and the ships that berthed there. He’d seen barques, brigantines, trows and packets, but none had been quite a
s splendid as the Miriam Strong. He eyed her with interest, then frowned. Something was wrong.

  Jeb saw his expression. ‘What’s wrong, lad?’

  Tom chewed over whether to mention the matter but decided he would. ‘She’s got no figurehead.’

  ‘Ah!’ Jeb exclaimed. He sounded as if he’d been found out doing something he shouldn’t.

  ‘Why?’

  Jeb looked downriver to where the tower of St Mary Redcliffe church cast its shadow over the water.

  ‘I’ll tell you someday,’ he said. By the tone of his voice, Tom could tell the subject was closed.

  ‘I thought I was going to school before going to sea,’ said Tom with sudden wariness. He’d heard about gangs in years gone by who had pressed men and boys into service before the mast, though Jeb Strong didn’t look as though he belonged to a gang. He was a clergyman after all, though you could never be too sure of the motives of rich men.

  Jeb Strong smiled, his chin doubling and trebling above his clerical collar. ‘This is the school, Tom, where you will live and learn all that Captain Gooding and this ship can teach you. And don’t think the Miriam Strong is just a rotting old tub. This ship has not been to sea for many a long year, though she’s seen plenty of action in her time. She’s fought in some very famous battles.’

  ‘Don’t sound like a man-of-war to me with a name like that,’ said Tom.

  ‘I named her after my wife.’ Jeb grinned in a wicked way, not at all in keeping with a man of the cloth. ‘There’s many a tale this ship could tell, Tom, and she’s had more than one name. Trust me when I say she’s a ship to be proud of, a ship that generations henceforth will remember with affection and wonder.’

  Tom looked as though he almost believed him then returned his gaze to the spot on the prow where her figurehead should be.

  ‘So what was her other name then?’

  Jeb winked. ‘Not for you to know, lad. One day maybe, when it doesn’t matter who knows and those that would be concerned about how I got her are dead and gone, that’s when you will know, Tom.’

  But Tom was no longer listening. He was looking towards the Hole in the Wall, a waterside inn where rough men gathered to drink and do business out of sight of the customs men. A woman was screaming and a man was swinging her around by her hair, slamming her body against the wall of the age-old building.

  ‘Ma!’ shouted Tom.

  Like a skinny hound, he was off, running towards the pair, shouting then launching himself at the man, his head thudding into an unprotected midriff.

  At first the man was surprised. He let go of the woman, his prime objective now to protect his own body rather than abuse hers. But he recovered quickly, his brawny arms making light work of lifting the boy above his head and making as if to slam him down on the pavement.

  ‘Henry!’ shouted Jeb. He rushed towards the mêlée, sure in the knowledge that Captain Henry Gooding, master and teacher on the Miriam Strong, was right behind him and with all the confidence of a man of strong muscle rather than wide girth, his black frock coat flapping like the wings of a bat behind him. Waving his walking cane, he shouted, ‘Put that boy down, my good man!’

  The brute looked surprised that someone was giving him an order. On seeing that Jeb was no waterside bully, surprise turned to a sneer, until Captain Gooding, a man of over six foot, put in an appearance. He had a massive beard and his hair was plaited into short pigtails all over his head.

  ‘Want his neck broke, Reverend?’ Gooding’s voice was surprisingly high, not at all suited to the size and density of his frame.

  Jeb looked undecided. Captain Gooding advanced menacingly. His shadow fell over the man and Tom was quickly released.

  Tom immediately went to the woman, who was lying against the wall, groaning and shaking her head from side to side.

  He knelt down at her side. ‘Ma, are you all right?’

  She looked at him blearily as if she didn’t know him, or was waiting for her vision to clear. Once it did, she began to groan louder. ‘I ain’t got nothing for you, Tom. I told you to get out of my bloody sight! What you doing ’ere?’

  Tom straightened suddenly as though he’d thought something over very carefully and had now come to a decision. ‘I’m going to sea, Ma. I’m going to go to school on that boat. The gentleman there said I could.’

  Jeb stood silently, curious as to what response Tom’s mother would give. She looked at her son with tired eyes from beneath a thatch of tangled hair that had once been dark brown, but was now peppered with grey.

  ‘Best thing for you,’ she said wearily. ‘I can do without you hanging around my skirts.’

  The brute who had thrown her against the wall found his confidence returning, although his bravado had diminished.

  ‘Come on, woman. You owe me a shilling’s worth, and there’s more than one dark doorway in this street.’

  Tom helped his mother to her feet. Jeb sensed the bond between mother and son. Whatever she was, Tom loved her. And for just a moment, he thought he had seen a flicker of affection in her eyes.

  ‘Go on with yer fancy gentleman, Tom,’ she suddenly exclaimed, brushing him aside before waddling off to her client’s side. ‘I got a job to do, ain’t I, darling?’

  ‘I’ll look after you when I’m a proper seaman,’ Tom shouted after her. He heard her laugh and the man’s deeper, baritone join in as they sauntered off. ‘I mean it,’ he said more quietly.

  It was the last time Tom saw his mother alive. One week later her body was fished from the river. Her throat had been cut and she was naked. Jeb took Tom to identify her although he said he didn’t have to. Jeb also took care of the funeral arrangements rather than have her buried in a pauper’s grave.

  * * *

  ‘Now he’s got no one,’ Miriam said to Jeb two weeks after the funeral.

  Jeb patted her hand. ‘I think he’s got us now, Miriam.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, brushed the back of her hand across her eyes and went back to her sewing.

  Together they told Tom about their decision.

  ‘We lost our son Jasper some years ago, but we never once doubted that God had taken him for a reason. We think you are that reason, Tom. We believe God sent you to be our son in his place.’

  Tom was amazed, but wondered if his luck could change yet again. ‘What if your son Jasper comes back? Will you throw me out on the street?’

  Jeb Strong reached for his wife’s hand and smiled at her as he squeezed it. He shook his head. ‘He won’t be back. We believe he drowned, and the waters took his body out to sea. It was God’s will. You’ve no surname, Tom, so what say you that I give you mine?’

  Tom fell silent, his eyes downcast. At last he said, ‘Do I get to stay at the school, on the ship?’

  Jeb nodded, unable to stop smiling each time he looked into Tom’s eyes. They were so like Jasper’s, blue and honest. ‘Yes. If you want to.’

  Tom thought about it for a moment. ‘S’pose I can’t argue with God.’

  Miriam clapped her hands. ‘Praise be!’

  Jeb could see by the look on Tom’s face that the boy had something else to say. At last it came out. Tom’s deep blue eyes looked up into his, the dark lashes seeming to intensify their liquidity rather than making them larger. He swallowed nervously and cocked his head a bit like a bantam just before a fight. ‘Just so’s you know – I won’t ever forget me mother, even though she was a whore and met a sticky end.’

  Jeb winced. The boy spoke so matter-of-factly, and yet he sensed the turbulent emotions running just beneath the surface. He didn’t want to think what the boy might have had to witness. ‘I understand, Tom. You’ll never forget your mother, and we’ll never forget our son.’

  He nodded at his wife and they took his hands and led him to another room that had obviously once been Jasper’s. The bed was made and the curtains were drawn, just as if the boy was about to go to bed.

  A hoop and a hobbyhorse were propped up in the corner. There was a top on the
floor, books, a wooden boat with sails and a regiment of red-coated soldiers lined up in battle against their green-jacketed opponents. The only sign of mourning was a strip of black cloth hanging around a portrait.

  Tom looked up at the painting.

  ‘Tom, meet Jasper,’ said Miriam Strong.

  The boy that looked back at him was probably a little younger than Tom was now. Strikingly blue eyes, similar to Tom’s own, smiled out of the painting. Jasper had crisply ginger hair; Tom’s was dark. Jasper held a toy with both hands, a mounted knight on a painted horse, the cross of St George emblazoned on his chest.

  ‘My son,’ said Jeb, and Tom wasn’t quite sure whether he was referring to the boy in the portrait or him.

  ‘He was wearing those clothes the day he left,’ said Miriam Strong. She sounded regretful, as if she wished she’d been there to see him off, as if he’d merely gone off on a trip to relatives or friends.

  And took his toy with him? thought Tom. It didn’t look to be among those in the room.

  ‘So, do you want to be Tom Strong?’ asked the Reverend Strong in a kindly voice.

  Tom thought carefully before answering. Even though his mother was dead, he was fiercely proud. Begging for a name was something he’d never stoop to. But Jeb was offering and he seemed a good man.

  ‘It’s as good a name as any,’ he said.

  * * *

  Forgetting the bloated face of his mother wasn’t easy, but living and learning on board the Miriam Strong helped Tom enormously. He enjoyed the lessons on seamanship. He even liked learning how to read and write and became so far ahead of the other boys that Jeb Strong took him home on occasion to join his daughters with their tutor. Gradually, he became part of the family and Jeb told him so. Only when he first accompanied them to Marstone Court, the home of Sir Emmanuel Strong, Jeb’s brother, and his family, did he feel otherwise.