by H C Storrer
Like a revelation, he turned at a familiar voice saving him from having to answer that question.
“I still can’t believe the great manor burned. What a spiteful man.” Mr. Adelson was down the street, his words loud in his normal bellicose tone. Jacques could see two silhouettes through the fog as they approached the door of the assurance house. The boy held up his hand, the urge to yell a call and run to safety almost all consuming, when another idea struck him. This was his chance. Was he going to cower like a child, or be the man his father was, courageous in the face of death. With Mr. Adelson and Mr. Barrett this close, now was the time to act. Turning, he watched Nathan’s silhouette saunter almost fifty feet away, completely oblivious.
In a dead sprint, he ran into the mist, the cold moisture collecting against his face. His heart pounding, he knew he needed to get that knife from Nathan if he was to have a chance at the coin. “I need to practice cutting purses,” Jacques huffed.
“Na, you leave the cuttin’ to ol’ Nafan. You just keeps beggn’ for tuppence.”
“But I think I could help more—” Jacques pulled back Nathan’s coat, reaching for the green handle. Nathan spun on the spot, swiftly striking his hand away, bucking Jacques to the ground.
“You cut one purse wif me knife when I was drunk.” Pulling the blade free, he let it dance in a circle, whipping through his fingers, “Don’t be finken you is just goin’ to be taken liberties you don’t deserve. I’ll tells you when you can an can’t be using this ’ere blade.”
“I’m… I’m sorry.” Jacques bowed his head. “You’re the only one I have left. I thought we were becoming mates. I just want to be like you.”
Nathan straightened. That soft bit of his heart he tried to keep hidden from the world, the bit that the drink seemed to harden, suddenly filled with chagrin. “Here.” He helped Jacques to his feet, then, taking the boy’s hand, he slapped the worn, green handle into his palm. “First, you has to get the feel of it.”
Jacques nodded, hanging on every word as if he cared.
“When the knife sits in your ’and, like yer only friend, that’s when you can ’arpoon a whale that aint asleep.” Nathan gripped Jacques’ wrist, turning the blade over in his hand. “When you comes up to a whale, you hold it like this. That way you can keep it ’idden, then grip the purse an’ swing the knife out, cuttn’ it in one swish.”
Jacques nodded. “Like this.” He tucked the blade back behind his wrist, the hooked portion ready to swing out with a flick of his fingers. Stepping into Nathan with a shove, he swiped his fingers behind the purse strings, and with a fluid motion, the blade was out, the purse of guineas quickly collapsing onto into the cobbles.
“Ah you—” Nathan shoved the boy back. “You has to catch the coin… and I didn’t want you goin an cutn’ me purse!”
Seeing his opening as Nathan bent down to retrieve the satchel, Jacques lowered his body and rammed his shoulder into his tormentor’s face, tossing him back into the cobbles. Scrambling, Jacques lifted the satchel and turned to run. “Mr. Adel—” his cry caught on his tongue. He had not gone two paces when Nathan had him by the throat.
“You little thieving rat! No’ne steals from Nathan Rogers! No one!” Blood poured from his nostrils as he jerked the boy’s head around.
Jacques struggled against Nathan’s grip with one hand, swiping the air with the knife in his other. “It’s my coin! My father left it to me!”
“I tooks you in! We was mates! I was show’n you ’ow to cut purses, now you go and finks you is the king ’imself?” Ripping the satchel from Jacques’ hand, he reached back and caught the boy hard in the face. “No’ne steals from Nafan, you ’ear!” Shaking Jacques by his dark hair, he slapped him hard again; this time splitting the boy’s lip.
“I was never your mate, you thieving, murdering cur! You killed my mother!”
Nathan’s anger became uncontrollable. Tugging Jacques from the road, he stepped into an alley and shoved the boy to the ground. Several coins spilled from inside Jacques’ coat, scattering across the cobblestones. “What’s all this, eh?”
Jacques froze, looking up in terror, “I… I—”
“Where d’you get them coppers?” Nathan tugged him back to his feet by his hair.
“I cut them from the man on the coach.”
Nathan caught him hard again in the face. “Steal from me!”
“I cut the purse, they were mine!” Jacques argued.
Nathan’s rage overflowed. “You cut it wif me knife! You was to give me every farthing.” Again, he caught the boy in the face, this time his hand more balled than open. With each successive blow, his fingers curled in until he struck the boy as he would a man. The last Jacques remembered was lying in the muddy cobbles, his ears ringing as Nathan quickly picked up the coin that had spilled, riffled through the coat of Jacques’ limp body, and then disappeared into the fog.
Chapter 11
“W hatcha ya got there?”
“Anyfing to eat?”
“Na, just a body in the road.”
“Leave ’im be, don’ go touch’n dead bodies.”
Just then, Jacques started move with a groan, his hand reaching to see if his eyes were still there behind all the aching.
“Blimey, ’ees alive,” one of the younger voices called.
“Aye, an ’ees a boy, not much older than you, Talker,” another voice observed.
“Someone’s done ’im up good. ’Ees all black an’ blue.” A third boy with a deeper voice circled. “Talker, you runs off an’ gets Sam. ’Ee ’as to say if we can keep ’im”
“Keep ’im?” the one called Talker protested. “Is you daft, Bill? We ain’t got bread for just us.”
A good head taller than all the others, Bill was a handsome lad with chestnut hair. He could have easily been born into one of the great homes of London society and he knew it. He even tried his best to carry himself with an air of nobility. Tugging at the rope that made up his braces, he adjusted his hole-filled breeches and oversized waistcoat with a bit of perturbation. “It ain’t right to let ’im die.”
“It ain’t right fer me to go ’ungry, either,” Talker argued.
Tipping the tattered remains of a tricorn hat back, Bill stood to his full height and exercised command. “He needs our ’elp. Go an’ do as I says, fetch Sam an—”
There was more said, but like listening through water, Jacques lost the flow of it as blackness encroached on his vision and he passed out once again.
***
Slowly, Jacques eyes fluttered open to the embers of a small fire, its faint wisps of smoke crawling upward and out of sight. The ground beneath him was hard and cold, but he was grateful for the worn woolen blanket wrapped tightly about him. It was itchy against his skin, but lying naked beneath its warmth, his sopping clothes dangling from a line directly in sight, he was willing to forgive its coarse texture. Shifting his head, he winced as pain lanced from his neck to his scalp. Resigned, he lay there for a good while, staring into the burning coals, avoiding any movement at all. Even shifting his tongue seemed to hurt him all over.
“Y-y-you’s been done up g-g-good,” a young voice stuttered over the fire.
“Aye.” Just saying that hurt.
The boy uncrossed his bare legs and laid the side of his face on the ground to look Jacques in the eye. He was young, maybe fourteen. A ruddy lad with red hair, well-formed and clean except for the rags that dangled about him. Even his cap had a large hole in the top. “W-w-whatch’er name?”
“Jaqc—” he spit out what he could.
“Well, m-master Jack, they calls me S-S-Sam. This is our ‘ome, an you’s our g-g-guest.” Sam sat back up so just his crossed legs were visible again. “M-M-Master Jack is going to need some m-m-milk. Ain’t that right, Jack?”
Jacques still hated that name, but it hurt too much to correct the record. Instead, he just stared.
“Milk?” Talker protested. The thin, ragged boy with sandy brown hair and green eyes
stood in a huff. Like the rest, his dingy clothes were far past expiration, filled with holes, and too small for his frame. “An where would ’is lordship wish for me to put the cow?”
“I know you has some m-m-milk, Talker. You keep it ’idden behind that rock over there. We all takes a n-n-nip of it, so you might as well share it with our g-g-guest,” Sam prodded.
“Fine thing. Comes and takes me spot at the fire, an now you wants to give ’im me vittles,” Talker grumbled before returning with a worn metal bottle. “ ’Ere.”
Jacques shook all over as he tried to put weight upon his arm, the effort wasted as he slumped back the the floor.
“I’ll help you, master Jack.” Big Bill wrapped his arms about Jacques’ small frame and lifted him until he was sitting upright. Carefully, he propped him against a bundle of cloth and then went about building up the fire. Twelve dirty, curious faces circled, some leaning in just at the edge of light. Jacques took note of the large room, the walls sporadically patched together with boards and thin sheets over the gaps, beneath him the remains of brick and dirt.
“It d-don’ look like m-m-much.” Sam leaned forward with the milk bottle. “But it k-k-keeps the r-r-rain off our ’eads. It w-w-was a storage ’ouse, n-n-now we only ’as to fight the rats.”
The other boys laughed.
With help, Jacques took a swig of the sweet cream. It was a rare treat and he appreciated their kindness.
“You can ’as all you like.” Bill held up the bottle again.
“ ’As all he likes!” Talker rushed forward, Sam gripping him hard in his calf. “That’s mine. The rules says what’s mine is mine. I don’ ’ave to share a lick!”
“You’re right m-m-master Talker, but the rules s-s-says share an sh-sh-share alike. I has four loafs o’ bread. If you wants to eat, you has best let m-m-master Jack drink ’is fill,” Sam scolded.
In a huff, Talker retreated to a far corner.
“I can’t drink much.” Jacques paused. “Thank you.”
“Oh, don’ m-m-mind ’im, it’s just ’is way. Now drink, you needs yer s-s-strength,” Sam encouraged.
***
For days Jacques lay by the fire, constantly tended by one boy or another. He could hear the wind blowing through the warehouse, but it was not until he was strong enough to move that he realized they had stacked whatever rubbish was about to keep him safe from the gale. Each boy, barring Talker, had made a point to meet him, each one bringing some sort of gift of food or old clothing. By week’s end, Jacques felt like he was one of them. It was a family of boys with no other home.
“You orphaned?” Sam asked one morning as Jacques sat next to his fire, slowly chewing through a stale roll.
“Aye.” He nodded.
“Didn’ know me m-m-ma. She died when I was little,” Sam smiled. “Me pa left for the s-s-sea an never came back.”
“My mum died… recently.” Jacques swallowed past the lump in his throat. “My father died at sea also.”
“I didn’t say the ol’ man was d-d-dead!” Sam laughed. “I ’as a thought that he w-w-was taken captive on an island an that the na’ives gone an m-m-made ’im king. One day, he’s g-g-gonna come b-back an take me to ’is island w-w-where it is never cold and I can eat pastries four times a d-day.”
“Really?” Jacques asked.
“Of course. I is p-p-prince o’ the island of bread!” Sam held up his dirty index finger, his face cocked up in regal gesture.
“Well when he does get back, you can take me with you.” Jacques smiled.
“No.” Sam shook his head sadly.
“No?” Jacques squinted back.
“You ’as to ’ave y-yer own dream, J-J-Jack. We all ’as our dreams. That’s the fun of life. Dream’n keeps the legs m-m-mov’n.” Sam looked about to see that no one was looking, and then while holding a finger to his lips produced a small hunk of cheese. Reaching over the low flames, he handed it to Jack. “What’s yer dream?”
Jacques smiled nervously. Since meeting Nathan, he had not had a dream other than being rid of him. Now that the scoundrel was gone, he found they were still connected. If there were any justice in the world Nathan would be in a grave, not getting drunk on Jacques’ five hundred guineas.
“A cake, all covered in sugar cream,” Jacques lied. At the moment, though, it did sound pretty good.
“All right, then, m-m-master Jack. Dream it small for now.” Sam’s jovial laugh was infectious.
***
“Jack, you ’as w-w-words,” Sam observed the first day he was able to walk into the cold along the river.
“I don’t understand?” Jacques looked at him inquisitively.
“You ain’t born like one o’ us,” Bill explained. “You speak like a proper gent.”
“I… well…” Jacques chewed his lip, he didn’t know what to say.
“S’alright. S-s-sad, really. You had everyfing an now you lives w-w-wif us.” Sam smiled. “It’s ’arder fer you I’m s-s-sure. See, we ’as to take what we ’as. If we w-wants to eat no’ne will give it to us. S-s-so we begs for tuppence, or—”
“We has to steal to eat,” Bill cut to the chase.
Jacques laughed through his nose. “My stepfather, the one that beat me near to death, he taught me a thing or two.”
“A fing or two… w-w-well you ’as to be careful so the bull don’t get ya.” Sam pretended to dangle from a rope.
“We takes food in the market,” Bill added.
“Have you ever tried to take coin? Propper shillings?” Jacques asked.
“W-well—” Sam scratched his neck.
“We ’ad mates get nicked. The older ones was sent to the ol’ Baily. The yung’ns is still in the workhouses,” Bill explained.
“You boys just need a proper lesson. My stepfather’s a no-count, dirty thief, but besides getting drunk, thieving is the one thing he is good at. I just wish I had his knife,” Jacques mused.
“You m-m-mean this one?” Sam whipped the karambit out from his coat.
“Yes!” Jacques’ eyes widened. “Where did you get it?”
“It was underneaf you when we picked you up,” Bill motioned to the blade.
“Well, gentlemen.” Jacques took the knife and spun it around his finger, catching it in his palm. “It starts with lesson number one.”
Chapter 12
London 1760
“L et off me!” The filthy little beggar squirmed. “I ’asn’t done a fing!”
“Thief!” the gentleman yelled out, his walking stick in hand like a club. “This here boy is one of those pickpockets! Constable! Constable!”
Jack immediately bowled his way between them, taking the small boy by the neck. “Here, I have him pinned. I saw a constable just at the end of the street.”
“Thank you, lad.” Jack was well spoken and smartly dressed, giving confidence that he was good to his word. The man straightened his coat and turned into the evening bustle of the square, bodies pressing in all directions as the late-hour traffic scratched a living. Twisting his head back, the man started, “You had best…” Both boys were gone; patting down his waistcoat, he realized so were his watch and coin.
“ ’Ee ‘ad me good!” The little boy beamed as he danced at Jack’s side.
“That whale did indeed. You have to be more careful, Gags. You just beg for tuppence and leave the harpoon’n to us older boys.” Jack ruffled his blond head and patted him on his way.
Folding his arms over his blue coat, his matching breeches just buckled below the knee around his white stockings, Jack mused over his success. He looked as if he was the boy of a grand family, in fact all of the boys now wore clothes that were at least whole. It was nearly Jack’s fifteenth birthday, and much had changed since he was a beaten, discarded dog near the wharf. The original twelve boys needed a leader. Sam was a good man who had kept them alive, but Jack had a greater vision. Like his father Edwin, he too, had put the weight of his crew’s wellbeing on his shoulders. In no time, he had them org
anized into a force.
As time evolved, each boy had a job. If they decided to take an apple, Jack made sure it was a group of three boys. Two to distract and the third to pluck the fruit. The most revolutionary change was the cutting of purses and picking of pockets. Taking a bit of bread would feed the boys for a night, but with shillings and guineas, they could buy proper blankets and clothing. With the influx of poor families from the country seeking a brighter future in London, the smaller boys could easily blend in with the other beggars pleading for tuppence while distracting the whales. The older boys would pickpocket and, like Jack himself, watch out for the young ones. The poor waifs were easy enough to pick out of a crowd, their tattered clothing a stain upon them that the Bow Street Runners, the magistrates police force, could easily spot. The more experienced lads were above suspicion, clean and smartly dressed in waistcoats and breaches.
It was this ability, to be part of society, which allowed them to branch out into a new realm of thieving: robbery. It was one thing to pick out the wealthy, try to avoid their ‘man,’ and somehow get the loot they carried upon their person. It was much easier, in many respects, to enter a home on the high street unnoticed and have a run of the place. Sam said it was too dangerous and had forbade it while he was in charge, but now Jack was running things and the only limit was his imagination. With Bill’s help, he had begun to relieve some of the grander estates of their fine silver a few nights a week.
“There, it was that boy there.” Jack heard the man long before he caught his finger pointing at him from the periphery. It was one thing to act the part of a gent; it was another thing to prove it.
“Father!” Jack called out. “Will you be on Lombard Street long?”
A stately passerby turned to him as he spoke. Following Jack’s lead, the Runners and the whale investigated the man with suspicion; when they looked back, Jack was gone.