The Shadow of Nisi Pote

by H C Storrer

  “Ca’ka, ca’ka.” Sprinting away Jack called out like a crow.

  “Ca’ka,” the call echoed through the square.

  “That slippery devil was right ’ere!” The voice was young but gruff. Jack could hear him only a few feet back; the bustling crowd slowly pulling him along like a current. “Lock down the square. We can’t let them out!”

  “It’s too late for that, George. See, their ain’t a boy in the courtyard. They’s already scampered off.”

  Jack paused, one of many faces in the throng; his head craned backward to get a look at his opponents. He watched as two boys, not much older than he, surveyed the crowd with keen eyes. The one called George had greasy blond hair pulled into a ponytail, his sallow face pockmarked by adolescent spots.

  “There!” George’s finger flicked like an arrow right at Jack.

  Without a second thought, he dipped low among the oblivious bodies, masterfully slipping between the seams of people and off the street. The Runners, exercising none of his finesse, charged after him like bulls.

  “Oy, mate.”

  “Heavens!”

  “I say! What scoundrels!”

  Jack could hear the protest of people as his pursuers shoved through the crowd. Wasting no time, he quickly fled into an alley and followed it to the rounded dead end he knew was there. With little effort, he snared the end of a drainpipe and lifted himself off the ground, scaling the side of the building hand over hand until he had safely made the roof.

  “He couldn’t ‘ave just disappeared! E’ ain’t a bleeding ghost Mafew!” Jack peered back over the edge at the two Runners pacing back and forth like wolves below.

  “Don’t go yell’n at me! I ain’t the one who lost ‘im!” Mathew swatted his hand towards George. “Mr. Talmage ain’t gonna be none too ’appy when we’s come back empty ’anded.”

  “We ain’t empty ’anded. The information was true wasn’t it? They was ’ere.” George pointed a finger to the ground in frustration. “Let’s take ‘im to Talmage.” The rest of the conversation became a muffled mess as the two Runners tromped away.

  Jack moved back from the ledge, a triumphant smile drawing up the right side of his face as if hooked to a string. The Runners were getting smarter, to be sure, but this was his game and he would always be several steps ahead. Up to his feet, Jack dusted off his sharp clothes and began to pick across the rooftops as if he was scampering down the halls of Shellstone—the topside of London just as familiar. Coming to a stop, he perched himself on the ridge of a house at the edge of one of the newer districts, a bright gust of summer wind rustling his hair as it danced in eddies across the top of the city. Even the air among the wealthy seemed clean and new. As Bill always said, “It smelled like money.” The late afternoon sun dipped along the horizon in a shower of golden rays that faded to ruby along the low clouds chasing its descent. With a confident sigh, Jack surveyed his kingdom. The country may have belonged to the crown, but for the past few years, these streets had belonged to him. Even the Runners had unknowingly learned to submit to his whims. Regardless, there was an unease that he had tried to keep buried in the recess of his thoughts. Like a cold, black fog, it crept slowly to the back of his throat when he least wanted it to. Contrary to his plans, it was all starting to feel fleeting.

  It would not be much longer before Bill, the oldest of the boys would be too big for the company and follow Sam’s lead in search of ‘honest’ work. The word was bitter on Jack’s tongue. Bill had a way of getting the best from the boys and if he lost him, Jack didn’t know how much longer he could keep it all going, and he detested the idea of spending his days working for mere shillings.

  But that was why he was here. He wanted to start a legitimate venture before it was too late. Something that would keep his boys housed, fed, and out of trouble; he just needed the hard money to get it up and running. A few nights of plundering these well-to-do’s would set them up for good.

  Lost in his musings, Jack found himself climbing into the tended garden of a respectable home. He needed to chastise his companion, as it seemed that Bill’s shrill whistle still echoed along the lane. It was at least comforting that the owners were gone. Snaking his way across the small patch of grass, Jack made a short crawl up the bricks and lead downspout to the opened second-story window with ease, landing softly on the thick Persian rug.

  From the gleaming metal chandelier to the varnished oak planks that stretched past the carpet on which he stood, Jack could tell that the home was kept tidy and well maintained. The fresh smell of beeswax polish caught in Jack’s nostrils as he made his way into the room. He would recognize the scent anywhere, it was more than just a well-kept dwelling, Jack smiled, this smell accompanied the wealthy. Ignoring the opulent walnut bed and matching burl wardrobe, Jack’s gaze was immediately drawn to a small writing desk in the corner. To the average eye it would seem rather insignificant to the other furnishings. To Jack, however, the memories of playing with his mother’s identical desk before Nathan had smashed it to pieces crossed his vision. Too soon, the memory turned haunting. Closing his eyes, he forced those thoughts into retreat and started to feel the sides for the release that would pop the hidden door to the treasures inside.

  “Well I don’t know when the missus is going to be back ’ome, so I wouldn’t worry about it.” Jack paused at the words of a middle-aged woman. They were distant—at the bottom of the staircase coming up to him.

  “I thanks you for your kindness. I’ll make sure ’er ladyship’s nightgown is laid out,” a much younger girl replied.

  “Ahh, you’re a sweet one.” A pair of footsteps faded away.

  Just then, Jack popped the little door and reached in under the leather skiver. Sure enough, there were a couple guineas and a small, ornately carved box trimmed in gold.

  “Who are—?”

  Jack froze; he’d thought he had a few more seconds. He could feel the eyes at the door burning a hole in him. Turning slowly, he tried to think up a lie as his eyes locked with a familiar face.

  “Jacques?” Anna stood in the doorframe, her hand to her slender neck in shock while the late evening sun from the high windows caused her hair to light like an angel.

  “It’s Jack now,” he replied from reflex.

  Anna smiled. “You ’ated it when we kids called you that.”

  He had not thought about it until that moment, but Jacques Peters was an honest little boy from a great family; Jack was a no-good thief. “It’s just easier.” He pushed the stolen goods behind his back.

  “But, how are you ’ere?” Anna’s faint smile faded to a worried curiosity. “You died in the fire.”

  “I’m… trying to… Uh—” Jack stumbled but recovered. “What are you doing here? I would’ve imagined there were positions a plenty at the other estates near home.”

  “No. There isn’t. Times haven’t been kind since Shellst…” Anna trailed off as a dark shadow crossed over Jack’s features at the mention of the manor. “I took a post in Falmouth and when the chance—” Again she cut off as she spun to face Jack, her attention drawn to the open door on the writing desk. With her piercing gaze now pinning Jack to where he stood, he quickly gave up and brought the guilty items out for her to see.

  “That’s my mistresses. You can’t!” Anna’s voice rose.

  The older maid’s call interrupted from the base of the stairs, “ ’Ello! Who are you talking to?”

  “Oh, no one; just pricked my finger, that’s all.” Anna stepped into the room and began to close the door.

  “Well leave the cursin’ to the street. I wouldn’t want the ladies of the ’ouse thinking they ’ad hired a sailor.”

  “Right you are, mum. I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” Anna called back, pushing the door closed. Turning, she caught Jack as he was nearly to the window. “You ’ave to put that all back.”

  The words like hooks in his flesh, he stopped at the window as he turned to protest. “This is how I eat. I don’t have a position in a fin
e house. I have to take care of the others.”

  Anna shook her head. “Others, who are you talking about, Jacques? What others?”

  “It’s Jack, and I have to protect my boys, my lost ones.”

  “Who?” Anna reached for the box.

  Jack recoiled. “Orphans, street boys. This will feed us for a week.”

  Anna sighed. “I was just brought ’ere by his lordship. If anyfing goes missin’ then I would be to blame.”

  If it had been anyone else, he would not have cared. Nervously, he dumped it all on the bed, and turned to leave, his conscience suddenly active.

  “Wait!” Anna reached out and gripped him by his fingers. “You can’t just go.”

  “I… well…” Jack stumbled for words, her warm skin against his was like a siren’s call.

  Blushing against his piercing eyes, she coyly let go of his digits. “I . . . Everyone thinks you’re dead, Jacques. Why, the whole town ’ad a funeral an everyfing. It was all quite nice. What ’appened that night? What ’appened to Nathan, to you?” Anna pleaded.

  Jack shook his head and stepped back. “He’s gone and good riddance.”

  “Well we should be thankful for small miracles.” Anna smiled.

  He had thought of her often since he left Penzance, but his memories had not done her justice. She had always been a beautiful girl, and it seemed the last few years had transformed her into a stunning young woman. Everything about here was perfectly shaped—even the cut of her lip as she talked.

  He must have been staring in silence as she grew shy and turned away. “What?” she asked, a demure smile spreading across her profile.

  Jack instantly felt awkward. “The money goes behind the little door on the desk; you just have to push it closed. They’ll never know.”

  As he turned to leave, Anna followed him to the window. “ ’Appy birthday, Jack.”

  When he turned back around, she was holding the money out for him to take. Jack shook his head, pushing her hand back.

  Anna tried to force the issue. “No, take it, don’t worry. I can—”

  “You put that money back with the box before the other house maid catches you,” Jack commanded from the window ledge. Then with a warm smile, he continued, “And I thank you for early birthday wishes.”

  “I may not be able to bake a cake, but if you come back tomorrow, I could have some fresh fruit and cream for you,” Anna leaned out and whispered.

  “And which room would be yours?” He paused at the spout.

  “I could meet you on the street.” She blushed.

  “Fine. Tomorrow after dark, on the corner there.” Jack motioned with his chin, smiled, then slid down the pipe and disappeared into the garden.

  ***

  “Jack!” the boys called out in unison as soon as he skipped down the rickety wooden stairs. They had been forced from the old warehouse, finding a new home in a storage room of a brick building well past its glory days.

  “It’s Sam,” Gags yelled out.

  “Sam?” Jack’s face beamed. He hadn’t seen his oldest friend in almost a month. Sam was a man now that he was seventeen. Truth be told, Sam had been out working honest jobs for some time, but recently he had put thieving away entirely.

  “Jack.” Sam stood and gripped him by the shoulder. “I s-s-swears you get’n b-b-bigger each time I lays me eyes on you.”

  “It’s because we eat better now,” Jack laughed. He was surprised that he was nearly Sam’s height, though Sam was no longer his lanky self, and had filled out so that he was a ball of muscle all over.

  “Ha.” Sam shook his head with a smile. “W-w-well then you w-w-wouldn’t be need’n this.”

  Jack just missed the half-crown as Sam pulled the proffered coin away. “Well I should say I eat well, but some of the other boys—”

  “W-w-words like ’oney. You ’as a s-s-silver tongue, Jack. S-silver tongue an lips o’ gold.” Sam shoved him back in jest and then continued to circle about the home.

  It was late when dinner was finished. Bill ran a tight ship. Each boy cleaned up after himself, the food was stowed by the rafters, and everyone had his place to bed down.

  “We’re doing good, me and my lost boys.” The name came to him just then as he drew silent, thinking about his conversation with Anna.

  “ ’Ello. W-w-where did you go.” Sam shook his shoulder, breaking Jack’s reverie. “You finally come up w-with a better dream than a pile o’ p-pastries?”

  Jack smiled to himself as he leaned back upon the mound of rags that made his chair. “Peaches and cream, my good man. Peaches and cream.” He chuckled at his secret joke. Sam sat down on an upturned crate, mock disappointment on his face, which made Jack laugh. If only he knew—dessert was far from Jack’s mind.

  Sam leaned back, pulled out a long-stemmed pipe, and began to stuff it with fresh tobacco. “That’s w-w-what ’as me w-worried. You is doin’ good, Jack, that be s-s-sure. But it ain’t as simple as any sweet treat anymore, you’re start’n to attract the likes of them B-B-Bow Street Runners.”

  “What? The Runners!” Jack laughed. “I gave them the slip just this afternoon. They’re nothing but a bunch of worthless, dogs chasing their tails! Right, boys?”

  “Aye, Jack!” the boys shouted in unison, laughing. “Not one of them is worth a dirty copper!”

  Sam flinched, but it went unnoticed. “I’m not s-s-say’n you ’as to s-stop. J-j-just c-c-calm d-d-down—” Sam’s frustration stiffened his tongue. Struggling, he took a moment to collect his words, “—for them next few days. Go an take s-s-some bread from the market, lay off the bankers.”

  “I don’t get this,” Jack huffed. “Are you jealous? Is that it? Look around, we eat like kings. No one sleeps in the cold anymore. We have proper clothes!”

  “It’s n-n-not like that, Jack, I knows you ’as been the best to these ’ere b-b-boys. You ’as done more than I c-could.” Sam swallowed and leaned forward keeping his voice low, just between the two of them. “But you’s too smart not to see that people is s-start’n to talk. Them Runners ain’t as dumb as you think. Fielding is w-w-wicked clever an ’is lieutenant is just as sharp. They’s close to finding out who y-y-you are.”

  Jack shook his head in disbelief. “The only way they could find out is if one of these lads ratted me out an we both know that won’t happen; besides, I have even bigger plans. We only need to have a few more days of cutting purses to set up shop and start making us an honest living. I don’t mean just in the storage room of some abandoned building. We could have a house—a proper place for us lost boys to live.”

  Sam chewed on the stem of his pipe, the embers beginning to die from the lack of oxygen. The silence stretched on long enough that Jack became uneasy.

  “Well?” Jack finally asked.

  “Just ’old off a b-b-bit, okay? I know you is a grand schemer. ’Angin back a day or two won’t ruin your p-p-plans, eh? I ’ears talk, Jack.”

  Jack became cautious. “What have you heard, Sam?”

  “W-w-what do you think will ’appen to the young’uns if you’s caught, Jack? Y-y-you an I bolfs know it’s the w-w-workhouses or even the colonies.” Not allowing Jack to get a word in as he tried to protest, Sam quickly put up his hands and continued, “N-n-now I know that’s a risk we’ve always t-t-taken, but they ain’t interested in sh-sh-shipping you an’ the older boys off, Jack. They’s talkn’ ’bout ’angn’s.”

  “It can’t be as bad as all that!” Jack scoffed as he relaxed back into his seat.

  “I s-swear, it’s all they been talkn’ about back at the um… the d-docks. They’s almost gleeful about it.”

  “Fine. We’ll take a week off. Lay low.” Jack reached forward and tapped Sam’s knee. The older boy visibly relaxed and resumed puffing on his pipe. “After that, the lost boys will be living on the island of bread, you’ll see.”

  Chapter 13

  “A nd what do we ’ave here?” Mr. Talmage’s deep, voice labored rhetorically with a sneer directed
at George. It wasn’t the boy’s fault—he was just following orders. Talmage’s aggravation was due to the less-than-stellar fruit harvested from their labors.

  “I did what you asked, Sir,” George nervously smiled. “I ’as brought you pickpockets a plenty.”

  George had done as he asked and brought him a steady procession of pickpockets and beggars, but each seemed less likely than the last to be the one that would ease his anguish and turn this disaster into a solution.

  “Geroge,” Talmage called like he was forming a question. “When the Fieldings gone an’ made me their chief officer, they charged me wif putting an end to the larceny in the banking district. Now,” taking a wrought-iron nutcracker from his desk, he scratched the lice under his gray wig and asked, “why do you think I want all them beggars and thieves brought before me? Is it because I likes how the riffraff looks? Do you think I want a menagerie of street boys?”

  “No,” George replied.

  “No, what?” Talmage asked.

  “No, Sir, you is look’n fer the ones what leads the pickpockets. But I fink you might find this one a bit more ’ehlpful.” George offered, shoving a skinny boy forward, his head shifting under the sack like a lost fowl.

  “And why would that be?” Talmage asked.

  Instantly, George’s hand caught the boy up the backside of his head. “ ’Ee asked you a question.”

  Through the rough burlap, the voice was muffled, but resolute, “They calls me Talker, an I knows who yous been look’n for; but I aint sayin’ a word less I gets promises. I ain’t gonna meet the ol’ Baily.”

  “Promises? A deal?” Mr. Talmage scoffed. “What would the street worm wish of the raven?”

  Without preamble, George ripped the bag from Talker’s head. Sitting behind a worn desk sat a walrus of a man, not exceptionally tall, but exceedingly round in the waist. With exertion, he shuffled forward in his chair, the mere act of breathing causing beads of sweat to form a steady trail over his brow.

  Talker’s confidence waned as his lips stuttered, “I… I—”