“Wherein we meet a young villain in the making, or a hero by any other name.”
The Work-house in the Parish of St. John at Hackney. In the County of Middlesex.
September 1802
The building was ancient, a Tudor cottage which at one time might have been a handsome building with its gable ends and quaint corners. Now it mouldered, narrow roofs sagging around a multitude of tall chimneys that struck out towards the sky like skinny arms pleading to God.
There was no God here.
Luther had heard talk of God. The chaplain droned on about him every Sunday. In all his never-ending twelve years the only thing Luther had learned about God was that he was vengeful and cruel, and that a fiery pit awaited you at the end of your miserable days.
The workhouse faced a tavern called Adam and Eve, and right now that tavern seemed a million miles away. It was on the far side of a paved inner courtyard surrounded by sheds and a high wooden fence. Luther had never set foot outside of the grounds, not since the day he’d been born into the filth and desperate squalor of the workhouse. He would today. Today there was no other choice.
He turned, tugging at the hand of the fearful little boy at his side.
“We gotta go, Ricky,” he said, wishing he didn’t sound quite so frightened. The little eight-year old looked up to him, needed him, for protection and guidance. He’d failed the only other person he’d ever cared for. A failure so crushing and comprehensive he couldn’t think on it, not yet, but he’d not fail Ricky too. He’d promised, and he’d rather die than break that promise.
Luther was a large boy for his twelve years, despite his malnourishment. The scrawny kid at his side, however, was all big eyes and bones. A strong gust of wind would blow him away. He wouldn’t stand the punishment the matron would mete out when Luther’s crime was discovered. Not that he’d done anything but be in the same room. The guilt was Luther’s alone, and he didn’t regret it. He’d spit in God’s eyes and tell him so if he must.
Luther knew he’d not survive his own punishment either, hanging was not something a fellow recovered from. Did they hang children, he wondered? He’d never heard of it, but then most children weren’t murderers. His guts twisted, the all too familiar sensations of hunger and fear coiling together in a sickening twist.
“I’m frightened, Lou,” the little boy said, his narrow chest puffing from the exertion of fleeing the scene of the crime.
“I’m not,” Luther lied, the words bold and hard. “I’m going to get us out of this bleedin’ hell hole. We’re gonna be rich, Ricky boy, we’ll live like Kings and eat meat every night and for breakfast an’ all. You mark my words.”
“Promise, Lou?” the little boy said, his wide eyes growing so large in his filthy face he looked inhuman, like some odd little creature born of beast and man.
Luther released his hold on the boy’s hand to spit in his own palm, and held it out once more. “Word of honour, Ricky. You an’ me, we’ll never let anyone hurt us, not ever again.”
The younger boy swallowed, staring up at Luther with awe in his eyes as he gave a terrified little jerk of his head that Luther took for agreement.
“Shake on it, then,” he said, giving the boy a fierce look. “Shake and it’s binding.”
Ricky put his smaller hand against his, the skinny fingers curving around his own and Luther let out a breath. “Right then,” he said, turning back to survey the expanse of paved yard and the filthy jumble of buildings beyond. London called to him, stories of evil and dreams come true, of unimaginable wealth and the vilest cruelty and poverty, worse even than the workhouse … but at least they’d be free.
Luther would rather starve on his own, at his own hand, than be forced to lap at foul looking puddles like a mangy dog when his rations had once again been denied him for speaking out of turn. He’d never hold his tongue again, he’d say what he damned well pleased and go to the devil with a snarl on his lips.
A scream reached his ears, distant and muffled and he knew there was no more time to gather his nerve, to steel himself to face the outside world for the first time. Taking a tight hold of Ricky’s hand, he turned to give the boy one last glare that dared him to chicken out.
“You an’ me, Ricky. We’ll conquer the bloody world. Now run!”
***
Luther grimaced at the feel of the thick, freezing mud between his toes. No matter he’d been doing this for well over a year, he’d never get used to it. The stench of the river Thames at low tide invaded his lungs, putrid and so thick it seemed to fill his chest like a weight. Dead things, mouldering things, human refuse, even corpses, so often they barely remarked on it … Such sights had long since ceased to shock either of them. Luther wasn’t even sure they ever had. He’d been forced to share a room with a corpse for three days and three nights in the workhouse once, for a crime he couldn’t even remember now. It had given him a morbid dislike of dark rooms, but he wasn’t afraid of death, not even his own. It would get him, or it wouldn’t. He couldn’t muster the energy to fear it.
They called them Mudlarks, those that sifted through the filth washed up on the banks of the Thames when the tide went out. A muddy basket hung from Luther’s arm, half full of coal. When the bargemen heaved their heavy sacks of coal to the shore, pieces often dropped into the water and sank to the mud. On a good day they could fill two baskets before the tide came in. They’d sell them to the neighbouring houses and earn enough to keep their bellies full. There were a few bits of iron today too, a nail and a couple of rivets which would fetch a few farthings. They’d had rope yesterday, fallen overboard from some ship. That they’d sold to the marine dealers.
“I ain’t half hungry, Lou,” Ricky muttered, his arms wind-milling as he lost his balance in the sticky black filth. Luther reached out to steady him, tugging him upright.
“You’re always bleedin’ hungry,” Luther muttered, irritated. “Fill that basket and we’ve enough for bread and beer and maybe a bit ‘o cheese an’ all.”
Ricky scowled but returned his attention to picking over the refuse. He’d filled out a little in the two years since they’d left the workhouse, though he was still scrawny and far shorter than Luther.
The first months after they’d run away had been the worst of their short lives. The initial euphoria of having escaped was short-lived as the brutal reality of life on the streets was swiftly brought home to them. Luther had told Ricky he’d take him back to the workhouse if he wanted, but that he’d rather freeze to death in a ditch than go back himself. Ricky had stayed. They’d been frozen and close to starvation when Luther had heard tell of the Mudlarks that picked the edges of Thames clean like a dog gnawing a bone.
It had been tough and miserable at first as the Mudlarks were a territorial lot. Luther had always been handy with his fists, but he’d never had to fight so hard nor so often as he had in those first weeks. There were fewer boys working in the winter months though, so the odds hadn’t been so bad. Even the hardiest lads were unwilling to face the frozen mud beneath on their bare feet unless they really had to. It was wretched and dangerous work.
At first Luther had worked alone, as Ricky had been too frail. They’d found shelter in an old cowshed for the first few weeks, moving later to an old rotting barge, abandoned further up the shore. Now, the other Mudlarks had accepted them, knowing Luther was too tough to be dissuaded and that they’d only get a bloody nose, or worse, for their troubles. Even when the summer Mudlarks had appeared, girls too then, with their skirts trailing in the mud, no one dared to try and frighten Luther off, his reputation was too dangerous.
Once the basket was full, they hauled it back to the barge and Luther fetched a pail of water to wash their legs and feet. Not that they ever came clean, the water was filthy before they’d ever got near it and the dirt too ingrained on their skin to ever lose the dingy grey tinge again. Luther despised it. The stench of the river lingered in his nostrils.
A few weeks ago, they’d been walking the streets in the twilight of the evening. Their bellies had been pleasantly full, and two glasses of beer had given them a sense of mellow content. An elegant couple had moved past them, and the boys had stopped to gawp in awe. The pair had been dressed in what Luther supposed was the height of fashion. The woman’s skin had gleamed with the health of youth, as pink and perfect as a new-born’s. Her clothes had been pristine, perfect, and her scent … Luther had tried to recapture her scent at night as he lay in his bed. He didn’t know what it was other than it spoke of wealth and a life of clean sheets and full stomachs.
A fierce longing for such a life had sparked in his guts, along with a determination that he’d escape the sucking, clawing mud of the Thames, just as he had the work-house. He wouldn’t let it drag him and Ricky down into its hellish depths. He would scrape and scratch a path out with his bare hands. They’d escape, to better things, as soon as an opportunity presented itself.
As it happened, fate was listening.
They’d eaten as much as the day’s earnings would provide for them, even managing a shilling’s worth of cheese to go with their bread. Despite having his hunger sated, Luther was still edgy when they returned to the abandoned barge. Ricky collapsed onto the pile of rags that served as his bed and within moments was sound asleep. His soft snores echoed about the ragged hull and Luther huffed, irritated for no good reason.
Restless, he got to his feet and headed back outside. It was late September, and even over the stench of the river Luther could scent autumn on the air, the sweeter smell of decaying leaves and the darkening days announcing that winter would be upon them soon enough. His guts clenched at the idea of the freezing days and nights to come. God, what wouldn’t he give to have a proper roof over his head and a hearth to sit beside on a cold night?
The tide was out and the acres of mud alongside the tidal river gleamed darkly in the moonlight. The great ships that lined the busy waterway two deep on either side of the river, lurched sideways in their murky beds. Luther walked the marshy banks, feeling small and alone under a sky that he feared could smother him like an inky black coat. He still hated the dark, but it was better outside than in the confines of that blasted barge.
Every now and then he’d hear the call of a sailor aboard one of the ships. The poor bastards that had drawn the short straw and had to stand guard over cargo, cursing their comrades over at Southwark tucked up snug with the whores and drinking themselves insensible.
Luther tensed as another sound caught his ear. Movement in the marshes, the rustle of grass not made by the wind, but by men. He swung around, poised to run as pitch-black shapes emerged out of the night like dark crabs, low and scuttling. Too late a large hand covered his mouth and the scent of rum and smoke and working man filled his overworked senses.
“Hush, ye, now my brave laddie,” the man said, his voice low and amused. “I have a job for you if you be willin’ to earn yourself an honest wage?”
Some fellow guffawed and was silenced, by an elbow, if the dull thunk Luther heard was anything to go on.
Luther nodded, his heart beating hard in his chest. The large hand removed itself from his mouth and he turned to see a stocky man of average height. His hair was dark, but with a shock of white at one temple. Luther didn’t find that sight quite as remarkable as the gleaming silver sixpence that was held between the man’s finger and thumb. It shone like a tiny moon in the large, scarred hand as he waved it back and forth in a hypnotic manner.
“One now, another when I return, if you stand and keep an eye out for the watermen. I’m short o’ men tonight and need all my hands to carry goods.”
Luther didn’t need asking twice. He and Ricky had earned sixpence on a good day once or twice. Twice that much for standing and watching the water …
“You can depend on me, sir,” he said, reaching for the coin.
It was swiftly snatched from his reach, the fellow giving him a narrow-eyed look. “Can I?” he asked, the words sending something of a shiver running down Luther’s spine. “Cause if I can’t, I’ll hunt you down and they’ll be nothing left for the rats to gnaw on once I’m done.”
Luther stared back at him, his gaze steady. There was amusement in the fellow’s eyes and Luther had heard worse and had to run from men who looked a deal more depraved than this man, coarse as he was.
“I fear no rats, sir, and you need not fear my betrayal. I never break my word, once given.”
There was a low chuckle and the man nodded. “Here you go then, young varmint. We’ll be back within half an hour, I expect you to yell long and loud if you see those buggers rowing up the river.”
“You’ll hear me,” Luther promised, feeling the silver coin between his fingers with a little skip of pleasure in his heart.
Luther watched, intrigued as the river pirates waded into the mud and out to one of the listing boats. Silent and deadly, they scaled the slippery flanks of the ship, agile as monkeys. As they disappeared over the sides all was quiet and still until a muffled shriek was heard and then a desperate series of thuds and scuffles.
The horizon was motionless as Luther watched, hearing his own breathing and the thud of his heart in the expectant darkness as the minutes slid past with the tainted river; the tide was turning. He was about to look back, aware the pirates were throwing down their haul into the mud beneath, when something caught his eye. He had to strain to see it, but then he saw it, the unmistakable silhouette of an open galley, rowed by four men with another at the helm. It disappeared for a moment beneath a rolling mist, but he knew what he’d seen.
Luther cupped his hands over his mouth. “Oy!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice carrying over the river. “Watermen!
For a split second it seemed as if everything froze, then the watermen shouted, having heard Luther, same as the pirates. The dark shapes cascaded back down the side of the ship as the watermen rowed like fury towards the violated ship.
For a moment, Luther stood, stupidly frozen as he watched the scene play out, almost as if he wasn’t a part of it, until a large hand shoved him forward. A shot exploded in the darkness.
“Run, you stupid bugger,” shouted the man who’d given him the sixpence.
It occurred to Luther that, not only did he not want to meet the watermen, but he’d not yet received his second payment. He took to his heels, shadowing the man who moved surprisingly fast considering his compact shape and the fact he was carrying a large wooden chest.
The gang split up, disappearing into the back alleys and filthy streets, but Luther stuck to his benefactor like glue, the older man no competition for a fellow so much younger and fitter.
“In here,” the fellow rasped, shoving open a heavy oak door on a narrow street. The street reeked of filth and desperation and Luther crashed in behind him, too eager to close the door on the stench.
His companion dropped the chest he was carrying and the chink of metal on metal sounded beneath the wooden sides.
“Good work, lad,” the fellow said, giving Luther a grin as he braced his arms on his knees, catching his breath. “I could use a fellow like you if you want to earn your bread like a man instead of a pig, rooting in the dirt.”
Luther stiffened, his pride stinging at the insult. “You ain’t paid me for what I earned tonight, yet,” he observed. He folded his arms, staring at the pirate who was no taller than Luther but had the muscle and bulk of a man, not a boy. He’d not win a fight, but he might be able to outrun him. That chest had sounded to be full of … what? Gold? Silver? It wasn’t iron nails and rivets, that much was certain.
It was a tantalising idea. He could rent a room for the winter, keep him and Ricky warm and fed and off the streets. Out of that bloody leaky barge.
The fellow chuckled, a low sound of amusement that made the hairs on the back of Luther’s neck prickle.
“Aye, tempting ain’t it?” he said, something that might have been sympathy behind the words.
Before Luther could draw another breath to speak there was a knife at his throat.
“You lay your filthy paw on that chest, you even think of takin’ what’s mine, and I’ll gut you from neck to navel, my fine lad.”
Luther swallowed. The blade was cold against his flesh, fear a living thing clawing under his skin, yet he held still, didn’t flinch or beg, just stared back at the man, his face impassive. Never show fear, that much he’d learned many years ago. No fear, no remorse.
The pirate smiled, apparently pleased by his reaction. “Cold as ice,” he said as he removed the blade. “Aye, lad. I can use you. Here.” He held out another silver sixpence to Luther who snatched it from his hand with lightning speed.
“You want to earn more of those?” the fellow asked as Luther put some distance between them, edging closer to the door.
“Maybe,” he said, his expression hard and grudging, but unable to hide the curiosity and eagerness in his voice.
“Heard of the Black Rule have ye?”
Luther felt a shiver of something cold and yet fiery prickle over him. He’d been whipped with stinging nettles at the workhouse plenty of times and the sensation wasn’t dissimilar. Black Rule was a man and a law. They said not so much as a pocket was picked along the river without Black Rule knowing it and wanting his cut.
“I see you ‘ave.” Amusement laced that statement and Luther tried harder to keep his face a mask.
“What of it?” he demanded, striving for nonchalance when his heart was beating in his throat, making him feel sick.
“’Cause, ye young Tyburn blossom, you’re going to meet the Lord o’ London.”
Available on Amazon December 28, 2018