The River Maid. Dilly Court

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Limehouse Hole, London, 1854

      Essie Chapman pulled hard on the sculls as she rowed her father’s boat towards Duke Shore Dock. It was dark and the lantern on the stern of the small, clinker-built craft bobbed up and down, shedding its light on the turbulent waters of the River Thames. Essie fought against the tide and the treacherous undercurrents, but she was cold, wet and close to exhaustion. Her mysterious passenger had not spoken a word since she had collected him from the foreign vessel moored downriver. The task would normally have fallen to her father, Jacob, but he was laid up, having slipped on the watermen’s steps the previous evening. He had fallen badly and had been carried home to White’s Rents on an old door, the only form of stretcher available to the wharfinger’s men at the time. He had lain on the sofa like a dead man for twenty-four hours and when he awakened he could barely move a muscle.

      ‘You’ll have to do my next job for me, Essie, love. It’s a matter of life and death.’

      His words echoed in her mind as she battled against the elements. By day Jacob’s small craft scurried up and down the river doing errands considered too small by the lightermen and watermen, but by night things were different. Sometimes it was the odd barrel or two of brandy that had to be sneaked ashore before the revenue men laid hands on it, or packets wrapped in oilskin, the contents of which would forever remain a mystery. There was always a messenger waiting on the shore to grab the cargo and spirit it off into the darkness. Money changed hands and Jacob would spend most of it in the Bunch of Grapes, coming home reeking of rum and tobacco smoke. Sometimes, when he felt generous, he would give Essie twopence to spend on herself, but the money was usually spent on necessities like bread, coal and candles.

      The tide would turn very soon and Essie was anxious to reach the shore before the current took her downriver. She shot a furtive glance at her passenger, who was wrapped in a boat cloak that made him merge into the darkness. His face was concealed by the hood and she could not tell whether he was young or old, although his lithe movements when he had climbed down the ship’s ladder and boarded her boat suggested that he was in the prime of life. Getting him to dry land was uppermost in her mind and she put every ounce of strength into a last supreme effort to reach the wharf. The sound of the keel grating on gravel was like music to her ears, although it was as much as she could do to rise from her cramped position. Then, to her surprise, her passenger was on his feet and had stepped over the side, wading ankle deep in water as he dragged the craft effortlessly onto the mud and shingle.

      The top of the wharf towered above them, menacing even by moonlight. The great skeletal ironwork of the cranes was silhouetted against the black velvet sky, and an eerie silence hung in the still air, punctuated only by the slapping and sucking of the water against the wooden stanchions. It had to be well after midnight and yet the river was still alive with wherries, barges and larger vessels heading for the wharves and docks further upstream. It was slack water and soon the tide would turn and the river would churn and boil as it flowed towards the coast. Jacob always said that river water ran in his veins instead of blood, and as a child Essie had believed every word her father said, but now she was a grown woman of twenty and she was not so gullible.

      She stood up, but before she had a chance to clamber ashore the stranger leaned over and lifted her from the boat as easily as if she were a featherweight. She was acutely aware of his body heat and the scent of spicy cologne mixed with the salty tang of the sea. Most men of her acquaintance stank of sweat, tar and tobacco, but this was altogether different and oddly exciting. She had barely had time to catch her breath when he set her down on the ground, pressed a small leather pouch into her hand, and, without a word of thanks, he strode off, heading in the direction of the stone steps.

      Driven by curiosity, Essie hurried after him, although her progress was hampered by her damp skirts and flannel petticoat. She reached the top of the steps in time to see him climb into a waiting cab and it drove off into the night, leaving her alone on the wharf amongst the idle machinery. The brief moment of quiet was shattered when the door of a pub in Fore Street opened, spilling out a group of drunken men, who cavorted and sang in good-natured tipsiness until someone landed a punch, which started a brawl.

      She weighed the purse in her hand and it was heavy – this had been no ordinary job. The tall stranger with strong arms and gallant manner was not a common seaman, and if he was carrying contraband, it was something small that could be easily concealed beneath his cloak. There was nothing more she could do and she was tired. She might never know the identity of the man who smelled of the sea and spice. What his mission was must remain a mystery – but she was chilled to the bone and the thought of her warm bed was uppermost in her mind.

      Essie started walking. Home was a small terraced house in White’s Rents, a narrow alley leading to Ropemaker’s Fields. It was a poor area with several families crowded into the two-up, two-down dwellings. Chimney sweeps, brewery workers, dockers, street sweepers and sailmakers lived cheek by jowl with the families who raised ten or more children in the tiny houses, with a shared privy at the end of the street. The constant reminder of what fate might have in store for the less fortunate inhabitants was Limehouse Workhouse, just a short walk away.

      Essie quickened her pace, but all the time she was aware of the deep shadows where danger lurked at any time of the day or night. The yellow eyes of feral cats blinked at her as they slunk along the gutters in the constant search for food, and skinny curs prepared to fight for survival. Drunks, drug addicts and thieves on the prowl might lurk in the shadows to attack the unwary, and it was a relief to arrive home unmolested.

      ‘Is that you, my duck?’ Her father’s voice boomed out like a foghorn from the sofa as she opened the front door, which led straight into the front parlour.

      ‘Yes, Pa.’

      ‘Is the job done?’

      ‘Yes, Pa.’ Essie trod carefully as she made her way across the floor in almost complete darkness. The curtains remained drawn back but there were no streetlights in White’s Rents, and clouds had obscured the moon. ‘Do you want anything, Pa?’

      He reached out to feel for her hand. ‘A cup of water would go down well, Esther. I’ve drunk all the ale, but it didn’t do much to help the pain in my back.’

      ‘We should get a doctor to look at you.’

      ‘You know we can’t afford it, love. I’ll be all right in a day or two.’ Jacob shifted his position and groaned. ‘Did he pay up?’

      Essie tightened her grip on the purse. ‘Who was he, Pa?’

      ‘It’s not for us to know. Where’s the money?’

      ‘I have it safe.’

      ‘Give it here, there’s a good girl.’

      ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning, Pa. Right now I’m tired and I’m going to bed.’ Essie opened the door that concealed a narrow staircase, and she closed it behind her, cutting off her father’s protests. She would give him the money, but not before she had taken out enough to pay the rent collector and buy food. She had not eaten anything since a slice of bread and a scrape of dripping for breakfast, but she had gone past feeling hungry. Pa might be content with a couple of bottles of beer, but Essie could not remember the last time they had sat down to a proper meal. She climbed the stairs to her room where she undressed and laid her damp skirt over the back of a wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the tiny room apart from a truckle bed. She slipped her cotton nightgown over her head and lay down, pulling the coverlet up to her chin, but through the thin walls she could hear the infant next door howling for his night feed. The organ grinder who lived at number three was drunk again, and, judging by the screams and shouts, was beating his poor wife. Someone was singing drunkenly as he staggered along the pavement below, banging СКАЧАТЬ