Book 1, Chapter 1:
Life On Brick Road
Twelve-year-old Jonathan Moore sat scrunched up at the bottom of a large stone-stacked chimney inside an old, dreary pub on Ayliff Street near Whitechapel in London.
“Are you finished yet, Sean?” he asked, looking up the flue.
“Almost!” came the reply as a stream of black soot rushed downward from somewhere high in the chimney, dousing Jonathan in a cloud of coal-colored dust.
“You had better watch it, Jonny Boy,” said Sean from somewhere above. “I'll be sending the last of this black stuff your way.”
“Thank you for the timely warning,” Jonathan said as he coughed and tried wiping the dirt from his face as best as he could.
“Don't mention it,” replied Sean, happily, as he continued working, sending ash downward towards his friend who tried to sweep the dust into a canvas bag and contain the spread of dirt.
Jonathan thought that the pub itself was too dark and dirty to begin with and that a little dust would not be noticed as there were only two other people in the house besides Sean and himself. However, there was considerably more than just a little dust in the bag.
The chimney sweep who had agreed to use the boys as assistants had decided to take his payment early at the bar itself and was now resting comfortably, slumped over and snoring. Jonathan and Sean had reached an agreement with the pub owner directly to do the sweeping and cleanup for a sandwich each. A meal like that would be most welcome to both boys as neither had eaten for several days. Being orphaned and homeless and living literally on the streets of London meant that the frequency of meals was anything but frequent, and jobs that paid in any manner were most welcome.
All Jonathan had to his name were the clothes on his back and a tattered old horse blanket he had earned one day by working odd jobs at a local stable. Usually dirty, smelly and chilled to the bone, he never knew when he would have his next meal. He spent most of his day searching for food or repairing damages to his home: a three-sided wooden box situated within a pile of loose boards and broken crates at the end of a dark and filthy alley off Brick Road.
As Jonathan, Sean and all the other poor souls who had no home or money were well aware, living in London’s East End in the year 1800 was a dangerous unfriendly existence. It seemed that most of the days and nights were subject to terrible weather: howling wind, driving rain and chilling temperatures that made Jonathan shiver and shake. In the winter, the freezing rain and snow along with the icy temperatures were more than uncomfortable. The cold could even kill. Likewise, drinking water contained a sickness called cholera and, unless he was sure the water was fresh, Jonathan drank nothing. He had seen people die from the disease and it scared him very much. There were rats crawling almost everywhere; however, there were other more dangerous animals on the streets at night: dark and scary men, some roaming the cobblestone in gangs, loud and boisterous, committing crimes of the most terrible sort. There was drinking, stealing, fighting and sometimes … even murder.
“Done!” came the call from the flue, and shortly Sean Flagon appeared in the firebox, covered in blackness but smiling widely. He dusted himself off as best he could, but that only caused the dark cloud of dust to grow and drift as Jonathan tried to contain the storm.
“I am as hungry as I can ever remember, Jonny Boy,” said Sean.
“I am, as well,” agreed Jonathan. “I can't remember when we ate last, but I am sure it was less than filling. The sooner you help me tidy this up the sooner we eat.”
Sean smiled and immediately began scooping soot and debris from the fireplace with his cupped hands, adding to the collection his best friend already had in the bag.
“Are you little urchins finished?” came a deep voice. It was the proprietor of the pub.
“Yes, sir,” said Jonathan as the man approached them from behind the bar.
“Oh. Well then, I believe yer employer said ya were to be paid out of ’is share,” the man said, “so he will take care of you when he wakes, I'd gather.”
Jonathan watched the shift in the man’s eyes and knew immediately that he was attempting to cheat them. He had seen that expression before from unscrupulous employers when it came time to receive his pay.
A paying job was hard to come by; however, he used his wits and muscle to find odd ones often enough. And that meant a few shillings and shillings meant food. Keeping his manners sharp, his words clear and precise and his tone always gracious and respectful, Jonathan was often able to work for a few pennies and turn them into a decent meal. Maybe only one decent meal every few days, but that is all he seemed to need. At times, he would join with others to survive, in particular his current partner, Sean Flagon, also a boulevard denizen. They had met on the streets of London and formed a fast friendship, being of similar age and disposition. No matter what the situation, Sean always had a cheery attitude and the two boys made a successful go of it as a frequent team. After a short while, they became deep friends and cared for each other like the closest of brothers.
Jonathan and Sean now looked suspiciously at the pub owner and tried to think a step ahead. They needed their food desperately as it had been a long stretch without any. Waiting to discuss the matter of payment with the drunken chimney sweep would probably yield no fruit whatsoever.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Jonathan, graciously. “Though we were hired by the sweep, we made our agreement with you personally as you must recall. A sandwich and glass of milk each.”
“Aye, it was,” added Sean, now growing wary.
“That is not how I remember it,” said the man, growing angry. “Ya little brats best be off and ‘ope your friend ‘ere doesn't drink yer share and forget ta pay ya now!”
Jonathan glanced at Sean. He seemed shocked and about to burst into anger or tears; it was hard to tell which. The afternoon’s work was now wasted. No pay, no food; just a bag of ashes for their trouble. And that gave Jonathan an idea.
“You will not cheat us, sir,” he said.
“Why you little–”
“–and it would be a shame if my associate here would have to run about this shop and empty the contents of this bag all over your establishment. Yes?”
Sean now smiled and opened the bag a peek, then tilted it towards the floor. A thin stream of smut poured out to the stoned ground and created a cloud of dust that was surprisingly large.
“Oops!” he said. “I spilled a wee bit! What a mess it made!”
The boys were quickly shown to the kitchen where the cook made them each the promised sandwich, just cheese but enough of it, and produced two glasses of thin milk. They hastily drank the milk, a rarity to be sure, and then walked out the back door, carrying the brushes and poles used to clean the flue and the bag of soot. They then sat down quietly on the stoop to enjoy their well-earned rewards.
“It’s still raining,” said Sean, looking up to the grey sky.
“I don’t think it ever stopped,” added Jonathan. “It’s a wonder we aren’t flooded out.”
“Aye! Jonny! That reminds me! I heard that ships are due into the docks, cargo ships coming, a lot of them!” said Sean.
“I love going to the docks! The ships are wonderful, aren’t they? And maybe we can find a little work, as well!” Jonathan said, hopefully.
“I need to ask around and see when they are coming in,” said Sean, rising from the stoop with his sandwich in his hand. “I’ll let ya know. Hopefully tomorrow, eh?”
“Thanks, Sean. Until tomorrow, then.”
With that Sean disappeared around the corner leaving Jonathan to his sandwich. He ate silently and hurriedly, thinking about the London docks and the beautiful ships that were always present. If they were lucky, they might see a few warships with handsome white sails and tall masts. Jonathan wondered what it would be like to live on one. It had to provide some sort of adventure to the men aboard; however, in his position as a poor orphaned boy, this was only a dream. Chances were extremely slight that he could ever sail on a ship of any kind. His adventure would come from his quest for survival. And maybe it was true what Sean had said to him about the ships and the British Navy. “It’s no life for anybody. Working on a ship is like being a slave, and that is a terrible existence, toiling all day and all night with no food or sleep!”
I will never know, thought Jonathan. He returned to his meager meal.
As he took another bite of his sandwich, he heard strange laughter from the alley. It was not the kind of laughter heard when people were enjoying themselves, but the sneering type, as heard when bullies were about. Jonathan had heard it before and, unfortunately, he had often been on the losing end of bullying when he first landed on the streets. They would take clothes, food, and even the small trinkets he carried. After several years, though, he had become bolder and had recently put a few bullies in their places. It was his way to never start a fight but, if he was forced to be in one, he needed to leverage an advantage. Physically, Jonathan was of average height for his age, and average weight, as well. This offered no benefit when dealing with older bullies. His mind was the greatest advantage he had and, coupled with his superior speed, the result was surprise.
He put the remainder of his sandwich unceremoniously into the pocket of his thin jacket, then rose and peered around the corner. There, as he had feared, he saw Sean on the ground, surrounded by three older boys, certainly a few years older than Jonathan. He had seen this particular group roaming the streets the past week. It was known that they were recent additions to the area, homeless for sure and still a bit new to the game, as he and Sean called it.
“I said give me the sandwich, you pig!” said a dark haired boy as he loomed over Sean.
“You can take a hot poker and lick it, ya scab!” retorted Sean, more angry than afraid.
The dark-haired boy delivered a hard kick aimed at Sean’s side. Instinctively, Sean blocked the blow with his arm, but searing pain raced from his elbow to his shoulder. As bad as it felt, Sean knew it could have been worse.
“We kin split it three ways!” said a blond boy.
“That ain’t much!” said the third boy as he tried to kick Sean, but clumsily missed.
“Give it to me!” said the dark one, delivering another kick that found its mark.
Jonathan crept forward slowly, but not until he took the longest of the brush poles they had just used to clean the chimney of the pub. It was made of strong hard wood and about four feet long. He had seen a few street performers use poles and such to act out sword fights and balancing feats. He watched them carefully and realized a few tricks right away. One was to never use the stick as a bat. Never swing until the game was over.
“This is yer last warnin’, ya Irish cuss! Hand it over!” said the dark boy once again.
Sean did not answer, but moved backwards on the wet ground. His escape was soon blocked by the other two bullies who continued laughing and spitting at their prey.
“Now yer gonna get a lickin’!” said the dark one as he moved in closer to Sean. As he raised his fist to strike the boy, he felt a sharp poke on the back of his head that almost made him topple over. He turned.
“Aay!” he cried.
There was Jonathan standing with his right hand holding the pole like a sword, aimed straight at the bully’s face. Without a word or hesitation, Jonathan thrust the stick forward with great speed and, more importantly, accuracy. The tip punched the dark haired boy in the left eye, and he screamed out in pain. Jonathan marched forward quickly, delivering a sharp kick to the side of the boy’s knee. The cracking sound was sickening. The dark-haired boy went down.
“What is this?” said the blond bully as he turned from Sean and moved towards Jonathan. “Are ya a knight with yer sword and yer–”
Jonathan advanced forward quickly. He lunged directly at the boy’s lower midsection, arm extended first and right foot moving forward. The pole struck painfully in the boy’s crotch and he dropped directly to the hard cobblestone. Spinning, Jonathan turned back to the dark-haired boy and landed a sweeping blow on the side of the enemy’s neck as he tried to rise.
“Are you hurt, Sean?” asked Jonathan as he eyed the third boy.
“Not really. I was just about to teach them a lesson when you came along.”
“What about this last one, Sean?” Jonathan asked.
Rising with a little help from Jonathan, Sean faced the clumsy bully and smiled. "Aw. He’s no trouble,” Sean said.
“I don’t want no trouble!” said the remaining bully, obviously afraid.
“Boo!” shouted Sean, laughing as he started at the last standing bully.
The boy ran as fast as he could out into the street, never looking back.
From within the alley, there came a pinched voice from the dark-haired boy as he rolled on the rain-soaked ground, still in pain.
“I’ll get you for this!” he managed to say.
Jonathan quickly rushed to his side and bent over the boy’s strained face. He looked him in the eye.
“You were stealing from us. That will not stand. I wish you no further harm. However, I warn you. If you ever bother my friend again, you won’t need to come searching for me. I will find you. Do you understand?”
The bully regarded Jonathan for a moment. As he stared into Jonathan’s eyes, he realized that this young boy was no one to be trifled with. Resigned to defeat, he simply looked down and nodded.
“Good,” said Jonathan. “It would be best if you were to find another neighborhood. Welcome to London.”
Jonathan and Sean walked away, dusting themselves off, but to no avail. The soot from the chimney and the scuffle in the alley left them dirty and a bit shaken. The addition of rain was turning all the dirt that covered them into an oozing black paste and though the water aided in cleaning their faces slightly, their clothing was completely wrecked.
“But at least our stomachs are full, right?” said Sean.
“Another day in the great city of London!” chuckled Jonathan. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Heading back to his home, as it were, Jonathan blended in with the thin crowd on Brick Street, eyes on the ground, searching for dropped coins or food as he always did. Living on the streets was hard enough for a grown man but, to Jonathan, a mere child, it was nearly impossible and always uncomfortable and wretched. Many boys did not survive.
As he walked, Jonathan thought of children who lived in homes in the better parts of town and how their lives must be wonderful. Inside, kitchens buzzed with activities that produced scrumptious beef and chicken pies, and breads that filled the air with sweet aromas. There were sugar cookies and chocolate sweets and, sometimes, even a cherry tart or two. Children played parlor games, ran races in the parks and had stories read to them out of big mysterious books. Birthdays and special occasions always meant there would be parties and presents. And each night there were warm fireplaces and soft music that lulled little ones to sleep in their comfortable beds, surrounded by puffy pillows and soft blankets.
After walking a few lonely and fruitless wet blocks, Jonathan turned down his alley. There at the end was his three-sided wooden box. There was a tarp that was hidden with the pile of debris. He would not leave it out in the open, knowing it would be stolen. Its precious quality of being somewhat waterproof was his only defense against the harsher elements of rain, sleet and snow. He retrieved the tarp and draped it over his box as the rain now picked up pace, turning from drizzle to a mild downpour.
It was here that Jonathan spent most of his days sitting silently in his miserable gloomy box. At times, he would look down the length of his alleyway, out past the street into a second floor window of a modest old house. The outside was nothing special, it being like most of the common homes he saw in the neighborhood. However, it was special on the inside. If he were lucky, Jonathan would sometimes see a father walking down a hallway carrying a little boy. He would watch intently as the man would place the boy in a small highchair and lovingly feed him porridge and milk.
As he drifted off to sleep, he remembered that at one time he, too, had a father and a mother and a house to live in, with a fireplace and, yes, even his own bed in his own room. It had been warm and dry, and there was always something to eat. He recalled most fondly that his mother and father loved him dearly and they told him so every night when tucking him into bed. However, they were both gone now and there was no one to care for him. He had become a street urchin, a boy like many others who lived in the gutters and the alleys, just trying to make it through another day.
It was not the cold wet rain or foul smell of the alley or even the difficult life he led that dampened his spirits. It was the simple fact that Jonathan vaguely recalled better days as part of a family and that memory made his current situation most unbearable. He missed his mother and father greatly. Each day he wondered about all that had happened in the last few years. Sometimes, the sadness seemed to surround him, like a bitter dark cloud and it weighed heavily upon his heart.
* * * * * * * *
As tales often tell, events do happen that alter lives, and so it would be for Jonathan Moore. His state of affairs changed dramatically the very next morning, a dark rainy day in the cold chill of March. Following another night spent shivering from the awful chill, he awoke cold and stiff with his feet sticking out of the back of his box, which had become too small as he grew taller each day. Despite his meager nourishment, Jonathan seemed to be reasonably healthy, considering his current status, and growing like a weed.
Sitting up, Jonathan looked outside of his box to notice that once again the morning brought no relief from the cold. It had continued raining most ferociously all night, only just letting up as the sun rose somewhere above the dark grey clouds that covered the city. Big drips of water still slid off the rooftops of the buildings that made up the alley and it seemed to Jonathan that most of the drips fell upon his box and somehow found their way inside to drop on his woolen cap, soaking it.
This will turn out to be another fine day! Jonathan said to himself, sarcastically. I will probably catch a cold by noon. But at least it’s quiet and no one will bother me. Even evil men and bullies stay inside when it rains.
It was just then, as he was thinking of trying to catch some extra sleep, that he heard a commotion: running feet, dozens of them, approaching his alley. There were voices of gruff men, swearing and calling out. He could hear a few screams and cries from young boys. One voice most assuredly belonged to Sean Flagon.
Jonathan peeked out of his box in time to see Sean stop at the entrance to the alley. He looked at Jonathan, fear on his face and yelled. “Run, Jonathan Moore! They are after us all! Run!”
“Who is after us?” he called, though Sean was already gone.
Jonathan cautiously crawled out of his box and stood up, shaking with dread. He peered down the alley into the street, not knowing what to expect. Within a moment, he saw a shadow against the wall growing larger and larger. Then a stocky dark man appeared. He stared at Jonathan for a moment and growled loudly.
“I see another one in a-here!”
With that, the dark man began rushing towards him. Being smart and always prepared, Jonathan had practiced his escape route for just such a purpose and he knew exactly what to do. With a streak of panic to propel him, he ran to the back of the alley. Swiftly, he climbed the crates, broken barrels and planks of wood that he had stacked at the alley’s end. He scurried up, up, up, making his way to the top. From there, he could go over the high brick wall that separated the alley from the open square of shops and carts on the other side. He would be safe in the market; there were many nooks in which to hide.
As he scrambled, he could hear footsteps coming fast from behind. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the large man was almost upon him. He climbed up to the top of the pile as fast as he could. Suddenly, he felt the man’s cold hands scratching and grasping at his ankles and feet. He spun around to see the stubble-faced brute. The man had dark eyes and a scar on his face. He was wearing a dark jacket and a funny cap with something written on it in gold, though Jonathan could not make out what it was. The man leered and snarled as he tried to better his grip on Jonathan.
“Arr! Ya scruffy bilge-rat! Hold a-still! Don’t-a you know what’s-a good for you?”
Jonathan answered with a kick to the man’s large and pimply nose, knocking his attacker backwards. The man was shocked at the power of the blow and teetered back and forth for a moment on the pile of boxes and wood. He tried to grab hold of something to stop from falling, but the boy sent another kick to the man’s chest, finally knocking him down off the crates, to crash right through Jonathan’s box with a loud BOOM.
“Ow!” the man cried. “I think I broke-a me buttocks!”
Jonathan did not wait to see if that was true and quickly swung his legs up over the last crate at the top of the heap and pulled himself up onto the wall. The rain had left the bricks slippery and wet, and that caused him to lose his footing. He clumsily went over the brick wall into the market square on the other side, yelling as he fell. His legs hit something soft and squishy.
Expecting to see a pile of rags or a few sacks of flour, Jonathan heard a voice. “Ooof! Get off of me, ya little gutter pig!”
He had fallen on a fat drunken man sleeping in the street.
“Pardon me, sir, I meant no harm!” Jonathan said as he rolled off the man and quickly ran from the corner of the square. Hiding behind carts and crates, he made his way along to the center of the square and then stood up to carefully look about. No one was there. It was empty, dark and quiet. He sighed in relief, trying to calm his shaking nerves. Once he had caught his breath, he adjusted his wool cap and began thinking of what to do next.
Suddenly, a voice called out from the far end of the square behind him.
“There he is, lads! Faster! Faster! He’s the last one for this mornin’!”
There were now four or more men rushing after him and each appeared mean and dirty. All were clothed in the same silly cap and dark jacket, similar to the first man who had chased him from his alley. Jonathan now realized who, or really, what they were. These men were a press gang, a group ordered to capture men and boys to be sent out on England’s sailing ships to help fight the war or, possibly, to work in the yards that supplied the ships.
Jonathan sped through the square, around the empty carts and behind piles of boxes and crates. All the time, the men seemed to be getting closer and closer. He ran out of the market and down a side street, looking over his shoulder as the men pointed and screamed at him. Could he escape? He was so tired of running and so weak from hunger. Just the cheese sandwich from the day before was not enough to sustain his effort.
He knew he must continue running. He gasped for every breath. Then, his chance: a dark alleyway up ahead. Jonathan turned sharply into its shadows and ducked behind a large stack of barrels. If he could not outrun them, he could outthink them and hide. He tried to slow his breathing as he crouched behind the barrels, holding as still as he could. Peeking out after a moment or two, he saw the men run past, yelling and screaming. They had not seen him.
Jonathan waited a few minutes for good measure, just to make sure the men were far, far away. Finally, he stood up, brushed himself off, fixed his cap straight upon his head and decided to walk back to the alley where his broken cold box awaited him.
As he stepped out from behind the barrels, a tall, thin-faced man suddenly appeared blocking his way.
“Oh! Who are you?” Jonathan cried out in surprise.
This man was much like the ones who had been chasing him and he, too, wore a cap with something written upon it. His beard was a bit shorter than the man Jonathan had kicked off the crates and he was thinner and for the most part free of large scars and somewhat less pimply. As he approached, Jonathan could see he wore a thick black wool coat with large black buttons and, in the dim light, Jonathan could finally read what was embroidered upon the cap in gold letters: HMS Poseidon.
“The question is, my son, who are you?” asked the thin man. He then looked deep into Jonathan’s eyes. After a moment, he held the boy at arm’s length, inspecting his face from all angles, noting the color of his hair and his eyes. Finally, he asked, “And what is yer name?”
“I’m not telling you my name for anything,” Jonathan said, trying to sound brave and strong. The thin-faced man only laughed, showing his big smile, which was missing a few teeth.
“Oh, really?” the man replied and, as quick as a flash, he ran behind the boy, pinned his arms in a tight grasp and swiftly tied a small rope around Jonathan’s hands.
“Ouch! Let me go!” Jonathan cried, struggling to break free. He tried to kick the man, but it was no use. He would not budge or let him loose.
The man leaned into Jonathan’s ear and said, “How about a little game, lad? Simple enough, yes? I will try to guess yer name and all ya have to do is just tell me if I am right or wrong! Then I will decide if ya go free or ya come with me! Aye, it rhymes, right?” He laughed with a scratchy wheezy cackle that Jonathan found very scary.
“I don’t want to play your game! And you could never guess my name,” said Jonathan. “And that rhymes, too!”
“Aye, it does and well done!” said the thin man, surprised.
“No one knows who I am, except my parents,” said Jonathan, “and they are gone!”
Then the man smiled and said the most amazing thing. “Ah! I am right then! Yer name is Jonathan Moore.”
Jonathan was stunned into silence. How could this weird and skinny man know his name?
The thin man was now grinning, mouth as wide as the moon in the sky, and he started to laugh once again.
“Now I know I am right! The look on yer face tells it all! Ya are Jonathan Moore and I have found ya! The Captain will be so pleased, pleased as punch! And I will get an extra anchovy at dinner tonight, I can tell ya!”
“Let me go!” protested Jonathan.
“I am correct, am I not? Ya are Jonathan Moore?”
“Yes!” said Jonathan, “How did you know my name? And who is the Captain?”
The thin-faced man turned Jonathan around and firmly but gently led him out of the alley. Still holding him, he pointed down the street.
“The Captain will need to see ya, that’s all I can say. Nonetheless, don’t worry. No harm will come to ya. That’s my word. And ya don’t have to walk all the way.”
The man led Jonathan along the lane, away from the center of the city. As they walked, Jonathan worried if he could trust this man, even if he did say no harm would come to him. The man knew his name.
He obviously has been searching for me, but why? And who is the Captain? What is an anchovy? And why will this strange man receive an additional one merely for finding me?
All these feelings made him think about dinner for a moment and Jonathan remembered that he was horribly hungry. Maybe he could have an anchovy for dinner, as well, if there were any extra. Maybe they were tasty and eating one might almost be worth all this mystery and suspense.
They continued down the street, now lightening a bit as the morning clouds lessened. The quietness was interrupted from time to time by the waking sounds of the city. Now and again, the thin man would chuckle and wheeze, then look at Jonathan and smile kindly.
“Now, I am so sorry to ‘ave tied ya up, but ya see,” said the thin-faced man, “it is only fer yer protection and delivery. Ya are precious cargo, don’t ya know? I cannot lose Jonathan Moore. That would be quite serious, oh yes.”
Jonathan kept quiet, thinking to himself as they walked on. After a few more moments, the man led him down a dark and dreary side street, and there Jonathan saw five or six men moving about two horse carts. One cart was a simple flatbed; the other had what looked like a cage upon it made of iron bars, the kind in which was kept dangerous animals like tigers or lions. Though it was difficult to see clearly at first, eventually, as he drew nearer, Jonathan could see that there were things inside the cage, moving slowly about.
“Now lad, I know ya are a man of yer word, isn’t that right?” said the thin-faced man.
“Yes,” said Jonathan. “It’s all I have.”
“True!” laughed the thin man. “That is all I have, as well! So, if I untie yer hands, ya will not run? Ya will do as yer told?”
“That depends on what you want me to do,” said Jonathan, warily.
“Oh, a simple thing,” the thin man said. “Just get in the cage.”
As they approached, Jonathan strained his eyes to see what was in the cage. He expected to see some wild boars or, even worse, bears. However, as he neared the enclosure, he saw the most amazing surprise. Inside, shaking slightly, was Sean Flagon along with two other people, grown men from the appearance of them. All sat nervously yet quietly in the bottom of the cage.
“Sean!” he called out in surprise.
“Well, I’ll be!” said Sean softly. “Jonathan Moore! They have got you, too?”
At the mention of his name, a man tending the cart nearby turned and regarded at Jonathan in astonishment.
“Now, now, me lads!” said the thin-face man. “Just ya be back to work, mum’s the word! Say not a thing, it’s all up to the Captain now!”
“But, Steward!” said one of the men, “I ‘eard ‘im say ‘is name was Jona—”
“I said hush, Jones!” snapped the thin man, now known to all in the cart as Steward.
Steward’s men smiled and went back to their work of hooking horses to the carts though, now and then, they would sneak a peek at the boy called Jonathan Moore. Steward removed the rope about Jonathan’s wrists, opened the door on the back of the cage, lifted the boy up and placed him inside.
“In ya go,” Steward said to Jonathan politely. “Off to Chatham with ya.”
“Are you finished yet, Sean?” he asked, looking up the flue.
“Almost!” came the reply as a stream of black soot rushed downward from somewhere high in the chimney, dousing Jonathan in a cloud of coal-colored dust.
“You had better watch it, Jonny Boy,” said Sean from somewhere above. “I'll be sending the last of this black stuff your way.”
“Thank you for the timely warning,” Jonathan said as he coughed and tried wiping the dirt from his face as best as he could.
“Don't mention it,” replied Sean, happily, as he continued working, sending ash downward towards his friend who tried to sweep the dust into a canvas bag and contain the spread of dirt.
Jonathan thought that the pub itself was too dark and dirty to begin with and that a little dust would not be noticed as there were only two other people in the house besides Sean and himself. However, there was considerably more than just a little dust in the bag.
The chimney sweep who had agreed to use the boys as assistants had decided to take his payment early at the bar itself and was now resting comfortably, slumped over and snoring. Jonathan and Sean had reached an agreement with the pub owner directly to do the sweeping and cleanup for a sandwich each. A meal like that would be most welcome to both boys as neither had eaten for several days. Being orphaned and homeless and living literally on the streets of London meant that the frequency of meals was anything but frequent, and jobs that paid in any manner were most welcome.
All Jonathan had to his name were the clothes on his back and a tattered old horse blanket he had earned one day by working odd jobs at a local stable. Usually dirty, smelly and chilled to the bone, he never knew when he would have his next meal. He spent most of his day searching for food or repairing damages to his home: a three-sided wooden box situated within a pile of loose boards and broken crates at the end of a dark and filthy alley off Brick Road.
As Jonathan, Sean and all the other poor souls who had no home or money were well aware, living in London’s East End in the year 1800 was a dangerous unfriendly existence. It seemed that most of the days and nights were subject to terrible weather: howling wind, driving rain and chilling temperatures that made Jonathan shiver and shake. In the winter, the freezing rain and snow along with the icy temperatures were more than uncomfortable. The cold could even kill. Likewise, drinking water contained a sickness called cholera and, unless he was sure the water was fresh, Jonathan drank nothing. He had seen people die from the disease and it scared him very much. There were rats crawling almost everywhere; however, there were other more dangerous animals on the streets at night: dark and scary men, some roaming the cobblestone in gangs, loud and boisterous, committing crimes of the most terrible sort. There was drinking, stealing, fighting and sometimes … even murder.
“Done!” came the call from the flue, and shortly Sean Flagon appeared in the firebox, covered in blackness but smiling widely. He dusted himself off as best he could, but that only caused the dark cloud of dust to grow and drift as Jonathan tried to contain the storm.
“I am as hungry as I can ever remember, Jonny Boy,” said Sean.
“I am, as well,” agreed Jonathan. “I can't remember when we ate last, but I am sure it was less than filling. The sooner you help me tidy this up the sooner we eat.”
Sean smiled and immediately began scooping soot and debris from the fireplace with his cupped hands, adding to the collection his best friend already had in the bag.
“Are you little urchins finished?” came a deep voice. It was the proprietor of the pub.
“Yes, sir,” said Jonathan as the man approached them from behind the bar.
“Oh. Well then, I believe yer employer said ya were to be paid out of ’is share,” the man said, “so he will take care of you when he wakes, I'd gather.”
Jonathan watched the shift in the man’s eyes and knew immediately that he was attempting to cheat them. He had seen that expression before from unscrupulous employers when it came time to receive his pay.
A paying job was hard to come by; however, he used his wits and muscle to find odd ones often enough. And that meant a few shillings and shillings meant food. Keeping his manners sharp, his words clear and precise and his tone always gracious and respectful, Jonathan was often able to work for a few pennies and turn them into a decent meal. Maybe only one decent meal every few days, but that is all he seemed to need. At times, he would join with others to survive, in particular his current partner, Sean Flagon, also a boulevard denizen. They had met on the streets of London and formed a fast friendship, being of similar age and disposition. No matter what the situation, Sean always had a cheery attitude and the two boys made a successful go of it as a frequent team. After a short while, they became deep friends and cared for each other like the closest of brothers.
Jonathan and Sean now looked suspiciously at the pub owner and tried to think a step ahead. They needed their food desperately as it had been a long stretch without any. Waiting to discuss the matter of payment with the drunken chimney sweep would probably yield no fruit whatsoever.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Jonathan, graciously. “Though we were hired by the sweep, we made our agreement with you personally as you must recall. A sandwich and glass of milk each.”
“Aye, it was,” added Sean, now growing wary.
“That is not how I remember it,” said the man, growing angry. “Ya little brats best be off and ‘ope your friend ‘ere doesn't drink yer share and forget ta pay ya now!”
Jonathan glanced at Sean. He seemed shocked and about to burst into anger or tears; it was hard to tell which. The afternoon’s work was now wasted. No pay, no food; just a bag of ashes for their trouble. And that gave Jonathan an idea.
“You will not cheat us, sir,” he said.
“Why you little–”
“–and it would be a shame if my associate here would have to run about this shop and empty the contents of this bag all over your establishment. Yes?”
Sean now smiled and opened the bag a peek, then tilted it towards the floor. A thin stream of smut poured out to the stoned ground and created a cloud of dust that was surprisingly large.
“Oops!” he said. “I spilled a wee bit! What a mess it made!”
The boys were quickly shown to the kitchen where the cook made them each the promised sandwich, just cheese but enough of it, and produced two glasses of thin milk. They hastily drank the milk, a rarity to be sure, and then walked out the back door, carrying the brushes and poles used to clean the flue and the bag of soot. They then sat down quietly on the stoop to enjoy their well-earned rewards.
“It’s still raining,” said Sean, looking up to the grey sky.
“I don’t think it ever stopped,” added Jonathan. “It’s a wonder we aren’t flooded out.”
“Aye! Jonny! That reminds me! I heard that ships are due into the docks, cargo ships coming, a lot of them!” said Sean.
“I love going to the docks! The ships are wonderful, aren’t they? And maybe we can find a little work, as well!” Jonathan said, hopefully.
“I need to ask around and see when they are coming in,” said Sean, rising from the stoop with his sandwich in his hand. “I’ll let ya know. Hopefully tomorrow, eh?”
“Thanks, Sean. Until tomorrow, then.”
With that Sean disappeared around the corner leaving Jonathan to his sandwich. He ate silently and hurriedly, thinking about the London docks and the beautiful ships that were always present. If they were lucky, they might see a few warships with handsome white sails and tall masts. Jonathan wondered what it would be like to live on one. It had to provide some sort of adventure to the men aboard; however, in his position as a poor orphaned boy, this was only a dream. Chances were extremely slight that he could ever sail on a ship of any kind. His adventure would come from his quest for survival. And maybe it was true what Sean had said to him about the ships and the British Navy. “It’s no life for anybody. Working on a ship is like being a slave, and that is a terrible existence, toiling all day and all night with no food or sleep!”
I will never know, thought Jonathan. He returned to his meager meal.
As he took another bite of his sandwich, he heard strange laughter from the alley. It was not the kind of laughter heard when people were enjoying themselves, but the sneering type, as heard when bullies were about. Jonathan had heard it before and, unfortunately, he had often been on the losing end of bullying when he first landed on the streets. They would take clothes, food, and even the small trinkets he carried. After several years, though, he had become bolder and had recently put a few bullies in their places. It was his way to never start a fight but, if he was forced to be in one, he needed to leverage an advantage. Physically, Jonathan was of average height for his age, and average weight, as well. This offered no benefit when dealing with older bullies. His mind was the greatest advantage he had and, coupled with his superior speed, the result was surprise.
He put the remainder of his sandwich unceremoniously into the pocket of his thin jacket, then rose and peered around the corner. There, as he had feared, he saw Sean on the ground, surrounded by three older boys, certainly a few years older than Jonathan. He had seen this particular group roaming the streets the past week. It was known that they were recent additions to the area, homeless for sure and still a bit new to the game, as he and Sean called it.
“I said give me the sandwich, you pig!” said a dark haired boy as he loomed over Sean.
“You can take a hot poker and lick it, ya scab!” retorted Sean, more angry than afraid.
The dark-haired boy delivered a hard kick aimed at Sean’s side. Instinctively, Sean blocked the blow with his arm, but searing pain raced from his elbow to his shoulder. As bad as it felt, Sean knew it could have been worse.
“We kin split it three ways!” said a blond boy.
“That ain’t much!” said the third boy as he tried to kick Sean, but clumsily missed.
“Give it to me!” said the dark one, delivering another kick that found its mark.
Jonathan crept forward slowly, but not until he took the longest of the brush poles they had just used to clean the chimney of the pub. It was made of strong hard wood and about four feet long. He had seen a few street performers use poles and such to act out sword fights and balancing feats. He watched them carefully and realized a few tricks right away. One was to never use the stick as a bat. Never swing until the game was over.
“This is yer last warnin’, ya Irish cuss! Hand it over!” said the dark boy once again.
Sean did not answer, but moved backwards on the wet ground. His escape was soon blocked by the other two bullies who continued laughing and spitting at their prey.
“Now yer gonna get a lickin’!” said the dark one as he moved in closer to Sean. As he raised his fist to strike the boy, he felt a sharp poke on the back of his head that almost made him topple over. He turned.
“Aay!” he cried.
There was Jonathan standing with his right hand holding the pole like a sword, aimed straight at the bully’s face. Without a word or hesitation, Jonathan thrust the stick forward with great speed and, more importantly, accuracy. The tip punched the dark haired boy in the left eye, and he screamed out in pain. Jonathan marched forward quickly, delivering a sharp kick to the side of the boy’s knee. The cracking sound was sickening. The dark-haired boy went down.
“What is this?” said the blond bully as he turned from Sean and moved towards Jonathan. “Are ya a knight with yer sword and yer–”
Jonathan advanced forward quickly. He lunged directly at the boy’s lower midsection, arm extended first and right foot moving forward. The pole struck painfully in the boy’s crotch and he dropped directly to the hard cobblestone. Spinning, Jonathan turned back to the dark-haired boy and landed a sweeping blow on the side of the enemy’s neck as he tried to rise.
“Are you hurt, Sean?” asked Jonathan as he eyed the third boy.
“Not really. I was just about to teach them a lesson when you came along.”
“What about this last one, Sean?” Jonathan asked.
Rising with a little help from Jonathan, Sean faced the clumsy bully and smiled. "Aw. He’s no trouble,” Sean said.
“I don’t want no trouble!” said the remaining bully, obviously afraid.
“Boo!” shouted Sean, laughing as he started at the last standing bully.
The boy ran as fast as he could out into the street, never looking back.
From within the alley, there came a pinched voice from the dark-haired boy as he rolled on the rain-soaked ground, still in pain.
“I’ll get you for this!” he managed to say.
Jonathan quickly rushed to his side and bent over the boy’s strained face. He looked him in the eye.
“You were stealing from us. That will not stand. I wish you no further harm. However, I warn you. If you ever bother my friend again, you won’t need to come searching for me. I will find you. Do you understand?”
The bully regarded Jonathan for a moment. As he stared into Jonathan’s eyes, he realized that this young boy was no one to be trifled with. Resigned to defeat, he simply looked down and nodded.
“Good,” said Jonathan. “It would be best if you were to find another neighborhood. Welcome to London.”
Jonathan and Sean walked away, dusting themselves off, but to no avail. The soot from the chimney and the scuffle in the alley left them dirty and a bit shaken. The addition of rain was turning all the dirt that covered them into an oozing black paste and though the water aided in cleaning their faces slightly, their clothing was completely wrecked.
“But at least our stomachs are full, right?” said Sean.
“Another day in the great city of London!” chuckled Jonathan. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Heading back to his home, as it were, Jonathan blended in with the thin crowd on Brick Street, eyes on the ground, searching for dropped coins or food as he always did. Living on the streets was hard enough for a grown man but, to Jonathan, a mere child, it was nearly impossible and always uncomfortable and wretched. Many boys did not survive.
As he walked, Jonathan thought of children who lived in homes in the better parts of town and how their lives must be wonderful. Inside, kitchens buzzed with activities that produced scrumptious beef and chicken pies, and breads that filled the air with sweet aromas. There were sugar cookies and chocolate sweets and, sometimes, even a cherry tart or two. Children played parlor games, ran races in the parks and had stories read to them out of big mysterious books. Birthdays and special occasions always meant there would be parties and presents. And each night there were warm fireplaces and soft music that lulled little ones to sleep in their comfortable beds, surrounded by puffy pillows and soft blankets.
After walking a few lonely and fruitless wet blocks, Jonathan turned down his alley. There at the end was his three-sided wooden box. There was a tarp that was hidden with the pile of debris. He would not leave it out in the open, knowing it would be stolen. Its precious quality of being somewhat waterproof was his only defense against the harsher elements of rain, sleet and snow. He retrieved the tarp and draped it over his box as the rain now picked up pace, turning from drizzle to a mild downpour.
It was here that Jonathan spent most of his days sitting silently in his miserable gloomy box. At times, he would look down the length of his alleyway, out past the street into a second floor window of a modest old house. The outside was nothing special, it being like most of the common homes he saw in the neighborhood. However, it was special on the inside. If he were lucky, Jonathan would sometimes see a father walking down a hallway carrying a little boy. He would watch intently as the man would place the boy in a small highchair and lovingly feed him porridge and milk.
As he drifted off to sleep, he remembered that at one time he, too, had a father and a mother and a house to live in, with a fireplace and, yes, even his own bed in his own room. It had been warm and dry, and there was always something to eat. He recalled most fondly that his mother and father loved him dearly and they told him so every night when tucking him into bed. However, they were both gone now and there was no one to care for him. He had become a street urchin, a boy like many others who lived in the gutters and the alleys, just trying to make it through another day.
It was not the cold wet rain or foul smell of the alley or even the difficult life he led that dampened his spirits. It was the simple fact that Jonathan vaguely recalled better days as part of a family and that memory made his current situation most unbearable. He missed his mother and father greatly. Each day he wondered about all that had happened in the last few years. Sometimes, the sadness seemed to surround him, like a bitter dark cloud and it weighed heavily upon his heart.
* * * * * * * *
As tales often tell, events do happen that alter lives, and so it would be for Jonathan Moore. His state of affairs changed dramatically the very next morning, a dark rainy day in the cold chill of March. Following another night spent shivering from the awful chill, he awoke cold and stiff with his feet sticking out of the back of his box, which had become too small as he grew taller each day. Despite his meager nourishment, Jonathan seemed to be reasonably healthy, considering his current status, and growing like a weed.
Sitting up, Jonathan looked outside of his box to notice that once again the morning brought no relief from the cold. It had continued raining most ferociously all night, only just letting up as the sun rose somewhere above the dark grey clouds that covered the city. Big drips of water still slid off the rooftops of the buildings that made up the alley and it seemed to Jonathan that most of the drips fell upon his box and somehow found their way inside to drop on his woolen cap, soaking it.
This will turn out to be another fine day! Jonathan said to himself, sarcastically. I will probably catch a cold by noon. But at least it’s quiet and no one will bother me. Even evil men and bullies stay inside when it rains.
It was just then, as he was thinking of trying to catch some extra sleep, that he heard a commotion: running feet, dozens of them, approaching his alley. There were voices of gruff men, swearing and calling out. He could hear a few screams and cries from young boys. One voice most assuredly belonged to Sean Flagon.
Jonathan peeked out of his box in time to see Sean stop at the entrance to the alley. He looked at Jonathan, fear on his face and yelled. “Run, Jonathan Moore! They are after us all! Run!”
“Who is after us?” he called, though Sean was already gone.
Jonathan cautiously crawled out of his box and stood up, shaking with dread. He peered down the alley into the street, not knowing what to expect. Within a moment, he saw a shadow against the wall growing larger and larger. Then a stocky dark man appeared. He stared at Jonathan for a moment and growled loudly.
“I see another one in a-here!”
With that, the dark man began rushing towards him. Being smart and always prepared, Jonathan had practiced his escape route for just such a purpose and he knew exactly what to do. With a streak of panic to propel him, he ran to the back of the alley. Swiftly, he climbed the crates, broken barrels and planks of wood that he had stacked at the alley’s end. He scurried up, up, up, making his way to the top. From there, he could go over the high brick wall that separated the alley from the open square of shops and carts on the other side. He would be safe in the market; there were many nooks in which to hide.
As he scrambled, he could hear footsteps coming fast from behind. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the large man was almost upon him. He climbed up to the top of the pile as fast as he could. Suddenly, he felt the man’s cold hands scratching and grasping at his ankles and feet. He spun around to see the stubble-faced brute. The man had dark eyes and a scar on his face. He was wearing a dark jacket and a funny cap with something written on it in gold, though Jonathan could not make out what it was. The man leered and snarled as he tried to better his grip on Jonathan.
“Arr! Ya scruffy bilge-rat! Hold a-still! Don’t-a you know what’s-a good for you?”
Jonathan answered with a kick to the man’s large and pimply nose, knocking his attacker backwards. The man was shocked at the power of the blow and teetered back and forth for a moment on the pile of boxes and wood. He tried to grab hold of something to stop from falling, but the boy sent another kick to the man’s chest, finally knocking him down off the crates, to crash right through Jonathan’s box with a loud BOOM.
“Ow!” the man cried. “I think I broke-a me buttocks!”
Jonathan did not wait to see if that was true and quickly swung his legs up over the last crate at the top of the heap and pulled himself up onto the wall. The rain had left the bricks slippery and wet, and that caused him to lose his footing. He clumsily went over the brick wall into the market square on the other side, yelling as he fell. His legs hit something soft and squishy.
Expecting to see a pile of rags or a few sacks of flour, Jonathan heard a voice. “Ooof! Get off of me, ya little gutter pig!”
He had fallen on a fat drunken man sleeping in the street.
“Pardon me, sir, I meant no harm!” Jonathan said as he rolled off the man and quickly ran from the corner of the square. Hiding behind carts and crates, he made his way along to the center of the square and then stood up to carefully look about. No one was there. It was empty, dark and quiet. He sighed in relief, trying to calm his shaking nerves. Once he had caught his breath, he adjusted his wool cap and began thinking of what to do next.
Suddenly, a voice called out from the far end of the square behind him.
“There he is, lads! Faster! Faster! He’s the last one for this mornin’!”
There were now four or more men rushing after him and each appeared mean and dirty. All were clothed in the same silly cap and dark jacket, similar to the first man who had chased him from his alley. Jonathan now realized who, or really, what they were. These men were a press gang, a group ordered to capture men and boys to be sent out on England’s sailing ships to help fight the war or, possibly, to work in the yards that supplied the ships.
Jonathan sped through the square, around the empty carts and behind piles of boxes and crates. All the time, the men seemed to be getting closer and closer. He ran out of the market and down a side street, looking over his shoulder as the men pointed and screamed at him. Could he escape? He was so tired of running and so weak from hunger. Just the cheese sandwich from the day before was not enough to sustain his effort.
He knew he must continue running. He gasped for every breath. Then, his chance: a dark alleyway up ahead. Jonathan turned sharply into its shadows and ducked behind a large stack of barrels. If he could not outrun them, he could outthink them and hide. He tried to slow his breathing as he crouched behind the barrels, holding as still as he could. Peeking out after a moment or two, he saw the men run past, yelling and screaming. They had not seen him.
Jonathan waited a few minutes for good measure, just to make sure the men were far, far away. Finally, he stood up, brushed himself off, fixed his cap straight upon his head and decided to walk back to the alley where his broken cold box awaited him.
As he stepped out from behind the barrels, a tall, thin-faced man suddenly appeared blocking his way.
“Oh! Who are you?” Jonathan cried out in surprise.
This man was much like the ones who had been chasing him and he, too, wore a cap with something written upon it. His beard was a bit shorter than the man Jonathan had kicked off the crates and he was thinner and for the most part free of large scars and somewhat less pimply. As he approached, Jonathan could see he wore a thick black wool coat with large black buttons and, in the dim light, Jonathan could finally read what was embroidered upon the cap in gold letters: HMS Poseidon.
“The question is, my son, who are you?” asked the thin man. He then looked deep into Jonathan’s eyes. After a moment, he held the boy at arm’s length, inspecting his face from all angles, noting the color of his hair and his eyes. Finally, he asked, “And what is yer name?”
“I’m not telling you my name for anything,” Jonathan said, trying to sound brave and strong. The thin-faced man only laughed, showing his big smile, which was missing a few teeth.
“Oh, really?” the man replied and, as quick as a flash, he ran behind the boy, pinned his arms in a tight grasp and swiftly tied a small rope around Jonathan’s hands.
“Ouch! Let me go!” Jonathan cried, struggling to break free. He tried to kick the man, but it was no use. He would not budge or let him loose.
The man leaned into Jonathan’s ear and said, “How about a little game, lad? Simple enough, yes? I will try to guess yer name and all ya have to do is just tell me if I am right or wrong! Then I will decide if ya go free or ya come with me! Aye, it rhymes, right?” He laughed with a scratchy wheezy cackle that Jonathan found very scary.
“I don’t want to play your game! And you could never guess my name,” said Jonathan. “And that rhymes, too!”
“Aye, it does and well done!” said the thin man, surprised.
“No one knows who I am, except my parents,” said Jonathan, “and they are gone!”
Then the man smiled and said the most amazing thing. “Ah! I am right then! Yer name is Jonathan Moore.”
Jonathan was stunned into silence. How could this weird and skinny man know his name?
The thin man was now grinning, mouth as wide as the moon in the sky, and he started to laugh once again.
“Now I know I am right! The look on yer face tells it all! Ya are Jonathan Moore and I have found ya! The Captain will be so pleased, pleased as punch! And I will get an extra anchovy at dinner tonight, I can tell ya!”
“Let me go!” protested Jonathan.
“I am correct, am I not? Ya are Jonathan Moore?”
“Yes!” said Jonathan, “How did you know my name? And who is the Captain?”
The thin-faced man turned Jonathan around and firmly but gently led him out of the alley. Still holding him, he pointed down the street.
“The Captain will need to see ya, that’s all I can say. Nonetheless, don’t worry. No harm will come to ya. That’s my word. And ya don’t have to walk all the way.”
The man led Jonathan along the lane, away from the center of the city. As they walked, Jonathan worried if he could trust this man, even if he did say no harm would come to him. The man knew his name.
He obviously has been searching for me, but why? And who is the Captain? What is an anchovy? And why will this strange man receive an additional one merely for finding me?
All these feelings made him think about dinner for a moment and Jonathan remembered that he was horribly hungry. Maybe he could have an anchovy for dinner, as well, if there were any extra. Maybe they were tasty and eating one might almost be worth all this mystery and suspense.
They continued down the street, now lightening a bit as the morning clouds lessened. The quietness was interrupted from time to time by the waking sounds of the city. Now and again, the thin man would chuckle and wheeze, then look at Jonathan and smile kindly.
“Now, I am so sorry to ‘ave tied ya up, but ya see,” said the thin-faced man, “it is only fer yer protection and delivery. Ya are precious cargo, don’t ya know? I cannot lose Jonathan Moore. That would be quite serious, oh yes.”
Jonathan kept quiet, thinking to himself as they walked on. After a few more moments, the man led him down a dark and dreary side street, and there Jonathan saw five or six men moving about two horse carts. One cart was a simple flatbed; the other had what looked like a cage upon it made of iron bars, the kind in which was kept dangerous animals like tigers or lions. Though it was difficult to see clearly at first, eventually, as he drew nearer, Jonathan could see that there were things inside the cage, moving slowly about.
“Now lad, I know ya are a man of yer word, isn’t that right?” said the thin-faced man.
“Yes,” said Jonathan. “It’s all I have.”
“True!” laughed the thin man. “That is all I have, as well! So, if I untie yer hands, ya will not run? Ya will do as yer told?”
“That depends on what you want me to do,” said Jonathan, warily.
“Oh, a simple thing,” the thin man said. “Just get in the cage.”
As they approached, Jonathan strained his eyes to see what was in the cage. He expected to see some wild boars or, even worse, bears. However, as he neared the enclosure, he saw the most amazing surprise. Inside, shaking slightly, was Sean Flagon along with two other people, grown men from the appearance of them. All sat nervously yet quietly in the bottom of the cage.
“Sean!” he called out in surprise.
“Well, I’ll be!” said Sean softly. “Jonathan Moore! They have got you, too?”
At the mention of his name, a man tending the cart nearby turned and regarded at Jonathan in astonishment.
“Now, now, me lads!” said the thin-face man. “Just ya be back to work, mum’s the word! Say not a thing, it’s all up to the Captain now!”
“But, Steward!” said one of the men, “I ‘eard ‘im say ‘is name was Jona—”
“I said hush, Jones!” snapped the thin man, now known to all in the cart as Steward.
Steward’s men smiled and went back to their work of hooking horses to the carts though, now and then, they would sneak a peek at the boy called Jonathan Moore. Steward removed the rope about Jonathan’s wrists, opened the door on the back of the cage, lifted the boy up and placed him inside.
“In ya go,” Steward said to Jonathan politely. “Off to Chatham with ya.”