“Watch it, lad,” barked a cabbie.
I leaped aside over a pile of dung, taking care that my two shillings were stuffed deep in my pocket. The cabbie’s horse neighed and pawed the cobblestones, shaking its great head at me.
“Best not to get in old General’s way,” the cabbie warned. I kept my head down and didn’t answer. I thought of Bernie, who’d given the tiny guinea pig that same name.
Already Broad Street seemed far away. I was headed for the river, and my old life as a mudlark. I pulled my brown cap down so low its rim rubbed my eyebrows. I walked fast, feeling the bumpy cobblestones through my thin shoes. The bridge was probably two miles away, longer if I kept to the back lanes and alleyways. But that was safer. Pickpockets were sure to be on the prowl in busy places like Piccadilly Circus or Covent Garden.
It wasn’t just losing my money that worried me. Almost every pickpocket in London knew Fisheye Bill. Some of his cronies might well recognize me; others would be on the lookout for a boy of my description. All of them would be glad to turn me over to Fisheye for a few shillings.
They weren’t the only ones either. Fisheye Bill still had fishmonger pals from the old days, before he took to crime. They often gathered at the open windows of pubs after work, cradling their pints and keeping a sharp eye on everything that went on around them.
I could just imagine one telling my stepfather: “Bill, my friend! I saw that lad of yours today, walkin’ right through the market, bold as brass. Run off, has ’e? Now, that’s a shame, after all you done for him. His name is Eel, ain’t it? Too slippery for you, is ’e?”
Talk like that would make Fisheye Bill boil with rage. He couldn’t stomach the fact that I’d been smart enough to disappear. Could I let Fisheye get near me again? Never.
The smell of onions and frying potatoes wafting out from the pubs made my stomach growl. I was pinched with hunger, and hadn’t touched a morsel since breakfast at the Lion. The Lion. I wondered about Queenie. I wouldn’t be there to feed her anymore. How would she get on? Would anyone remember to give her scraps or fill her tin water cup?
Then I thought of Abel Cooper. When the foreman had come in on Monday, he’d found the scrawny black kitten, still a bit damp, curled up in the center of his chair like she owned it. “And who, may I ask, is this?” he’d grumbled.
“This here is Queenie, sir. Some boy threw her into the Thames. Lucky for her I was there,” I told him.
“Very gallant of you, I’m sure,” Mr. Cooper said sarcastically. “But how did she end up on my chair?”
“Aw, c’mon, Guv, have a heart. Besides, the Lion needs a good ratter.”
Abel Cooper grunted. Later, though, when I’d gone back into his office to deliver a message, I found Queenie still on his chair—only this time on his lap.
Queenie would be just fine.
The closer I got to the Thames, the worse the air smelled. I thought about how this day had begun, with Abel Cooper warning of the trouble miasma would bring. As bad as my own troubles were, things were a lot worse for Mr. Griggs. How was he doing now? Maybe I’d been wrong about the blue death. Tomorrow I’d go back and check.
But I had somewhere else to go first thing in the morning. I swallowed hard, thinking about what would happen when I appeared without four shillings. I’d had those shillings yesterday, put away safe in my tin box. But that was yesterday.
I couldn’t think of that now. I might not be able to add more than a penny or two to what Mrs. Weatherburn had given me, but I had to try. I had to be a mudlark again, like it or not.
The sour, rotting, filthy smell hit me full in the face as the river came into view. My stomach lurched. Probably just as well it was empty—and likely to stay that way for another day. But luck was on my side—it was low tide.
Pa had taken me for walks by the Thames, I remembered that much. I’m not sure it smelled as bad back then. What I do keep from that time is the feel of his large, firm hand around mine.
Pa never tired of watching the river. “Just look—the barges, the fishing boats, the coming and going of goods!” he’d say, throwing out his arms. “The Thames is like a rich, throbbing blood vessel keeping all of London alive.”
Pa felt so sorry for young mudlarks that he sometimes called the littlest ones over to give them a penny. He couldn’t have imagined how true his words would turn out to be for me: this river had kept me alive many a day before I got my place at the Lion. And now it would do so again.
I wouldn’t get many pennies a day selling coal, bits of wood, or globs of fat tossed overboard by a ship’s cook. But it would keep me going. With what I earned from Dr. Snow, I might just be able to make it—at least until winter set in.
With a sudden, fierce stab, I missed Pa. He’d been gone three years now. Just as London was divided by the Thames, my life was divided in two. There was the part before Pa died. Then there was everything else that had come after. More and more, that earlier time seemed to be fading, like a dream that drifts away when you open your eyes to the light.
One moment I was staring at the glittering river. The next I was rammed hard in the back. I went flying through the air and tumbled into the mud. I managed to land on my hands and knees. I leaped up, ready to fight.
“Don’t even try, you pigeon.” Nasty Ned stood a head taller than me. I cursed myself for being careless. Ned was bad enough. What if it had been Fisheye who’d snuck up behind me?
I wrinkled my nose and stepped back. It was as if Ned took baths in a cesspool. Well, seeing as he was rarely out of the river, that was more or less the case. He narrowed his eyes. “Now, Eel, something’s puzzling me.”
I brushed mud off my pants, scowling. “I imagine with your tiny brain there’s a lot that baffles you.”
“I’m just wondering what you’re doin’ here,” he went on, ignoring my insult. “By my count, that’s twice this week. I don’t mind an occasional morning now and again, given that we’re old pals. But here you are back again.” He glowered at me, then tipped his river stick under my chin.
I pushed it away. “You don’t own the river, Ned.”
“Really? I wouldn’t be so sure.”
He jerked his head to where a few younger boys were wading along the river’s edge. “See them lads? They work for me. They’re under my protection, so to speak. And I don’t like for ’em to come up empty-handed after a day’s trolling. I don’t like people pushin’ in.”
“Oh, come on, Ned,” I said lightly. “You know I’m a better mudlark than that ragged lot. How about we go in together? It won’t be long before you’d be working for me, I wager.”
Ned uttered a hoarse growl and swung his stick, this time aiming for my middle. I jumped aside just in time, and barely missed getting prodded in the stomach. Then I ran.
I made for Blackfriars Bridge. Nasty Ned might not want me in his gang, but Thumbless Jake had to put up with me. For all his bluster, he simply didn’t move as fast.
By midnight I’d scavenged enough coal to add a penny to my pocket. It was enough for some shrimps or a piece of bread with butter. My belly would have to stay empty, though. I owed this penny elsewhere. I found a place to curl up under the bridge. But I couldn’t let myself drop into a deep sleep, not with coins in my pocket. The chances of waking up to find them gone were too great.
As it turned out, I couldn’t have slept even if I’d wanted to; my mind was as choppy as the river in a strong wind. I kept seeing Hugzie’s smug smile, Betsy and Bernie sitting so still and scared, Mr. Griggs writhing in pain.
I tossed and turned on the hard stone. I’d have to get used to it. I’d been a mudlark before. I could do it again. I was good at it. That’s what made Thumbless Jake first notice me.
“Hey, you, lad. Get over here,” he’d called out one evening when the fog had shrouded everything in strange, blurry shadows. It was dangerous when it got like that. A barge or other boat could come upon you so sudden there was barely time to move out of the way in the thick, sludgy water.
“I been watchin’ you,” Thumbless Jake declared. “You make a good haul. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you could peer through the murk. You been a mudlark long?”
I shrugged. “Not long.”
“Hmph. Well, I don’t know how you’re doin’ so well, but keep your distance,” he warned, raising his stump of a thumb in my face. “I might be missing this, but I still got another hand that can wring a boy’s neck if ’e gets in my way.”