Chapter 3

A light rain fell on the 16th of June. It had not rained for several weeks and the water washed dark trails down the walls. George was right about one thing: all the soot that had settled everywhere. Chance wondered what else was George right about India? The death of canals?

For a while he watched the barges and canal boats plying the river both ways. Larger ships navigated carefully, groping for the main channel. A steam tug was chugging upstream expelling a thick volume of smoke. Thinking about the discussion last night, Chance was suddenly aware of the threat in that dark pillar. Looking about he suddenly saw all the house chimneys smoking from breakfast fires, and here and there a tall factory chimney reared above the sky line, belching smoke. There was a pallor that overlay the whole city. Maybe George was right, one day we’ll all suffocate in the poison we created.

But then George said a lot of things. He could be right on some, wrong on others. For instance... A flash interrupted his thoughts. Something vital was pushing to the forefront. Something to do with Emily and the Brook brothers. Preemptive. Preemptive. Chance sampled that word.

The brothers would strike soon, capture Emily and hold her for ransom. But what if... if someone were to snatch the girl... right before their noses, spoil all their crafty plans? Wouldn’t that be something? What if... if he were to... No! No! The idea was crazy. Totally insane. Sure to land that someone in jail and maybe condemn him to death. Unthinkable.

Still, it would be a bold plan, if it could be done. Done how? Just like it was already planned, every detail worked out, ambush her while she went for a music tutorial with her teacher. All Chance would have to do was to do it before the Brook brothers did. He laughed, thinking how the brothers would feel, seeing the bird already abducted. What a bold idea!

A steam ferry, just 20 feet from shore, gave a long blast of its whistle, the shrill sound cutting into Chance’s brain. A sense of reality returned and he shook his head at the crazy idea that had flashed through his thoughts. What nonsense!

In spite of his best resolve to leave it, the idea resurfaced throughout the day and each time he pushed it away. Maybe he could disrupt the brothers’ plan by breaking their chain of action. If, for instance, he could yell at the very moment of their taking the girl, maybe he could scare the would-be kidnappers off. Or perhaps startle the horses and make them gallop at the crucial time, upsetting the timing. The more he thought of the idea, the more it appealed to him. In his thinking, such interference seemed possible. But he would have to know more: where the teacher lived, and what route the coach would take. He was excited by these thoughts and before he truly realized it, he’d already committed himself to some sort of rescue attempt. That they had time off until the boat was fixed conspired to make it possible.

In the afternoon, he found himself loitering on the corner of Moss Park and Orchard Lane, pretending to sell the day’s paper. From there he watched the Hatfield house, noting the comings and goings. The front door was rarely used, more so the service entrance to the side. Several times he saw the doorman, who had chased him off, convey a family member or a well-dressed visitor into a cab that pulled up front. Most often a hansom cab, with the driver sitting high up in the back, giving the passenger an unobstructed view to the front.

During the four hours, he saw a number of females coming and going, but none fit the description of Emily: young, 15, dark hair and green eyes.

“Wat’cha hanging around here for?” a voice demanded aggressively. Startled Chance turned to come face to face with a youth, about his size, bristling with hostility. “This is my stretch of the road, everyone will tell you, belongs to Curtis that you see before you.”

“I’m only selling newspapers...” Chance muttered defensively.

“That you can, if you pay for the rights of it.” And the youth stuck out his hand.

Chance rummaged through his pocket and came up with three pence which he turned over. The youth frowned at the pittance but whisked it away. “You can stay, but only to sell papers...” He then scanned the confused flow of traffic on the street.

Wagons rumbled by, heavy with load, draft horses clopping along on the hard cobblestones, refusing to be hurried. More lively, cabs and carriages passed, the horses high stepping, their steel shod feet throwing off sparks on the hard stones. Sometimes a rider wove through the confusion. There was shouting as drivers worked out the right of way. Suddenly Curtis darted into the stream, snatched up something from the ground and jumped back just inches from being run over by a heavy transport. He stood on the sidewalk, sniffing appreciatively at a half-smoked cigar that a gentlemen passenger had just thrown out a cab window.

“Cuban...” Curtis rejoiced as he put out its glow, flicked the ash off the end and dropped it in a small pouch already half full with cast-off butts. “I can get two pence for that in any tavern on the waterfront,” he announced, smiling at Chance.

“Can you make a living with that?” Chance wondered.

“On a sunny day, maybe. Most often I collect bottles or wash them for the Johnston Distillery, for less money but steady.”

Timed passed slowly and Chance saw Curtis dart into the flow, often coming dangerously close to being crushed by the rush of vehicles. Unobtrusively, Chance continued to watch the Hatfield House but found little happening. A maid went off with a load of laundry; a delivery man dropped off something; a footman hurried forth with an envelope obvious in his hand.

When workers came to light the streetlamps, Chance gave up his vigil and trudged the long way home.

“Where’ve you been?” Ruth demanded on his return. “I kept your food warm.” She put a potato dish in front of him.

“Tried to make some money selling newspapers,” Chance replied.

“The Times?” Nigel asked, looking up. He was whittling on a piece of wood, not carving, just making shavings, which he saved as kindling to light the fire in the stove on cold mornings.

“Yes. I only sold two the whole afternoon.”

“It’s hard to earn a living at anything. You have to have money to make money,” Nigel pronounced as he drew another long shaving from the stick.

On the morning of the 17th, Chance was back on the corner with three papers under his arm, selling again. He’d stolen them from a newsstand on Hazelwood. He didn’t see Curtis anywhere. He strode back and forth, offering the paper to passersby, all the while keeping his eye on the Hatfield house, taking a close look at who was coming or leaving; people were, but not the one Chance was waiting for.

In early afternoon a light brougham drawn by two horses pulled up. There was an enclosed cab for two in the back, much preferred by ladies for its privacy. Chance sidled up to the rear, in time to catch two females entering it, one young like Emily, and another somewhat older, dressed modestly like a chaperone. When the light vehicle lurched forward Chance grabbed the back stanchion and swung himself up. It wasn’t unusual to see youths hitching rides in such a fashion anywhere in London to save some walking.

Moving smartly, they headed north, winding their way through moderate traffic. Chance was growing tired of hanging on, his muscles cramped by the odd posture his perch forced him into, and was very glad when they seemed to have reached their destination in front of a neat brick house on Ella Mews. Chance jumped off and stood well aside to see the ladies dismount. This time he had a better glimpse of the girl, who matched the description he had of Emily. The older lady paid the driver, told him to be back at four, and they entered the house. Chance had about two hours to kill before they would set off on the return journey. Deciding to stay with the brougham, he climbed onto the back and clung on as the cabby drove to a nearby park where other conveyances were already waiting curbside. There, he tied the horses to a hitching post and attached nose bags for animals to feed from. Then the driver joined some of his compatriots and was soon smoking a cheroot, bragging how he was going to buy stocks in the railroad, become rich and leave driving to someone else.

“Ah, what,” said his buddy from East Ham dismissively. “You’re more likely to find fake stocks of nonexistent railroads and companies than the real thing.” They all laughed, and offered to sell him mines in Canada and a cotton plantation on the Mississippi.

In the meantime, Chance took a closer look at the brougham, wondering how to sabotage it. On the rear axle he found a pair of locking pins, that when removed, allowed the wheel to slip off. What if... he puzzled, what if...?

He approached the house, and heard strains of piano music through an open window. This had to be the mentor’s place, he concluded. No doubt that with the concert just days away, the girl was doing her level best to prepare.

Chance took a turn around the block, admiring the fine houses lining the street. To him it seemed inconceivable that so much space was available to a single family. In his life he’d been lucky to find a corner to sleep in. But here was affluence, carefully shielded by curtains and heavy doors, and police regularly patrolling the streets. It gave Chance quite a start to see a constable pass by, swinging his baton, looking mildly suspicious at him. For a moment, Chance thought to scrap his plans that could land him in jail—but only for a moment. Having seen Emily close up, he could no longer abandon her to her fate.

When the brougham started up at four, he was again clinging to the back, well out of view. The ladies remounted and they retraced their journey to Hatfield House.

“Be here at the same time exactly, tomorrow,” the chaperone instructed in a rather severe tone.

“Yes, M’am,” the cabby replied, tipping his hat respectfully. When he moved off, Chance was still clinging to the back. Two streets later he jumped off and headed back to the riverfront.

Chance was tired by the time he reached riverside. Here there were inexpensive pubs, catering to the stevedores and sailors, serving ale, beer and cheap gin. Every corner had a prostitute, offering the dubious pleasures of her profession. There were also many homeless, derelicts and beggars shuffling about seeking a handout. Closer to the water, there were many neglected warehouses and buildings that had once housed thriving shops and ateliers. Now all those had moved to new industrial parks driven by steam. Cavernous empty places now overlooked the river at this point. The stench of raw sewage filled the air as the many street drains emptied adjacently into the Thames.

Finding the Hardcastle Rose, Chance gratefully ate his supper, cabbage again, without a hint of ham.

“Nothing left in the kitty until next Tuesday,” Ruth said apologetically.

Chance nodded tiredly, chewing on a crust of bread. Colin had already eaten all the softer parts.

Nigel was off playing dominoes in the corner pub. Chance walked a quarter mile to the stalls where the horses were boarded, and brushed both Big Red and Cricket thoroughly. The rhythm calmed his mind still excited by the coming confrontation with fate that must happen soon. As he worked, he talked softly to the horses, telling them his plans. Tomorrow was already the 18th.