I am cold, wet, hungry and miserable. We are standing on a grey street under a leaden sky. In front of us, steps lead up to an imposing, carved wooden door. I am looking around and through the haze of my dream I think, perhaps the cars will give me a clue as to the year. But there are no cars to be seen. The street is cobbled and the only transportation visible is a black, polished coach. It sits on two wheels almost as large as I am and is drawn by a single brown horse. A driver sits at the back, guiding the reins over the roof and, as the vehicle passes, I catch a glimpse of the white faces of two passengers inside. I turn back to the door. George is saying something and, almost before I realize it, we are climbing the steps. I stand back while my friend raises the brass, lions-head knocker.
After a moment, the door opens and a woman in a maid’s costume looks out. She is obviously unimpressed by the sight of us. George is moving into the open doorway and talking fast, but not fast enough. With a look of utter disgust, the maid slams the door in his face. I can’t really blame her. We must look pretty scruffy after living on the streets for two weeks. Turning, we slump dejectedly down on the step. Now, how will we get in to see Sir John, the naval hero, the talk of all London, and our only chance to go to sea?
I shiver in the damp air and pull Jack Tar out of my pocket. He is a lead figure, only about three inches tall, dressed in a bright blue sailor’s uniform with white trim and a hand capped over his eyes. He gazes into the distance at some far-off shore, just as George and I had hoped to do. Will I ever get to see the things he has seen, or am I destined only to look out on the damp, rainy back streets of London?
Jack Tar is still in my hand twenty minutes later when a carriage pulls up in front of us. It is larger than most of the others that have gone by, with four wheels and two horses. A footman, who has been riding on the back, jumps down and holds the door open for an elderly, heavy-set man with the largest ears I have ever seen. He is wearing an impressive dark blue uniform with two rows of buttons down the front. The shoulders are decorated with gold epaulettes and he is wearing heavy-looking medals on his right breast and at his throat. His hat is like the ones you see in the old pictures of Admiral Nelson, peaked and triangular with a tassel of gold braid. In his left hand, he carries a thin gold baton.
The uniform is crumpled and a couple of the brass buttons are unfastened, making it look as if he has slept, or at least dozed, in it. His face is heavy set but does not look healthy. The skin is pasty white and there are bags under both eyes. The eyes themselves look watery and bloodshot.
As I watch in confusion, the man takes a hesitant step forward, throws back his head, closes his eyes and lets out an enormous sneeze. I cannot hear it, but even several feet away, I can see his body convulse and spit fly from his open mouth. His baton falls to the ground and rolls toward an open drain. Instinctively, I recoil, but George is more alert. Before the footman can even move, he darts down the steps and retrieves the golden stick so it doesn’t fall down the open hole. Looking small, George stands before the gentleman and offers him the rescued baton. He peers at George from behind the folds of an enormous white handkerchief.
Finally, the footman reacts. Brushing past his master, he grabs the baton from George and catches hold of my friend’s collar. Never one to take an attack lying down, George reacts by landing a swift kick to the footman’s shin which makes the man cry out in pain. However, it doesn’t make him loosen his grip and George remains a prisoner. But not for long.
“Unhand the boy. He’s done nothing wrong.” The great man draws himself upright and glares sternly at the footman.
“But Sir John...” the footman protests. With a wave of his hand and a ghost of a smile on his sickly face, Sir John steps forward and unclasps the footman’s hand from George’s threadbare jacket. Realizing his rescuer is Sir John himself, George immediately begins talking. He explains who we are and why we are here. Sir John listens with a slightly amused expression on his face. Behind him, another carriage rumbles noisily past on the uneven cobblestones.
“So, you want to go to sea?” Sir John’s voice is hoarse from his cold. For the first time, he looks over at me. I try to stand straight in what I assume to be the proper military manner. His eyes linger on me and then drift to Jack Tar on the step beside me.
“I see we shall get two sailors for the price of one with you my lad.” Sir John smiles and, in spite of his cold, his face turns gentle. “I was your age when I fought with Nelson at the battle of Copenhagen, and I was not much older at Trafalgar.” For a moment, he seems on the verge of drifting off into the past. With visible effort he pulls himself back.
“The world is changing my boy. Only this morning I was getting one of those new-fangled Daguerreotype pictures made. Don’t hold with them myself. I much prefer a good old-fashioned painted portrait, but they tell me this new method is more accurate and will last forever. Long after I’m dead people will see my face fixed on a glass plate. Trouble is, I’ve got this terrible cold. Is that how I want people to remember me, with a red nose and puffy cheeks? Hah! At least a painter could make me look decent.”
His watery eyes swing away from me and back to George.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. Then, turning to the footman, “Take these boys around to the kitchen and see that they get a good square meal.”
With a mumbled “thank you,” George and I follow the footman to the side of the house and through a much less imposing door. As soon as we cross the threshold we are hit by a blast of warm air. The kitchen is huge and smells of smoke and wet laundry and food. The laundry is hanging from a system of pulleys drawn up close to the high ceiling. The floor is made of flagstones and the only furnishings are a large wooden table and bench sitting in the middle of the room. One entire wall is taken up with a long, black, iron range and a variety of pots and pans. In front of the range, two women are stirring something in the pots. They turn as we come in and the footman speaks.
“These ’ere ragamuffins seems to ’ave taken Sir John’s fancy. See that they gets sommat to eat.”
The accent is heavy and strange, but we don’t hear any more as the footman turns on his heel and leaves. One of the women comes over and starts fussing with our clothes.
“Millie, the poor mites is soaking! ’elp me get these things off ’em and give us some o’ that stew’ere.”
Before we know it, we are sitting at the table wrapped in coarse blankets eating the most delicious meal I have ever tasted while our clothes steam above us. It is such a luxury to be warm and dry and well fed. Neither of us speak. We are too engrossed in the feast before us. I have almost finished my third plateful when a door in the corner by the range opens and a tall man in black enters. The two women, who have been chattering, fall silent as he crosses the room and, to my horror, addresses me.
“Can you read boy?” he asks in a sombre voice.
“A little,” I reply with a nervous stutter.
“Well then,” he continues, “take this to the address on the front and give it to the gentleman you find there.”
I nod dumbly as he hands me an envelope. On the front, in beautiful curled handwriting, is a name, James Fitzjames, and an address. The back is sealed with wax bearing the impression of a crown and anchor. The tall man leaves and, almost instinctively, I hand the envelope to George. He looks excited.
“This is it,” he says triumphantly looking down at the piece of sealed paper in his hand. “This is what we came for. This’ll get us into the Navy, maybe even on Sir Johns own ship!” He looks up at me. “We’re going to have some adventures now, Davy boy!”