Alley Urchin (24 page)

It only took Molly a second to give her reply, because, truth be told, this handsome likeable fellow might be her only chance to get away. What was more, she had taken a real liking to him. ‘What d’you want me to do?’ she asked, then sat rigid and silent when the constable leaned forward to see who was being so insolent as to go on whispering in the face of his instruction.

When, in order to distract the constable’s attention, Molly developed a seizure of coughing, the fellow beside her murmured quietly, ‘Just be ready, that’s all!’

Molly knew the Mill Hill bridge well, and she kept her eyes glued to the open slats in the wooden cage, constantly looking ahead for when they would pass the bottom of Stephen Street, on the approach to the hump-backed bridge. The journey seemed painstakingly slow as the cart wheels picked their way over the small uneven cobbles. Molly’s heart was thumping fearfully, because she knew that if the escape bid were unsuccessful, both she
and
the handsome fellow would be made to regret the effort. Yet, in spite of the instincts which warned her always to be on her guard, Molly trusted the lad sitting next to her, and she had unusual confidence in him. Wasn’t it strange, she thought, how sometimes a body warmed to a stranger without ever knowing why.

As the waggon approached the bridge, the horses instinctively slowed down.

‘What’s the delay?’ called Caleb Crowther, leaning out of the carriage window behind. He sounded highly impatient.

‘It’s the bridge, sir,’ replied the constable in the rear of the waggon as he climbed out to monitor the situation more closely. ‘The horses . . . they don’t like it, being so narrow and sharp, like.’

In a minute, Caleb Crowther was out of the carriage and striding towards the waggon, which at this point was stationary, the horses having come to a standstill. ‘Drive them on, man!’ he roared. ‘Don’t let them have their head!’ At the front of the waggon, the driver could be heard cracking his whip and threatening the terrified animals with all kinds of terrible fates.

‘Quick gal . . . get ready!’ The young fellow took hold of Molly’s bound hands, gripping them tightly as he urged in a frantic whisper, ‘Wait till the Justice has his back to us . . . then
jump!
Run for all you’re worth and don’t let go of me.’ No sooner had he spoken the last word than Caleb Crowther engaged the constable in a row, turning his back to the waggon and demanding the fellow’s explanation as to why he had come this way at all, instead of going straight down Parkinson Street and out by way of Havelock. Not being as familiar with the Mill Hill area as was the constable, he was unaware that the dark narrow viaduct at the bottom of Parkinson Street would have sent the horses into even more of a blind panic.

‘Now!’ the fellow cried, and Molly felt herself yanked from her seat and propelled forward at a furious pace. Before she knew quite what was happening, the two of them were launched from the waggon and sailing through the air. ‘Run, me darling!’ the fellow yelled, as their feet crunched to the ground. Suddenly, all hell was let loose. The constable shouted, ‘The prisoners are escaping!’ The horses bolted in fright, and the constable still in the waggon, together with the remaining hapless prisoners, was flung from side to side as the waggon went careering over the bridge, with the first constable taking up chase.

Molly scrambled to her feet, with her hands still securely held by her companion. She laughed out loud at all the commotion and thought the whole escapade to be a real treat, until, with a cry of rage, Caleb Crowther darted forward to grab her, viciously, by the neck, at which point she felt herself being tugged in separate directions as the fellow and the Justice pulled with equal determination. It only took a few seconds, but to Molly it seemed like a lifetime before the fellow gave an extra tug and she was yanked free. Unfortunately, she felt the precious timepiece ripped from about her neck as she sprang forward close on the fellow’s heels. But there was no going back. The uppermost thought in her mind at that moment was that she must run like the wind, until safe out of harm’s way. Behind them they could hear the constables’ whistles piercing the night air.

When at last the fellow brought himself and Molly to a standstill at the bottom of Myrtle Street, they were both coughing and wheezing, gasping for air and dangerously unsteady on their legs. Molly truly believed that she would never walk again.

It was a long and painful few minutes before either of them could get enough breath to speak. It was Molly who recovered first. ‘He took it . . . that awful Justice broke the chain and took my timepiece.’ She felt desolate.

‘Timepiece? What . . . yer mean a pocket watch?’ The fellow seemed surprised that a scruffy girl should keep something as useless as a ‘timepiece’. ‘Aw, it don’t matter none, gal. Who cares about it, eh? I’ll get yer another.’ He discarded the binding which had secured Molly’s wrist and watched with curiosity while Molly gathered together the bits of broken chain which had tangled about her neck. ‘Steal it, did yer? Why didn’t yer sell it, then? It ain’t no use round yer neck, is it?’

‘I
didn’t
steal it!’ Molly retorted. ‘It belonged to
me
. . . ever since I was born.’ Now she would never find her real mam and dad. ‘There were
words
on it,’ she told him in a tearful voice.

‘Words? . . . What did they say?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Molly, ‘but I would have found out one day.’

‘Yer mean yer can’t
read
?’ He was suddenly proud of himself. ‘I learned ter read when they put me and me mam in the workhouse . . . after the old fella ran away. The beadle made all us children say our prayers and learn ter read. Then he threw me out on the street when my mam died.’ He seemed momentarily lost in thought. ‘Was it worth a bob or two . . . that watch o’ yours?’

But Molly didn’t want to discuss it. It was too painful. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked instead.

‘Jack . . . Jack-the-lad they calls me; what’s yours?’

‘Molly . . . Tanner,’ came the hesitant reply, because Molly had never used the name ‘Tanner’ before. She had only ever been known as ‘Molly . . . Sal’s lass’.

At once the fellow’s face broke into a wide and attractive grin, and, in the light from the street gas-lamp, Molly saw that his eyes were a warm shade of brown, and his teeth were surprisingly white and even. ‘I like your name . . . Molly,’ he said, chucking her under the chin and making a cheeky suggestive wink, and I like
you
. . . I reckon yer a real good-looker, with that coal-black hair and them big midnight eyes. You’ll do for me,’ he said boldly.

‘Hmph! You’ve got a bloody nerve,’ Molly told him sternly, thinking he was one of them certain ‘charmers’ that Sal was always warning her against.

‘I have! You’re right, Molly gal. I have got a bloody nerve, and I’ll tell yer some’at else . . . I’m gonna
marry
yer just as soon as ever I can!’ Then, before Molly could get her breath, he took her by the hand, pulled her towards him and planted a loud hearty kiss on her mouth. ‘Yep,’ he said, shaking his head and drawing his lips together, ‘you’ll do fer me, Molly gal! First though . . . we’ve to steal yer some togs, ’cause I ain’t having my future missus wandering the streets in her nightshift.’

Molly bit back the caustic retort which rose to her lips. With his warm, strong hand clasped over hers, and the feel of his kiss still burning on her mouth, it did seem peevish to be so ungrateful. Besides which, she had a warm, contented feeling inside that even the thought of losing Sal, or being hunted down by the Justice . . . or even losing her precious timepiece . . . couldn’t spoil. Molly liked him. She
really
liked him, this ‘Jack-the-lad’. ‘Where we going?’ she asked as they trudged along.

‘Never you mind, darling,’ came the reply, with a comforting squeeze of his hand. ‘We’ll make a good few miles before daybreak . . . leave Blackburn town behind and go where the buggers’ll never find us.’ He stopped and turned to look at her. ‘That’s a fault o’ mine,’ he said, with surprising shyness; ‘me mam allus said I were a bossy bugger. What I want ter know, Molly gal, is . . . them plans o’ mine, how do they sound ter you? Do they suit you?’

Molly returned his warm, quiet smile, and when she spoke it was with a song in her heart. ‘Whatever you say, Jack,’ she told him. For a while, he simply looked at her, his smiling brown eyes reaching into her trembling young heart. ‘Oh yes, Molly gal,’ he said at length, ‘you’ll do fer me!’

As she followed him, not knowing where and not really caring, Molly felt comfortable in his presence. Oh, but her precious timepiece. She opened the palm of her hand and glanced down at the dainty mangled chain with its pretty petal fastener. ‘Don’t you fret, Molly lass,’ came Jack’s voice in her ear, ‘’cause I’ll mend that for yer. And I shall keep me eyes open for a new watch along the way.’ Molly thanked him. But her heart was sore at the tragic loss of that watch. How will I ever find my mam now, she wondered with a stab of regret. If you’re listening up there, Sal . . . have a word with your ‘little people’. Happen they’ll know what to do. She laughed in warm memory of Sal’s antics. Then, with softly spoken words, she murmured, ‘You shouldn’t have left me, Sal . . . you shouldn’t have left me.’

Part Three

Australia 1876

Always Searching

Chapter Eight

‘Where are you bound for, mate?’ The handsome dark-haired sailor swung his knapsack to the ground, glad to be relieved of its cumbersome weight, even though the August day was one of the coolest he had known. The breeze blowing inland held the threat of rain. ‘Captain Trent, isn’t it?’ he asked of the sturdy looking figure with quiet brown eyes and military moustache who was making his way down the gangplank towards him.

‘That’s right . . . Silas Trent’s the name.’ He fixed the sailor in his sight, noting at once how able-bodied and pleasant the fellow seemed. He also sensed something very sad, or lonely, in his countenance. When he dropped to a level footing with him, he took the hand which was outstretched and, closing it in his own strong fingers, he shook it warmly. ‘This is my ship, the
Stirling,’
he said, inclining his head sideways. Then, with a laugh he added, ‘My wife, Martha . . . she accuses me of being in love with the old hulk.’

‘She’s no hulk,’ remarked the sailor, envyingly roving his dark eyes over the ship’s lines and noting that she was as good a barque as he’d seen in a long time. ‘She’s a fine vessel. You’re a lucky fellow, Captain . . . and owner, I take it?’

‘That right. And yes . . . she is a “fine vessel”. The last of a grand sailing fleet built up with sweat and blood by my own father, and left to me when he passed on. Unfortunately I’ve come on harder times than he ever witnessed . . . fiercer competition, and capital finance being that much harder to acquire. It’s the larger lines who call the tune now . . . They’re the ones who get first crack at the best cargoes. On top of which, all the experienced crews are lured away by better wages.’ He shook his head and thoughtfully stroked his ‘tache, before saying in a quieter tone, ‘It’s been two years since I’ve seen my wife and son . . . Edward’s going on sixteen years old now, away at school he is. I’m glad to say he’s a better bookworm than I’ll ever be. It would have been grand though, if he had the sea in his blood, like me, and his grandfather before him. But he’s not interested . . . wants to be a doctor, he says. Well, each to his own, I expect. My lad had a nasty experience a while back . . . set on by some ruffians and very nearly drowned in the process. It left its mark on his mind, I dare say. All the same, I intend to build my father’s fleet up again . . . it’s a promise I’ve made myself.’

The dark-eyed sailor smiled, a dashing, gypsy-like smile, when all the sadness went from his face and only the eyes betrayed an inner conflict. ‘We all make ourselves promises, Cap’n,’ he said; ‘only some of us don’t have. wives and children to go home to. I do have a sister, though . . . and I’ve promised myself that I won’t go back to her empty-handed. I’ll make my fortune, I’m sure of it.’ He laughed out loud. ‘The only thing is . . . it’s taking a bit longer than I thought! Yet, if I went home now . . . I wouldn’t be going altogether empty-handed.’

‘Looking to sign on, are you?’

‘I am. I’ve just come in on the
Augustus . . .
see there?’ He pointed to the three-masted barque berthed alongside. ‘I’ve finished a three-year stint with her . . . Calcutta out of Melbourne mostly . . . wool and sandalwood. The skipper landed a good contract from one of the big traders.’

Silas Trent knew of the ship. It belonged to the Firth Line and was one of four. ‘I know that well enough,’ he said, wincing. ‘That was the very contract I was chasing when I came out here. Why aren’t you staying with her?’ He was curious to know.

‘She’s making ready for England. I’m not about to go back yet.’

‘Then you won’t want to come aboard here either, because Liverpool is where I’m bound. Liverpool and good old England . . . first tide in the morning; we’re already battened down and the last of the crew are due back any minute.’ When he saw the disappointment on the sailor’s face, he pointed to a clipper which was lying off shore. ‘You might try the
Linesman
out there. I believe she’s headed for Swedish waters.’

The sailor shook his head and swung up the knapsack to his shoulder, saying, ‘No luck there, I’m afraid. She already has a full crew . . . I made enquiries about that one soon as ever I came off the
Augustus.’

‘What are your plans then?’

‘A jug of ale and a good night’s sleep at the tavern. Like as not I’ll get me a ship on the morrow. Good day to you, Cap’n.’

Silas Trent nodded his head and touched the neb of his cap as he watched the sailor walk along the jetty and round the corner towards the inn, thinking that the fellow was not the usual coarse type of sailor he’d come across. When, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his first officer returning with the authorised papers, he gave him his full attention. ‘Everything in order?’ he asked.