Chance Encounters, page 2
The cabin was small, just the stove, with a big iron kettle on top and beside it a small cupboard, holding dishes and the rest of their food. The table and four chairs pretty well took up the rest of the room. There were two fold-down beds on the back wall, the bottom one for Nigel, the top for Ruth. Chance and Colin slept in hammocks beside the horses.
Nigel knocked the ashes out of his pipe into the stove, then straightened. “I’m going to the Crooked Elbow. It feels like it could rain tonight. You boys spread the canvas over the coal, we don’t want it soaked and heavy.” He lumbered up the steps, a little too wide and heavy for his age. When he stepped off the boat, they felt it.
Chance left the table next, going upstairs and spreading the canvas over the coal, tying the edges down. Next he went to the horses and brought them water in a pail: one for big Red; Cricket made do with half. He gave them a nosebag each with a little crushed oats mixed with rye. Next he went and cleared out the manure from the stall, not wanting to smell it all night. Finished, he washed himself at the well trough and combed his hair. He poked his head down the cabin but found only Ruth there mending a shirt.
“Where’s Colin?”
“Where do you think?” She didn’t even look up at him. A few strains of music washed over to them. “Where I ain’t allowed to go,” she complained bitterly, biting off the thread.
Chance crossed over to the Inn, then to the side entrance into the Crooked Elbow. The place was full of tobacco smoke, and warm from all the stale bodies gathered around the tables. Nigel was playing cards with his cronies, all rivermen, a few lucky enough to own their boats, but most working for someone else. Colin was dicing in the far end. The Beaston boys were harmonizing between drinks. Chance settled himself into a dark corner and promptly fell asleep.
But even in his sleep Chance couldn’t escape the daily drudgery of his life. Even in his dreams he worked. Ever since he could remember, he had been working. Born in Manchester to a poor working family, he lost his parents early. His father to black lung disease from working in the coal mines. His mother to tuberculosis, depleted by laboring 18 hours a day in a cotton mill, slave to the weaving machine. Chance remembered three brothers, one of whom died early, and three sisters. He was maybe five when his uncle took half the kids to raise when his father and mother passed away within months of each other. Chance could recall the crowding, six children to a bed, fighting for the covers. And he remembered hunger, ever present hunger gnawing at him, forcing all other thoughts from his mind. He was maybe ten when Uncle Morris sent him down the mine to push cart loads of lump coal up narrow tunnels, always in the dark, breathing in the heavy dust, always weak and hungry. When an explosion shut down the mine, uncle got him work in a textile mill, running between machines, distributing spools of yarn 18 hours a day, like his mother. And for all that, he never saw a penny. He couldn’t hold it against the uncle, he had too many mouths to feed and was working hard himself, but it was the same in the row houses, young and old working, otherwise you were dead or dead drunk on cheap gin to forget for a few hours a miserable existence.
The final step was being sold to the workhouse, making matches, being slowly poisoned by the phosphorus. Chance had to take a match stick, dip the tip into a mix of chemicals, stick it into a clay lump to dry, then pack it into lots of forty. Perhaps 8,000 per day. He was sick a lot, nauseous and vomiting. Around him, boys and girls collapsed, carted away to die in some row house tenement.
Likely Chance would have died too, had not Mr. Charles Robson ransomed an emaciated waif from the workhouse, to become an indentured servant to the firm of Robson & Hobson. Thus, Chance never owned a piece of himself; he was always someone else’s property.
He didn’t even know how old he was. No one could tell him. There were no records of his birth, as there wouldn’t be any if he died. A horse trader looked at his teeth and judged him to be 15, and that was three years ago.
He liked his present life. True, his days were filled with work, but most often it was in the fresh air, not in some dark dingy mine, or in a dank workhall breathing in the chemically laden air where he had lost his sense of smell and taste. All he knew, then as now, was that he was hungry, that’s one thing that hadn’t changed. Otherwise Nigel was kind enough, in a tough, no-nonsense manner. Ruth was pleasant too, smiling often, not complaining about cooking for him and washing his clothes. Chance was grateful for his situation; the only thing that rankled him was Colin, Colin who shirked his duty, content to let Chance do most of the work.
As he slept, Chance dreamed about his life, satisfied with the present, but with no view of any future. He was like a dog who did what he was told, and rarely thought beyond it. His dreams were always a continuation of his days, but this time a sense of music entered into them as the Beaston brothers played and sang. A rare vision of his mother emerged, singing a lullaby to the babe in her arms. A great sadness settled on him, and woke him up. He found himself on the floor, curled into the corner. From somewhere a dog had found him and nestled close to him. The animal didn’t smell all that good, but wouldn’t be dislodged. Tired, Chance stayed where he was, hidden in the darkest corner of the room. He closed his eyes and listened.
The pulse of the drum picked up and the fiddle started into an Irish reel. A tenor voice competed with the instruments. After several songs, the musicians took time out to lubricate their talents, and a hubbub of conversation filled the hole left by their absence.
Not really listening, Chance overheard several conversations. To his right a group of six boatmen were complaining that the new railroad, between Huxter and Callow Station, was cutting into their business and forcing the prices down.
“How’re we supposed to make any living if the shipping freights continue to drop as they have?” a disgruntled voice complained.
“And I hear a Consortium from London is thinking to extend the line all the way to Sheppard Row. That will make the run up Emerson Canal nearly worthless.”
“And the Government’s pushing for more expansion of the railroading...”
“Ah, what. It won’t last. People will get tired of a new thing. Tell me how a dirty, smoke belching machine is going to displace the clean and noiseless canal traffic...”
“You’re wrong there. Look at all the factories. They were once water driven, now they all have steam engines to turn the wheels and do the work.”
“That’s true. Before you could only have factories where there were rivers and mill ponds, but with these steam machines, you can build a factory anywhere. Same with us. The canals can only go where there are waterways, a locomotive can go anywhere, even up mountains.”
“Hold on, no locomotive can go steeper that a 7 percent grade.”
“And a canal?”
“By using a lock, we can connect a 35 feet height difference.”
Chance drifted in and out of the conversation. It was like a breeze that blew over him but didn’t leave any traces. He didn’t worry about the rise of steam powered transportation threatening his way of life. Since when could he do anything against the tides of destiny that tossed him about like a bit of insignificant flotsam?
His ears were caught by the intensity of the whispered conversation among four men hunched over their table.
“I tell you, I’m sick and tired of pushing up and down these stinking canals, making boat owners rich by my sweat and toil.”
“That’s why I keep telling you we must branch out.”
“How?”
“A little break and enter on the side.”
“How many times have I told you that we won’t do anything criminal? Brother Zack is already in prison, would you like to join him there?”
“I wasn’t thinking of busting down doors or cracking safes. Something simpler and less risky.”
“Like what, for instance?”
“Kidnap a rich man’s son and hold him for ransom.”
“Like Thomas Eddington. They paid 600 pounds for him. And still haven’t found the kidnappers.”
“Exactly. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“But who? Who do you know with that kind of money?”
“Remember last year, when the boat got holed in the collision with a collier? It took seven months to get our boat back into the water.”
“So what? How’s that got anything to do with what we’re talking about?”
“It does. So listen. While the boat was laid up and we weren’t earning any money I took on odd jobs, stevedoring, ferrying passengers in a rowboat across the Thames. You remember?”
“We all did something...”
“For three weeks I worked in the warehouse of Henry Dubineau, the largest importer of French and Italian wines to England. He also owns a chunk of the East India Company and some French stocks in a company that wants to build a canal somewhere...”
“In Egypt―”
“That’s beside the point. The fact is, the Dubineaus are rolling in money. They have a large county estate in Lincolnshire, six houses in London for the extended family, and several factories in Manchester and Leeds. I’m telling you, it’s like a ripe fruit ready to be plucked.”
“What or who do you have in mind?”
“Henry’s son is Alex, but he’s a grown man capable of taking care of himself, but there’s also a 15 year old daughter, Emily Charlotte Dubineau, a very pretty lass, the pleasure of her father’s eye. I would take her.”
“But how? Such a treasure would be well guarded.”
“And she is. But she’s musical, and twice a week goes to a famous pianist for lessons. That’s a lengthy cab ride with only an old biddy for a chaperone. I suggest we kidnap her.”
Breath caught in his throat, Chance listened, hardly daring to believe what he heard. Someone was going to be kidnapped, held for ransom. What a brazen plan. He heard as the details were discussed and a plan of action set. It seemed that Zack in jail was forgotten, as all four brothers warmed to the idea of easy money that could set them up for life.
As far as Chance could figure, the attempt was to be made before June 20, prior to the celebration of the young Queen Victoria’s third year on the throne. Emily was to play at a piano concert honoring the Queen in front of the Merchant Guilds and select members of the Exchequer. The week before, it was expected, she would make several journeys to her mentor for guidance. The plan was to fake an accident, in the confusion make off with the girl, and then tuck her away in one of the many rarely used warehouses on the river front, while negotiating and collecting the ransom.
Hidden in the corner, camouflaged by the dog, Chance stayed absolutely still. His heart was pounding. These men were proposing the impossible―to go against established order and against property.
“How do you know all this?” one of the brothers asked the one they called Fish.
“I kept my eyes and ears open. Yes My Lord this and yes My Lady that, but at the same time I counted the silver and the jewelry worn by their women.”
“But how did you get inside, you hardly look like a house servant.”
“And I don’t. They were rebuilding the tile stove in the parlor and I came with the workmen. Can you believe that it took them three weeks to work on one stove?”
More discussion followed, to iron out some details, then they stood up and left. Chance could finally extricate himself from the dog’s presence and stretch his cramped limbs. He didn’t know what to do with the information, but was uneasy about having even part of such a secret. He decided to forget about it as fast as he could.
Colin came up to Chance, his hands out. “Lend me some money, I lost at dice and they’ll skin me if I don’t pay up.”
“You already owe me money―”
“I’m only asking for half a shilling...”
“Half a shilling which I don’t have...”
Colin melted away and Chance never found out how he resolved the issue. Chance asked Nigel about the four men in the corner.
“Stay clear of them, that’s the Brook brothers. And they’re into unsavory things. One of them is in jail...”
Chance took that information back to the boat. He slung his hammock by Cricket and clambered into it. The horse nuzzled him a couple of times, snorting at the tobacco smoke clinging to Chance’s clothes.
It didn’t take long for Chance to fall asleep. He was facing an 18 mile stretch tomorrow, up to Arlington, passing through two locks and poling around three bridges. He might have thought about Emily Dubineau, unknowingly nearing some kind of destiny about to change her life.
Chapter 2
Over the next while, Chance didn’t think about Emily at all ― that was until, heading down the Thames toward the lower docks, he caught sight of a Dubineau sign boldly painted on a warehouse near shore. Chance couldn’t read―not really. He’d had no formal education, and what little he knew was learned by experience. He learned his letters by scratching whatever text he saw into the dirt, and whenever he could find someone to ask what it meant, he did. So after a fashion he could read, slowly, painfully putting together the sounds. It was the same with counting. He still used his fingers to add and subtract, and for higher arithmetic he drew lines on the ground, adding them up as required.
It was strange that the Dubineau sign had caught his eyes. He wasn’t looking for it―not consciously at least. He was aware of some background irritation he couldn’t place, which came with some unease, that in the end he linked with Emily Dubineau―but not until that sign. Then he couldn’t stop thinking of her. Life experience hadn’t taught him to link cause to effect, or to interpolate or extrapolate: he took things at face value and did what was required of him. And perhaps because of that simplified view of life, he fit into whatever situation he found himself; he didn’t question his circumstances or resist them, but he simply went along with them. That changed with Emily. Chance tried to imagine what it was like to be rich, to be served, be pampered, taken care of every step of the way. He couldn’t picture it. To be loved, to be cherished―none of that had he experienced in his life of eighteen years. If, on the end of any day, he had enough food in his belly and if he had covers, he considered himself happy. Few wasted a kind word on him, and if they did he didn’t know how to value it. In that sense, cursing was the same as praising, it had little to do with him.
But now, here was Emily, a child of affluence whose every wish was somebody’s command; she was going to be stolen, held captive and then what? Yes, what? She could be killed. Not all kidnap victims were returned even if the ransom had been paid. He heard gossip at the wells and water pumps, at the locks, where all such grisly news was commonly discussed.
Chance knew something vital that affected someone’s life and he couldn’t escape it. He tried to think of something else. He had no cause to mix with rich folk. They lived in a very different world that had nothing to do with him. In the end the huge social distance insulated him, like a warm coat on a winter day.
On June 7, the Hardcastle Rose was off loading coal at the Quality Fuels and Kitchen Heat ramp, with a gang of eight men shoveling coal from the hold of the narrow boat into buckets that were lugged back into warehouse bins, where they were bagged and sold to heat stoves and houses all over London.
Chance was sent to the bakery to buy bread. Waiting his turn to be served, he listened as the other customers talked excitedly about the upcoming jubilee, the third anniversary of the young queen’s ascension. Even the bakery sold commemorative plates of the event. Chance peered curiously at the portrait of a young woman reflected on the fine porcelain. She didn’t look the twenty she was supposed to be.
“I don’t know about Albert. He’s her cousin,” said a matron with a large basket in her grasp.
“Second cousin?”
“Once or twice removed?” a woman with a harelip wanted to know.
Chance didn’t know what they were talking about. He vaguely remembered having brothers and sisters, but could hardly recall their names. His knowledge of family ties didn’t extend to cousins.
“There’s going to be a procession from Buckingham Palace to the abbey for a commemorative mass,” the matron declared enthusiastically. “My cousin works in an office on the second floor overlooking the route and I’ll be there to see the Queen and her consort ride by in the royal carriage.”
Chance got his loaf of light rye and left. He walked along the crowded sidewalk as carriages rattled along the cobbled street. Every once in a while a racy cabriolet cut in and out of the slower traffic. Near a book shop, a puppy got disoriented, halfway crossed the street, then froze and was run over by a coach drawn by four horses. The coach didn’t even pause. The puppy died in the arms of a young girl who cried and cried. Chance was no stranger to death, animal or human. He had often seen the dead carted off from overcrowded tenements. And in the workhouse hall, there was always one or two who wouldn’t wake up. About death, he remembered the stench most vividly.
“Can you help the little thing, Mister?” The tearstained young girl held out the puppy to him.
“Afraid not,” Chance replied sadly. As he looked at the limp body, at the creature that didn’t even know what destroyed him, he suddenly had a flash: the same was going to happen to Emily; she was going to be destroyed by forces she couldn’t anticipate. Just as helpless as this little pup, she would be destroyed, or changed beyond recognition. It wasn’t fair, but such was life. Ought he not do something to prevent it? If he could have he would have stopped the little dog and saved him. Had he only known. But he did know what was going to happen to Emily.
These thoughts stayed with him throughout the day and uncharacteristically for him, they wouldn’t let him sleep. He knew what was going to happen, he’d heard every detail of it. Should he not stop it? And would God be angry with him if he didn’t? A God who didn’t care: how could He, there was too much misery in the world.
