In The Belly Of The Bloodhound (45 page)

“Oh, nay, Sisters, I am not. I got this straight from a Mrs. Roundtree on Malta, and she was[_ definitely_] an expert in this field.”

“But how does the baby get out of there?” asks Rebecca, perplexed.

I take a breath and quickly tell her, and her jaw drops in disbelief, as girls’ jaws have for thousands of years upon receiving that particular bit of information.

“But it can’t—”

“Oh, yes it can, dear, believe me. I was midwife to the Captain’s wife on the[_ Pequod,_] when she had young Prudence in the midst of a storm very like this one, so I’ve seen it done with my own eyes.”

“Lord…,” whispers Rebecca, still stunned.

“Cheer up, lass.” I chuckle and clap her on the shoulder. “That sort of thing is a long way off for you.”

I stand and say, “Today’s lecture is concluded. Thank you for your attention. And, in the spirit of dear old Mrs. Roundtree, each of yiz owes me a shillin’.”

Today, for the first time since work on the Plan was begun, there is no one working on any part of it—the fuse is finished and there is no more carving to be done. Even the Dianas do not hunt, because Cookie is not cooking since they don’t light the kitchen fires in a blow like this, which is why our gruel was served cold this morning. So no roasted millers today—though probably we’ll still liberate a few more bottles of wine, as we have become used to rich living. Some crackers might settle some queasy stomachs, too. While I’m thinking on this, I reflect again on how lucky we are not to have gone several days ago and so gotten caught up in this storm. But the fuse was not done yet, thus we did not go to our doom. Now, however, the fuse is done and coiled and stowed and waiting in the powder magazine for the right time. That will be when the weather lets up, if it ever does.

The day drags slowly on.

Constance Howell’s Bible reading was that part in Genesis where God kicks Adam and Eve out of Eden for being bad, and it being mainly Eve’s fault, He tells her He’s gonna punish her by making it so that it hurts like hell when she and all her descendants have babies—and so it is to this very day, thank you very much, Eve. Which I thought was a rather nice follow-up to my little lecture of the morning. Course I know she chose that bit to show what indulging in any of that nastiness I had been tellin’ them about would get you, which is screaming your lungs out on the birthin’ bed, but, hey, that’s all right.

The flaps come down on yet another day at the Bloodhound Academy, Hepzibah leads us in a nice rendition of Anerio’s[_ Venite ad Me Omnes,_] and then I continue my story.

I had told you before of the place high on a rooftop that I used to favor when I had to hide out for a bit, it having a nice safe rain gutter between two gables for sleepin’ in and a good view of what was happening in the streets, but there was somethin’ else about the place that I liked, as well. Off the back of this building I could look down into this square where there was a small house in a neat yard. A man lived there with his wife and baby son. The husband must have been a clerk or something, ‘cause he wore a suit of clothes every day when he went out, and not workingman’s garb. She was a pretty, young thing, bustling about, sweeping off the front steps, or washing windows, or hanging out laundry. When she hung out the wash, she would have the baby in a basket next to her and she would sing to him and laugh, and the baby would chortle back at her, waving his arms and legs about as babies will do when they are happy. I think I liked watching this family ‘cause I imagined myself bein’ one of ‘em, and bein’ cared for and all. They used to get dressed up on Sunday mornings and go down to Saint Paul’s for church. I know, ‘cause I followed ‘em down there once.

Anyway, it was to that rooftop, up above that family’s house, that I hied myself the morning after bringing Jesse to the kip. When I had woken up, a quick check of Jesse showed that the boy needed to own more than one diaper, and I meant to get him one. So, leaving him in the care of Nancy, up to the rooftop I go.

Peeking over the edge, I see that, indeed, the young wife has hung out six nappies, all in a row on a line. Making sure there’s no one about, I jump from this roof to one lower and then one lower than that, and finally I shinny down a drainpipe to the ground, right next to the clothesline. I, quick, run over, grab one, pull it off, and then run like hell. Sorry, Missus, but as you had six or more, me Jesse had only one. Now two…

“Yes, Connie, a thief as well as a tramp, and you already knew that. May I continue?”

Back at the kip, me and Nan take Jesse down to the Thames and wash off his bottom and rinse out the nappy he was wearin’ when he come to join our merry band. I took off my shift and dried him with it and then carried him back to the kip. It bein’ the middle of September, things was right warm, so it was no hardship to any of us. Then we put his new nappy on him and tied up the sides and hung up the wet one in the kip, and I hung up my damp shift next to it.

There’s three whistles—our gang’s signal—and Charlie comes back into the kip, with Judy and Polly. He sees the laundry hangin’ there.

“Christ. A bloody nursery…That this should happen to a man of my stature…,” he says, and tosses a bread roll at each of us. Inside each roll is a bit of sausage. Such riches.

“Where’d you get this, Charlie?” asks I, lookin’ at the wonderful roll in my hand.

“Benbow’s had some heavy work to do, lifting stones and such, so we traded Hughie for the day in exchange for this grub. Lay to. Hughie’s gettin’ ‘is at the job.”

And we do…

“And yes, Hughie, once again you saved the day.”

I chew up a mouthful and reach for the water jug, but Charlie stops my hand and says, “You swallow that, you, ‘cause he knows what I’m up to. “Now.”

I pretend to swallow, then take the jug, chew up roll and sausage and water, and tongue it out to Jesse’s waiting mouth. Charlie snorts and goes over to sit down and eat his portion.

When me and Jesse are done, I pat his back and he burps and then puts his face on my shoulder and goes to sleep, just like that. He is an awfully good baby.

After all have eaten, Charlie stands back up and grabs my shift and throws it at me. “C’mon, you,” he says. “And bring the damn kid.” I slip on my shift and hoist Jesse onto my hip and follow Charlie out and up North Bridge. I’m a mite fearful, ‘cause I know Charlie don’t approve of me havin’ this baby at all, and so I clutch Jesse a little closer to me as we walk along.

Charlie don’t say nothin’, which is not a good sign. We turn right on Ludgate and there’s a bit of a crowd there among the vendors’ stalls.

“Try ‘im here,” says Charlie, and he goes to lean against a wall.

I go out and get to work.

I put my hand out and say, “Please, Mum, please! Jesse here’s gonna die if he don’t get some milk,” and, “Please, Sir, can you see it in your heart to give us a penny for Jesse’s milk, please, Sir?”

“Oh, Missus, you got a young one just like mine—please, a little somethin’ for some milk,” and on and on.

Finally someone pushes a coin into my palm and I look at it and it’s a ha’penny. Not much, but somethin’. “Oh, thank you, Missus, thank you…”

Charlie comes up to us and says, “All right, we’re done here. Let’s go.”

And so we walk, not back to the kip as I would have thought but up Old Bailey and up to Newgate. Charlie don’t say nothin’ for a long time and I don’t, neither. Jesse coos by my side, lulled by the rollin’ action of my hip.

“You know, Mary,” says Charlie, finally, “you are a very valuable member of our gang, and you are very dear to me, as well.” He lets that hang for a while. “But now you seem intent on starvin’ yourself to death on account o’ this baby.” Another pause. “Now, you got to know that this baby is going to die, anyway, ‘cause he’s got to have milk, and not just bread mixed with your spit is gonna do it, and we don’t have any milk. You know that, don’t you, Mary?”

“Yes, Charlie, I know that, but I ain’t givin’ up hope yet. I still think he could be valuable to the band in the way o’ beggin’, I do,” says I.

Charlie sighs and we continue on.

“We’re gettin’ right close to Shanky turf here, y’know,” I says, lookin’ around for signs o’ the scum.

“I know,” says Charlie, “but we’re here now. Good day to you, Mrs. Little!”

I’m shocked to see Charlie bowing low to a woman sitting on her front steps, with an infant on her huge left breast, who is sucking, quite happily and quite loudly, away.

“Ah, and if it ain’t Rooster Charlie Brewster, his own-self, God’s gift to the streets o’ Cheapside,” says this woman, two hundred and fifty pounds if she’s an ounce. “And I see you got yerself a brat. Ain’t surprised at that, I ain’t.”

“Ah, well, Missus, that we do, and he’s sore in need o’ that product that you can so amply provide

“Get on wi’ you, Charlie. I can’t afford to take in unpayin’ clients, and I know you ain’t got a pot to piss in nor a window to throw it out of,” says the woman. “My girls ‘ere, Thelma on the right and Betty on the left, are me sole support in this hard world. Can’t expect me to give it away, now, can you?”

“Please, Missus,” I pipes up. “‘E’s gonna die if he don’t get some

“Now, now, dearie, you save that guff for your marks or your nobs, not for me

“Give me the coin,” says Charlie to me.

Surprised, I hand it over. “That’s gang money, Charlie, I don’t expect you to—”

“We wouldn’a got it ‘cept for the kid,” says Charlie, flipping the coin in the air and catching it right in front of the woman’s nose. “So, what, Mrs. Little, would be the charge to put this wee one on one o’ your girls for a bit?”

“The charge, Charlie, is one shillin’ a week.”

My heart sinks. One shilling. A king’s ransom to us.

Charlie nods gravely. I think he brought me and Jesse up here so we could see the desperation of our situation. “But what will one ha’penny buy right now?” he asks, holding up the coin.

“Oh, give it over, and give ‘im over, too,” says Mrs. Little, taking the coin and taking Jesse as I hand him to her.

She pulls down the right shoulder of her shirt, exposing the breast named Thelma, and Jesse clamps right on, his little hands pumping away.

“Oh, he’s a greedy one, he is,” says Mrs. Little. “Charlie, I’m gonna love you forever,” says I, my eyes filmy with tears, and I means it.

“Awright, that’s it. That’s one ha’penny’s worth an’ more,” says Mrs. Little, and Jesse’s mouth come off her with a loud pop!

She hands him back to me and I thank her and I hold him to me.

“Pat ‘is back to burp ‘im, dearie, or he’ll spit up all that good pap you just paid for,” says Mrs. Little, and I do it and he does burp. I can smell his breath and I reflect—today, into his mouth I have put bread, sausage, water, spit, and a good deal of Mrs. Little’s bounty, and still his baby breath smells as sweet as any flowers. I hold him to me as we leave Mrs. Little.

“So you see, that’s the way of it,” says Charlie, his arm around my shoulders. “We can’t do a shilling a week, and unless you can figure another way…”

I know the truth of what he’s saying, but I will not accept it, not yet I won’t, now that Jesse’s got a full belly and is good for another day, at least. Then I look up the street and see the hated gates of Newgate Prison. There are some black-clad people outside the gate, and it seems they are being refused entrance to the place.

“What’s that about, Charlie?” I ask.

He looks over and says, “Quakers. Do-gooders. Prolly the turnkey won’t let ‘em in ‘cause they make trouble.”

“Come on, Charlie, let’s go over there,” I say, and head up the street. Charlie sighs and follows.

There are five of them. Four men and one woman, a young woman of about twenty-one. They are all dressed in that plain Quaker garb—black suits on the men, a black dress on the woman, white starched collars on all. They seem angry at being denied admittance.

I take Jesse up to the woman and say, “Please, Mum, I got this here baby and he’s gonna die if he don’t get milk regular and I can’t give it to him, but there’s a woman up the street who can for a shillin’ a week. Oh, please, Miss, I know you Quakers do good all over the world. Can’t you do good for this one poor little tyke what don’t ask for much and—”

“Come, Elizabeth,” says one of the men. “You, girl, get away, please.”

“Aw, Miss, I know you’re tryin’ to help those poor wretches in the prison there, but why not help this poor little wretch out here, only one shillin’ a week and you’re sure to go straight to Heaven for it, I know you will, I—”

“Be off, girl, we are on important work here,” says another of the men, severely.

“What could be more important than baby Jesse here?” I wail, tears pouring out of my eyes. “Look at ‘im, he’s a good baby, he’s—”

“Elizabeth.”

“One moment, please, Friend Fry,” says the young woman. “I will speak with the girl.” She stoops down to talk to me, eye to eye. “How came you by this baby?”

“I found ‘im in a rubbish bin, Miss. No one else wanted ‘im, but I did and I’m tryin’ to keep ‘im alive, but I can’t without milk, I can’t…”

She seems to be considering this and I look over at the prison and I say, “I can get in there anytime you want, Miss, really, I can. Me and me pals have always gotten in there. And…and…if you need messages passed back and forth, I can do it and…and I can read and write, and if you want to pass a message to one what can’t read, then I can read it for ‘im, and if you need word from some cove inside what can’t write, then you can give me a piece o’ paper and I can write down what that cove had to say and bring it out to you, and—”

“All right, child, enough,” says the young woman, rising. “Where is this wet nurse of yours?”

“Right up the street there, Miss. Her name’s Mrs. Little, and bless you, Miss, bless you.”

We walk, an unlikely parade of Quakers and urchins, up the street, and the young woman confronts Mrs. Little.

“My name is Elizabeth Gurney. Will you feed that baby for one shilling a week as this child states?”

“I will,” says Mrs. Little.

“Good. Then do it,” says Elizabeth Gurney, opening her purse. “And you,” she says to me, “how may we contact you when we need your services?”