Vices of My Blood (17 page)

On the far side of the yard were two arches and in front of each one was an elderly man in a black mackintosh and beakless cap like Gowan’s. They held ledgers in front of them. The smaller group of tramps moved to the archway on the left, which had a large A over the lintel. Parker was hopping on his crutches and he’d exchanged a quick glance with Murdoch as he was pushed past him by the throng of men. At the entrance, they stopped abruptly and formed a ragged line. Bettles and Kearney had shoved to the front, but Traveller had got a firm grip on Murdoch’s arm and they were close behind.

“Hurry up, goddamn it,” said Bettles as the elderly clerk fumbled with the pages in the ledger. He was checked off, Kearney followed, and behind him came Alfred, who for all his simplemindedness knew enough to muscle his way to the front of the line. Next was Traveller.

“Jack Trevelyan,” he said and the clerk began to search for the name.

Traveller leaned over and pointed with his finger. “There I am. And there’s the fellow behind me. Thompson, Joseph.” He turned around to Murdoch. “Right, mate?”

“Right.”

The clerk gazed at Murdoch with bleary eyes. “I don’t remember –”

“Come on, Hastings,” called one of the remaining men. “We’re freezing out here. Check him off, for God’s sake.”

The clerk did so and with Traveller leading the way, Murdoch went through archway A.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

T
RAVELLER HAD
M
URDOCH
by the sleeve, which was just as well because the men were shoved and pushed as they hurried toward the stairs at the far end of a whitewashed corridor. The new casuals were slower getting through their arch because their names had to be written down, but two or three of them came through their door at the farther end and some of the men in Murdoch’s group yelled at them to keep back. They scrambled down a short flight of steps, turned at a sharp angle, and went through yet another door that another palsied elderly man held open for them. He was bleating feebly, “Gentlemen, slow down, please slow down,” but nobody paid him any heed.

Murdoch was thrust through into a long, dimly lit room. The air was suffocatingly humid, which felt good after the cold, but there was a strong smell of carbolic that made his eyes sting. At the far end of the room were two huge boilers and facing them a row of bathtubs, partitioned by wooden walls. The tubs were already filled with steaming water. To the right was a set of shelves and next to them stacks of wooden boxes. He was pushed toward the shelves where another nabber in a holland apron was calling out, “Put your clothes in a box. Don’t forget your chit. All clothes in the box. Boots on the shelves.” The men started to strip off their clothes.

Traveller grabbed two boxes and gave one to Murdoch. Looped around the handle was a strip of leather with a wooden numbered chit. Traveller unfastened it. “Don’t lose this. Hang it around your neck. You won’t get your clothes back until the morning. They fumigate them.” He grinned. “We’re cleaner than most good citizens, if you ask me.”

Murdoch took off the fedora and his sealskin overcoat and dropped them into the box. There was a long bench underneath the shelves where several men were sitting and removing their boots. Murdoch could see how easy it would be to switch his for somebody else’s. Most of the boots were shabby and in bad condition, which confirmed his suspicion that the original owner of the good boots Parker had stolen would have raised a ruckus unless it was in his interest not to do so. All of the tramps, including Traveller, had strips of cloth wound around their toes and as they unwrapped them, Murdoch recoiled at the stench. Their clothes might be fumigated but they weren’t washed.

Caught up in the surrounding sense of urgency, Murdoch peeled off his mud-caked jersey and trousers and struggled out of his union suit. Traveller was on one side of him, Alf on the other. Ed seemed to have been shoved to the end of the row and was hopping awkwardly as he tried to get his trousers off without putting his sprained ankle to the ground.

Alf, giggling nonstop, was already naked. His body was soft and hairless but his torso was dotted with bedbug bites. Traveller was wearing a truss and he hung it up on a peg, then tapped Murdoch on the arm. “Come on, take that tub at the end. It’s warmer by the boiler.”

He padded off across the floor, which was some kind of hard granite tile, and headed for the line of bathtubs, half of which were already occupied. Traveller’s body was pallid except for his weathered neck and lower arms. Murdoch was shocked to see a crisscross of stripes across his back. Jack Trevelyan had been flogged at some point in his life. Murdoch hurried after him to the adjoining tub. The water was very hot and he jerked his foot back when it touched the surface. Then he gritted his teeth and climbed in, slowly lowering his rear end into the bath. There was just enough water to cover his hips and he saw his legs turn red. The carbolic in the water caused his blistered heels to sting painfully.

“You ’ave ten minutes. ’Ere is soap,” said a voice at this ear. Another nabber. He had a French accent and his hair and moustache were thick and dark, worn long the way favoured by the Frenchies at the logging camp. He gave Murdoch a small piece of soap and shuffled off to the next tub. He limped badly and Murdoch could see his left foot was twisted inward.

Murdoch rubbed the soap between his palms. It was poor quality, gave as much lather as a stone, and smelled strongly of tar, but he washed as best he could, then sank down into the hot water. At home, he usually bathed once a week on Saturdays, in a small zinc tub in the kitchen. The workhouse bathtub was longer and he could stretch out his legs. It seemed that he had been in the water hardly more than two minutes when he heard a shrill whistle and the Frenchman called, “
Finis. Finis
. Out, if you please. Next group in.”

Another small ghostly man appeared around the partition with towels over his arm. He handed one to Murdoch and moved away.

“Come on, mate, get a move on,” a wiry little man, very hairy with bandy legs was already standing by the tub and Murdoch was obliged to get out. He wrapped himself in the thin, rough towel and headed back to the bench. From there he had a view of all of the tubs. The first group of occupants was getting out and was quickly replaced. Murdoch saw Ed Parker get into his tub, grimacing with the effort. He’d followed on the most elderly of the tramps, who had smelled gamey from a few paces and Murdoch didn’t envy him.

Traveller was drying himself off and he pointed to a stack of nightshirts. “Get one of those.”

Frenchie stopped him. “No dress yet, monsieur. The doctor must examine you.”

Murdoch looked over at Traveller in dismay. The big man shrugged.

“They’ll be most likely checking for small pox. There was a case at one of the country workhouses last week.”

The door to the corridor opened and in came a slight, grey-haired man who wore spectacles and stooped slightly. It was Dr. Uzziel Ogden. Murdoch turned to the bench as if he were looking for his boots and got his astonishment under control. He didn’t think the doctor would betray him, but he couldn’t be certain.

Suddenly Frenchie gave a shout and pointed to the second tub. The one that Parker was in.

“Monsieur Doctor, come quick.”

Ogden rushed over and Murdoch saw that Ed was lying with his head under the water.

“Get him out, he’s drowned,” called the doctor. Frenchie and Ogden grabbed Parker’s arms and hauled him into a sitting position. His eyes were closed and his chest wasn’t moving.

“He’s not breathing. Help us, here,” said Ogden and willing hands took Parker by the legs and Parker was hauled out of the tub and laid on the wet floor. It was all Murdoch could do to hold back but he had to. Ogden knelt down beside the prone man, turned his head to one side and began to lift Parker’s arms up and down over his head in a pumping action. He did this several times, then with a splutter Ed opened his mouth and water poured out.

Ogden thumped him hard on the chest, causing him to cough violently. After a few moments, he sat up.

“What on earth happened?” asked the doctor.

“I, er, I don’t know, sir. I must have slipped and banged my head.”

“My God, man, you could have drowned.” The doctor spoke as angrily as if Parker had brought this on himself. Which of course he had. “We’d better not take any chances. Let’s get him to the infirmary. Can you walk?”

“I believe so, sir. I mean, I have sprained my ankle but that’s got nothing to do with drowning.”

“Frenchie, help him.”

“I’d be grateful if you’d come too, sir,” said Parker. “I am feeling a bit dizzy, if truth be told.”

Ogden tutted but didn’t refuse. “Put a shirt on him,” he said to the nabber. “And get his crutches.” Once dressed, Ed hopped slowly out of the bathhouse, supported by the two men.

Murdoch exhaled deeply in relief. “Hey, I’m getting cold, can’t we get out of here?”

“I don’t know, the doctor …” said the elderly attendant who’d let them in.

There was a loud knocking on the other door and somebody shouted, “Hurry up.” The nabber jumped. “Get your nightshirts then.”

Murdoch slipped his over his head. It was a heavy linen and fell to his feet, but it didn’t smell too clean, as if the laundry was two tramps ago.

“Put on your boots and come this way,” said the nabber, and he opened the door Parker and the doctor had taken. The casuals followed him down a short, cold corridor, to yet another door, which the attendant unlocked. Murdoch felt as if he were in a jail. This door opened into a long, high-ceilinged room filled with narrow beds, each spaced about four feet from the other. Between each bed was a commode bucket. The floor was covered with a worn oilcloth. Two large clocks hung at each end of the whitewashed room. The narrow, high windows were curtainless. Like the bathhouse, the dormitory was pungent with sulphur and carbolic.

Traveller beckoned to Murdoch and led the way to the centre of the long aisle where a large woodstove blocked the way. Alf trailed behind them and Bettles and Ward were close at his heels.

“It gets cold in here during the night,” said Traveller. “Better to have a bed near the stove.”

He pulled back the thin grey blanket on one of the beds and got under the cover. There were no sheets or cases for the pillows. The other men were also starting to get into bed, even the young farm labourer. Murdoch sat on the bed next to the tramp’s. “My God, Traveller, it’s only six o’clock.”

“They’ll wake us up at six in the morning and like the man told you, you probably won’t get much sleep. There ain’t anything else to do anyway except get some kip. Goodnight to you.”

He pulled up the blanket so that it completely covered his face.

The next batch of men was arriving now and they began to choose their beds. Alf had taken the one beside Murdoch, but he was sitting up, propped against the wall, watching, greeting some of the newcomers with his facile smile. Ned Bettles and his pal Kearney had taken the beds across the narrow aisle from Murdoch and they were lying on top of their blankets.

“Oi, Williams, did you bring any baccy in with you?”

The old nabber who had let them in heard that. “I will remind you men that no smoking or drinking is allowed.”

“We know that, old man, no need to shake your fetters. But I need to make my water.”

“You must use the commodes provided for that purpose,” fussed the man.

Bettles swung his legs off the bed and lifted the lid of the pail beside the bed.

“Hey. Somebody forgot to empty it,” he scowled.

The nabber scuttled over to inspect. Murdoch could see that the pail was indeed almost full.

“Nothing we can do about that now. You’ll have to use somebody else’s if you have to.”

He turned to Murdoch, who had stretched out his legs. “You are not allowed to put your boots on the beds.”

Murdoch knew the poor old man was only doing his job, but he was irritatingly fussy.

“What other rules am I supposed to know?”

“No spitting is allowed and you must use the commode provided.”

“So I understand.”

The old man didn’t react to his sarcasm, but he said earnestly, “Lights will be extinguished at nine o’clock. After that time, there is to be no talking. Silence must be kept.”

He hurried off to scold a young newcomer who had got onto one of the beds with his boots on.

Murdoch removed his own and stowed them underneath his bed. The nightshirt was itchy and he felt peculiar to be going to bed at this time of night. Some of the men were talking to each other, but they were the new casuals. The regular tramps didn’t talk, not even Bettles and his companion. They got in the beds and like Traveller immediately got underneath the blankets.

Murdoch leaned back and looked up at the dark windows. His stomach rumbled and he realized he was very hungry. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Thirty

T
HERE WAS NOWHERE ELSE
to sit except on the narrow, hard bed and the ward wasn’t that warm so after a little while, Murdoch followed Traveller’s example and got under the blanket. Candles were burning in the wall sconces but they were inferior wax and threw off little light. He shifted, trying to make himself comfortable. He would have liked his pipe; he would have liked one of Katie’s hot stews, but most of all he wished he had something to read. There was nothing to do except go to sleep and it was only a quarter past six.

“You’re looking like you’ve lost your best friend.” Traveller had opened his eyes and was grinning at Murdoch. “Finding the life a little quiet, are you?”

“Like the grave. I’m tempted to rouse all the men and start up some sea shanties. That’d liven things up.”

“You’d get thrown out in no time. The bosses don’t like rowdy behaviour. You might get away with singing a few hymns, but you’ll have a hard time finding many in this bunch who know the words. Besides, hymns aren’t popular with this lot of unrepentant sinners. They’ve had them stuffed down their gobs too many times and had to act grateful … Just a minute, this’ll cheer you up.” He brought his hand from underneath the blanket and keeping whatever it was hidden in his fist, he handed something to Murdoch. “Be careful. There’s always somebody ready to do a Judas for an extra bowl of soup.” He pressed a small vial into Murdoch’s palm, then rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. “Save some for me,” he muttered.

Murdoch glanced around him. As far as he could tell in the poor light, nobody was watching him. He waited a few minutes, surreptitiously unscrewed the top of the vial, then slid down the bed and pulled the blanket over his head. Carefully, he took a couple of sips from the bottle and almost choked as a burning liquid hit his throat. He struggled to suppress his coughing and waited while the fire in his empty belly raged. Still under cover of the blankets, he replaced the top of the bottle.
Save some for me
, indeed. One sip would last him a week.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and pulled the blanket down to nose level. Traveller was leaning across the gap between the beds.

“You all right?”

“What the hell was that?”

The tramp chuckled. “It’s homemade. I got it from a toby in the country. He calls it witch’s milk. Powerful, ain’t it?”

The burning in his gut was subsiding a little now and Murdoch was feeling a bit light-headed.

“If you’ve had enough, give it back to me. Don’t let it be seen,” said Traveller.

Murdoch handed over the little bottle. “How did you smuggle it in here?”

“Easy. My truss comes in handy.”

Murdoch felt a spasm of uneasiness at the memory of how warm the vial had been. Traveller disappeared underneath his blanket and Murdoch heard a smothered cough. A few minutes later, the tramp’s head reappeared, his face even redder than before.

“That’ll make you forget your troubles in no time.”

Murdoch burst out laughing. “It’ll make you forget more than your troubles if you drink too much of it. What is it?”

“It’s a secret formula, but I think my chum makes it from potatoes.”

Alf giggled from the next bed. He hadn’t been asleep after all. “Can I have some?”

“No, you cannot,” said Traveller. “We drank it all.” He pushed down the blanket and sat up. “I’m wide awake now. That’s the sinister side of that drink. It don’t put you to sleep right away.”

The simpleton bounced on his bed like a child. “Will you tell us a story, Mr. Traveller? Mr. Williams hasn’t heard your yarns before.”

Murdoch seized the opportunity the boy was giving him. “Great idea, I’d like that, as I’m awake now myself.”

“What story do you want, Alf?” Traveller’s voice was indulgent. Even in the dim light of the candle, Murdoch could see the tramp’s eyes were glistening. He must have taken a really good slug of the witch’s milk.

“Tell him how you got your stripes. That’s a good one.”

Murdoch laughed. “I have to admit I was curious about them myself. They look kind of severe.”

“Thirty-five lashes. Fifteen the first time, twenty the second, and I got them while I was detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Now I suppose you want to know what I was doing in the penitentiary?”

“If you want to tell me.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I ain’t ashamed. Not everybody who goes to jail is a criminal, you know.”

Not wanting to stop him, Murdoch nodded sympathetically.

Traveller settled himself more comfortably and laced his fingers across his chest. “I was born and bred in Newfoundland, but I left when I was fourteen. No future there that I could see. My family was most wiped out by the influenza so there was nobody to weep for me. I signed up on a whaler. Got to see a lot of the world. I was a hot head, drank too much even for a sailor, but I was doing well on the ship. You can make a lot of money on just one voyage if you’re lucky. But then, like now, there’s always some cove who wants to pull down a big healthy lad and in back then, it was the first mate, a weasel fart-catcher of a bastard who took a scunner to me from the moment I put my foot on the deck. Like I said, I was always a hot head and I took exception to the sneers and the duties I’d pull, which were always the coldest and the messiest. According to him, they was never done right so I was always up on some charge or other and me pay docked. He was always ready to hand me a stotter to the head if he thought I looked at him the wrong way. One night, he went too far and shoved me headfirst into a bucket of fish guts. I took exception and turned around and slugged him.”

“Hooray,” exclaimed Alf in delight and he boxed the air with his fists.

Traveller continued to stare up at the ceiling. “So the cove, he fell down, cracked his ugly head on the mast. He’s a drivelling idiot for the rest of his life. I was charged and sent down, but the captain gave me a good testimonial so I only got three years and a bit of triangulation. Fifteen stripes. I wouldn’t have got that except I wouldn’t eat humble pie. Why should I? I was defending myself.”

He paused and Murdoch saw that even after so many years, he was still bitter about his treatment.

“Well, like I said, I’ve bin given thirty-five all told. Those first ones for standing up for myself, the other twenty for the same reason. Near the end of my sentence, I took on a guard who could have been the kith and kin of the first mate. He wanted to stick my head in the piss bucket. I refused and another three years was added on to my sentence for that little tap.”

Alf laughed in delight. “Some little tap. I know your little taps, Traveller.”

The tramp frowned. “Be quiet, Alf. Our friend here will get the impression I’m a violent man, which I ain’t.”

Trevelyan was presenting himself as a wronged man and Murdoch wondered how true that was.

“Like I said, Mr. Williams, I was a hot head in those days, but I’m as meek as a lamb now. Fighting ain’t worth the trouble it brings.”

“But you’d do it again, surely? You couldn’t stand for that kind of treatment.”

“That’s the truth, I couldn’t, but I have a cooler head now and I’m more canny about seeing trouble coming. The tobies all know I won’t put up with shite and they keep their distance.”

“They’re ascared of him,” chirped Alf.

“Anything else you want to know, son?” Traveller asked Murdoch.

“How’d you end up a casual?”

“Same way you have, I don’t wonder. I’d lost my appetite for the sea when I came out of the peg, but I couldn’t get a job that was steady. I never was much good about gaffers, but when I came out the aversion was even stronger and I couldn’t abide any man who always had to prove he was boss. If they paid fair and treated me decent, I’d work for them and willingly, but that kind of cove was hard to find. To most of them I was as low as an un-baptized savage. They acted surprised sometimes that I could even understand English. Given that I also like to keep on the move, that I get stir crazy now if I stay in one place too long, you have what you see here, a wayfarer, as they like to call us.”

“Hooray,” said Alf again. He’d spoken too loud and Bettles, who was in the bed opposite, growled out a curse. The dormitory was quieter now, most of the men seemed to be resigned to going to sleep.

“It must be a hard life,” Murdoch said softly.

“Not if you know the ropes, it ain’t so bad.” Traveller winked at him. “You ain’t said much about yourself though.”

“Not much to tell.” Murdoch braced himself for the questions he expected to come at him, but the tramp suddenly yawned.

“Why don’t we save it till the morning? I’m in need of my kip, now while I can. Alf, you lie down and close your eyes, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mr. Traveller.” The boy immediately slid under his blanket. “Good night, Mr. Williams.”

“Good night, Alf. Good night, Traveller.”

The tramp rolled over onto his side and grunted a response. Murdoch lay back. He was feeling ravenous. He sighed and rolled over onto his stomach to flatten the emptiness. The sour smell from his pillow was nauseating, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

Murdoch didn’t know what time it was because the room was too dark to see the clock, but he felt that he hadn’t slept long. He hadn’t been able to fall asleep after Traveller’s story and was still awake when the old nabber had come in to blowout the candles at nine o’clock. After that, he’d tossed and turned for what seemed like more than an hour. Silence must be observed, the attendant had said, but the dormitory was noisy. Men snoring, talking in their sleep, getting up to make copious water in the bucket. One man had the deep racking cough of the consumptive that he knew all too well from hearing Arthur Kitchen’s for the past four years. Somebody at the end of the row had a nightmare and had started crying out. Two or three men closer to him shouted curses at the fellow, whoever he was. Alf giggled nervously even in his sleep.

Traveller was right about the room getting cold. The stove was not stoked up and drafts poured through the gaps around the window frames. One blanket was not enough and Murdoch wished he had his own warm quilt. Added to all that, the straw mattress was prickly and hard. Was this all worth it? he wondered. So far he hadn’t come across any new evidence. Ed’s departure for the infirmary had saved Murdoch’s bacon, but it also meant Ed hadn’t identified his own boots. The description Mrs. Bright had given of a tramp walking across the Gardens could fit anyone of a dozen men here, as could that of the man Mr. Swanzey had encountered in the greenhouse. He tried to cheer himself up with the hope that his suspect was here, one of the handful of men who were repeaters.

Murdoch sensed rather than heard somebody beside the bed. He opened his eyes, saw a silhouette of a man bending toward him. He had something in his raised hand. With one swift movement, Murdoch rolled onto the floor, dropping into a crouch, and straining to see in the dark. The figure backed away and he heard a familiar giggle.

“Alf, what the hell are you doing?”

Murdoch tried to keep his voice low but the youth had startled him. Anger followed.

“You said you was hungry,” whispered Alf. “So I was going to surprise you and put a piece of bread under your pillow.” He showed a crust to Murdoch. “I smuggled it in my boot, but I wrapped it up good in some newspaper.”

Murdoch got to his feet. “That was kind of you, but I’ll wait until morning. Why don’t you go back to bed.”

“Yes, why don’t we?” growled a voice from the bed across from them. Murdoch heard the scratch of a match and a light flared, illuminating Bettles’s face. There was a sconce directly behind his bed and he reached up and lit the candle.

“What the hell’s going on?” Kearney stirred in the adjacent bed and also sat up.

“Little Alf was having a tryst with his sweetheart.”

“He was giving me a piece of bread,” said Murdoch.

“My, touchy, aren’t we?” Bettles turned to Kearney. “What do you think, Sean? Have we uncovered a couple of nancy boys?”

Kearney swung his legs over the side of his bed. Bettles did the same. The simpleton knew exactly what was in store for him. He dropped to the floor and scuttled underneath his bed, whimpering like a frightened dog.

Somehow, Bettles had managed to smuggle one of the bathhouse towels into the dormitory. He’d covered his pillow with it and now he pulled the towel away and began to twist it into a rope.

“Perhaps these two need a bit of a lesson, Sean.”

Kearney had a towel as well and he picked it up and started to twist it. “I’d say that’s a good and necessary thing to do.”

Both men stepped across the aisle, blocking any chance Murdoch might have to get away from the wall. He was trapped between Traveller’s bed and his own, both of which had heavy metal frames bolted to the floor. He had nothing to defend himself with except the thin pillow and he grabbed this and held it in front of himself.

Bettles grinned. “Fat lot of good that’s going to do you, Mr. Nancy Boy. This is the casual ward, or did you forget? I’ll split that thing in two with one swing.”

The moment hung in the balance, Murdoch on his feet, ready for the attack, the two men opposite him, just as ready to move in on him. Nobody had raised his voice and the rest of the ward appeared to be fast asleep.

As far as Murdoch knew, that included Traveller, but suddenly, with as quick and easy a movement as Kearney had made, he sat up and pushed away the blanket.

“Put it down, Bettles, that’d be despoiling of public property and we can’t have that, can we?” His bare feet dangled over the edge of his bed. He was no longer a young man, but at that moment, nobody would have doubted his ability to make good his command. In his hand, a blade gleamed dully in the light of the candle. It was a razor.

Bettles grimaced. “I ain’t got no truck with you, Traveller. This fellow’s a Miss Molly.”

“No he ain’t.”

“Alfie here was a going to climb in bed with him.”

“No he weren’t. The lad’s as simple as a puppy dog. Now, I suggest we all calm down and get some kip. Before you know it, we’ll be called.”

Traveller got off the bed with such speed that both Bettles and Kearney jumped back.