Dark Against the Sky: Sweeping the Shadows

By Stephen B. Hauge and Cathleen Thole-Daniels

Dark Against the Sky: Sweeping the Shadows continues the tale of Tommy Simpson, a climbing boy (or your chimney sweep) in the streets of London in 1834, that began in Dark Against the Sky: A Climbing Boys Story.
Tommy has been re-united with his father, who is working again as a cobbler while Tommy helps his costermonger friends, the Meechams. Yet the shadow of the master sweep Kelly looms over their lives.
When Kelly decides to rob Dr. Merriweather, he gets Tommy and his street friends to trail Kelly to his hide-out but they cannot find the silver. As Kelly threatens Tommy by seizing his friend Peter and his girlfriend Jenny, Tommy must use all his skills to rescue them and put Kelly in gaol.

Author Hauge again displays the sweep of adventure, range of characters and sure sense of period that enabled Dark Against the Sky: A Climbing Boys Story to deliver such enjoyment:
This endearing story details the adventures of Tommy Simpson and his winsome and supportive band of brothers . . . the action scenes and descriptions are nicely blended, and the entire book has a smooth cadence. . . . The language used to describe these scenes chimes with bell-like accuracy and vivid images. . . . All ages will become entranced by this fast-paced historical tale. Foreword Reviews
Hauge is a skillful storyteller. He renders the squalor of 19th century London in prose that is as precise as it is palpable. . . . Dark Against the Sky is an authentic, evocative and classic portrayal of the human capacity to endure. It is a winning tale. Blueink review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514478295

Stephen B. Hauge

Steve Hauge became interested in climbing boys (young chimney sweeps) in a history course at Williams College. His continuing fascination led to this deeply researched sequel, which further illumines the lives of these lads and their period. Mr. Hauge is the author of Dark Against the Sky: A Climbing Boy’s Story and a CD-ROM on Robert Louis Stevenson and the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Stephen B. Hauge.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016904722

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5144-7828-8

            Softcover   978-1-5144-7830-1

            eBook        978-1-5144-7829-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 04/14/2016

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Contents

Chapter 1

A Cobblers’ Shop

Chapter 2

Firing the Sky

Chapter 3

Mother

Chapter 4

Morning Abroad

Chapter 5

A Plan

Chapter 6

A Chimney

Chapter 7

A Walk with Peter

Chapter 8

Revenge

Chapter 9

Another Chimney

Chapter 10

Setting The Trap

Chapter 11

Thwarting Theft

Chapter 12

At the Market

Chapter 13

Another Game

Chapter 14

Meecham’s Memories

Chapter 15

Complications

Chapter 16

An Alley

Chapter 17

A Mudlark

Chapter 18

Sacks of Soot

Chapter 19

At the Docks

Chapter 20

Cobbling

Chapter 21

The Penny Gaff

Chapter 22

A Walk Home

Chapter 23

Visiting Mother

Chapter 24

Another Son

Chapter 25

A Deadly Chimney

Chapter 26

Alan and Jenny

Chapter 27

At the Alehouse

Chapter 28

Meeting

Chapter 29

Rescue

Chapter 30

Nighttime

Chapter 31

Before the Trial

Chapter 32

Resolution

Chapter 33

Home Again

London

October, 1834

THURSDAY

Chapter 1

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A Cobblers’ Shop

Through the dusty window of the shop Tommy could see them before he entered – three cobblers on their stools, hunched over their work. There they sat for most of the day, with lunch and tea providing welcome respites from the steady toil of fashioning boots and shoes. His father was the relative newcomer to the trade, having worked at it for 23 years. Arthur Keeley and Ned Dawkins were well past 40 years in the business, the only work they had known.

Tommy loved to watch their hands: gliding from leather to knives to gluepots to stitching, their fingers moving almost of their own will, turning out new pairs of boots and shoes to join the thousands that had gone before. Imagine them all in a row, Tommy thought; they’d stretch clear down the Thames, maybe to the ocean. He was sure they could make any style from memory – just as his mother used to make his family’s meals when he was a child. But that was so long ago now.

Quietly opening the door, he slipped into the shop. Despite his stealth, the little bell jangled, and Mr. Keeley’s head lifted briefly to see and welcome the visitor. It was part of his job, to handle walk-in trade. Ned had taken the stool farther back, partly because he was a quieter man and partly because he was harder of hearing. Why Tommy called one Mr. and the other by his first name he couldn’t remember; it had always been that way.

Mr. Keeley stopped to bid Tommy, Hello before bowing his head back to his work as the bell’s echoes passed into silence. Tommy knew all three men depended not only on the public for their work but also on each other to get that work done. That gentle pressure pushed each of them to carry his own weight. It was easy at the end of a day to see what had been done. No one wanted to come up short.

Mr. Keeley and Ned owned and ran the small shop and paid Roger a set amount for each pair of shoes or boots he fashioned or fixed. Tommy remembered Mr. Keeley telling him how fortunate they were to own the shop. They had bought it more than 20 years before when the landlord had needed the money. Thus they had gained a place of their own.

Can I get anything fer ye? Tommy asked.

A kind lad ye are, Tommy, always so helpful, Mr. Keeley replied. Why not put the kettle on. It’s almost time fer tea. He bent back to finish polishing the tall black boots he had nearly completed. Despite his grey hair and aged face, he was gentleness itself. As the leader of the shop, he had that essential quality in dealing with the public, who were often frantic that their needs be met immediately. His quiet, reassuring manner had calmed many tumults.

Tommy went to the hob and lifted the kettle to make sure it held enough water for three cups of tea. Finding it did, he returned it to the hob and stirred up the fire.

On the mantle was the collection of tea cups. Tommy knew by now the blue one was Mr. Keeley’s, the green one Ned’s, and the newer one they had given to Roger. Tommy gathered all three.

With a loud sigh, Mr. Keeley put down his polish brush, rubbed his hands together, stood up slowly so he could straighten his back as he rose, and trudged the new boots over to the rack of finished footwear. He wrote the owner’s name on a tag and fastened it to one of the boots.

Ned, Roger, he called, and Tommy saw those two grey heads swing up and gratefully put aside their work. The men arose, hands squeezing the smalls of their backs, before slowly coming forward.

The kettle whistled, and Tommy poured the steaming water over a tarnished silver ball that held the tea leaves into each cup. Then he handed the cups around. Ned came forward to add a little sugar, before all three settled on the benches or leaned against the wall. Tommy saw three aging gentlemen, with leather aprons, closed eyes and faces wreathed in the welcoming steam and smell of their teacups.

Roger was the first to speak. Many thanks, son, he said after a few satisfied sips.

A good day, Ned, Roger, Mr. Keeley said. I make it five new pairs and two repairs.

I suppose that’s right, Ned added. Mrs. Willoughly wanted that new pair with the special leather. It was almost too soft fer the thread – had to double it up.

They look fine, Roger said. Ye do such good work, Ned.

Ye can thank my father fer that, Ned answered, a compliment for a compliment. He was a rare cobbler – had a real feel fer the leather.

That’s something ye can’t teach, Mr. Keeley agreed, with a wave of his hand as if looking back over his many years in the trade. Ye get born with it and have it, or ye don’t.

Well, he certainly gave it to ye, Roger said.

Lucky he did – gave me a profession, before I knew I needed one, Ned replied, then took another sip of his tea. I helped him in the shop as a boy, much like Tommy here. Took a while to learn the business, but I could make a good pair of shoes when I was 12, a real good pair when I was 14.

Lucky indeed, added Mr. Keeley quietly.

Ned turned in his direction. Certainly was, and he turned back to his tea.

In the darkening shop, where the fading afternoon light was still trying to push through the dusty windows, Tommy had seen a look pass between the two cobblers but didn’t understand it. Why was it lucky? he asked.

Ned looked at Tommy a moment before explaining, and when he did, his voice had become soft. My father worked in a shop that didn’t have much light. The long work over many years strained his eyes. Finally, and Ned paused as if recollecting the impact of the event itself, he went blind – first in his right eye, then in both. But he still went on making shoes – imagine that. Course he couldn’t work with the customers – taking measurements, making small talk – but they loved the boots he made. Many customers came back again and again – and they never knew. The really sad part was he couldn’t see his wonderful work.

They were something special, those boots – smooth and tight, Mr. Keeley broke in. By God he had a gift in his hands. They seemed to speak to the leather.

That’s why Arthur and I bought this shop – so he’d have a place to work, Ned continued. We run the business; no one can say otherwise. And we made a point of having more light, though sometimes ye wouldn’t know it, and he waved his hand at the growing darkness outside.

Bless ye fer that, Roger said with an agreeing nod.

Father was happy here with Arthur and me. We took care of him. I’d walk him to the shop every morning and take him home at night. He sat where yer father is, Tommy. Lost his sight but never his laughter. He’d be quiet fer a long while and then suddenly tell a joke or a story. Made ye wonder what he’d been thinking about all morning or afternoon.

We took care of him, Mr. Keeley added. Brought him his tea, just as ye have now, Tommy. Funny how little things make such a difference – ye remember ’em. And it made ye proud just to work with him and see him work.

Never complained, Ned said. A prince of a man. Here I am in my 50’s, and I’m still trying to measure up.

Mr. Keeley raised his mug in a toast. Here’s to him. Ned and Roger raised their mugs. There was a long pause as the three men drank deeply of their tea.

After he died, his stool stood empty fer quite a while. We took someone else in when business got busy, but he moved on. It’s been empty till Roger came.

Their eyes turned to Roger’s still drawn face. He had not yet recovered from his injury in the fire that had burned down his cobbler’s shop almost a year before. He had spent months in hospitals trying to regain his strength and himself. The working hours, though short, were still taxing his strength, and his hands were only slowly regaining their ability. Yet at that moment he straightened up. He clearly had not known the history of his stool, which he now regarded differently. I’m honored to sit on his stool, Ned, Arthur – and to use his tools. I hope in time to be worthy of both, he said.

He’d be pleased, Roger. Ye’re a talent yerself, Ned said, laying his hand on Roger’s shoulder. He’d be the first to say so.

They finished their tea and rose to put their cups back on the mantle.

Well, Mr. Keeley said, thank ye again, Tommy. That was nice. I better start my next pair before we stop fer the night. They have to be ready by noon tomorra. And he went back to his stool, sat down, smoothed his apron, and reached for a new piece of leather.

Ned followed, and Roger, after a brief hug with Tommy, followed as well. Soon the cobblers’ shop was quiet again, but for the sounds of the tools at work.

Tommy left the men, intent again on their work, and walked quietly into the busy street.

Chapter 2

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Firing the Sky

Tommy loved to meander through the streets in the early evening, mingling with the street folk, watching the great variety of people, seeing what they were selling, hearing their conversations. It was a constant joy to him, almost like the penny gaff theatres but acted out before him on the streets of London. Yet he knew where his feet were taking him. They always seemed to know where he truly wanted to go.

He walked through the streets filled with workers coming home from their jobs and thinking of stopping in the alehouses but often lacking the coins to do so. He passed little girls selling watercress on the corners and older street sellers loudly offering bootlaces and walnuts and crockery and pies (warm ’n ready), while other folks in the stalls, lit by greasy tallow flames, called constantly to passers-by about old clothes and onions and turnips (penny a bunch). A rat killer went by on his way to work, and crippled and blind beggars beseeched the extra ha’penny. Buskers, both men and boys, danced up a storm near the music halls to wrangle tips from appreciative on-lookers.

The street was the same as in his days as a climbing boy only weeks before. Though he had dreaded cleaning chimneys at first, calling the streets for business had brought him in contact with all these folks – the costermongers, the merchants, the street-sellers, the maids and cooks in the nice houses, and the bobbies who kept order in the streets. All of them he now knew well, some even by name. It had been the one benefit of his work, and the one he still enjoyed.

He watched two climbing boys, covered in soot and smelling of it, saunter by, easy as you please. They worked early hours to clean the chimneys before the houses were warmed for the evenings – so the boys’ afternoons were free. At a street corner he saw the London Sparrows, boys who swept the often muddy crossings and then tried to cadge tips from thankful passers-by. How scrawny and ill-clothed they looked, now he was no longer in the street himself. With winter coming on, their job would grow miserably cold.

What a clean and simple life he had, now that he had left his climbing days behind to help the Meechams sell their fruit and buns. He had also rescued his father from the sanatorium and now lived with him. Brighter futures lay before them.

Yet he had always kept a watchful eye out for Kelly, his master sweep, and his buddies. Kelly had been angered at the trial that had liberated Tommy from his employment, and he had vowed that we’re not through. Tommy knew Kelly was merely biding his time until he would strike.

A few more streets, and before him again was the Thames. How calming it was to gaze into those waters – to imagine himself one with the Thames – carrying the endless stream of crafts up and down, swirling about the ships stationed in the Pool mid river below London Bridge, slapping against the worn wooden docks that connected the vessels and their cargoes with their customers. What marvelous and patient strength the river had.

Even more Tommy dreamed of harnessing that strength by being a ship captain. As he had so often in his dreams, again he saw himself standing at the wheel, sure in his knowledge of the river and his capabilities, charged with the challenge to deliver his goods to the right dock. Nimbly he used the changing current despite the dark dangers of the river. Once moored, he listened to the rushing sounds of the river and her creaking ships, looked out over the tall webwork of masts and riggings, and inhaled the dank river smells.

So what ’ave we here? a voice near at hand called a little too loudly.

Tommy turned to see a short and surly dockhand, his eyes bloodshot by work and whiskey, stumbling toward him. Tommy was instantly on his guard and backing away from the river.

Don’t go, young’un, the dockhand said with an exaggerated attempt at friendliness. We’re ’aving a conversation.

Yes, sir, Tommy said politely, but I’ve got to be home. My father’s expecting me. He tried to slip by.

What ye rushing off fer? the man shouted and grabbed Tommy’s shirt with a meaty hand. We ’aven’t ’ad our talk. He swung Tommy to face the Thames. So what do ye think of ’er?

The river?

Yeah.

I love this river.

Is that so? The man’s voice was puzzled and irritated. Ye want to know something? I ’ate this river.

Oh, Tommy offered quietly. He was still looking for a way to slip by.

Yeah, it’s a river of pain fer me. He paused to catch his ragged breath. Fer a bright and eager kid ye know nothing – nothing at all! I don’t think ye’ve really seen the river – up close, I mean. The man grabbed Tommy with both hands. ’ere, let me show ’er to ye. He slammed Tommy onto the lower end of the dock and held his face close to the water.

Tommy’s heart was pounding. He hardly saw the brown river though he smelled and heard it just feet away – and he knew how cold it was this time of year. He was concentrating on the two hands that held him.

Nothing to say? Perhaps ye’re still too far away. ’ere, take a closer look. To Tommy’s lurching horror the man released one of his hands, and pushed Tommy’s body halfway off the dock, and leaned him forward so his face was inches from the rushing river.

Sweat and tears ran into his eyes. He had never been this close to the river, except when he was walking with the Mudlarks. And it wouldn’t matter that he couldn’t swim. If the man lost his grip or attention, Tommy would never be noticed as the tide bore him out, banging him against the ships and docks until he lost consciousness and settled under the water.

And what would happen to his father? Could he survive without Tommy’s support? Could he keep his job and continue to move forward, or would he slip back – and be lost in the midst of London’s homeless masses?

Tommy shook his head and opened his eyes. The river was still inches from his face, racing past him in its muddy splendor – almost, it seemed to him, beckoning him to join it, to race along to an unknown future.

Suddenly the man’s grip tightened and jerked Tommy back to the dock. He splashed onto it with great relief. His breath came back in gasps. He lay still.

The river ain’t the nice place ye think it is, boy. Ought to be, but she breaks yer back, she does – every day. Try shifting coal or lumber week after week – ye never walk right again. Don’t ye ferget that. He paused and for the first time seemed to gather what was happening. Ah, get outta ’ere, the man spat out as he dragged the back of a weary, grimy hand across his face and shook his head as if to clear his bloodshot eyes. "I’m jest