pies and beer, his first full meal in three days.
Few people were on the streets, most having taken refuge in whatever warren they called home. With little opportunity to ask for directions, Ronald felt more panicked. He had started searching at two, using clocks in various shops to measure his progress. But the farther he moved into the decay of Wapping, the fewer places had clocks, and in the falling snow, many windows were shuttered. Now Ronald had no idea how close it was to four o’clock. Eager to receive more sovereigns, he had a dark suspicion that the bearded gentleman would not be pleased if he was late.
Coughing from the chimney smoke that the snow pressed onto the streets, Ronald reached a partially covered sign on a wall. Brushing snow from it, he felt his blood rush when he saw the words GARNER STREET. He took longer steps through the snow and studied the numbers on walls. Nine. Seventeen.
Twenty-five!
A dark corridor beckoned.
Ronald peered nervously into it. Without lights or any sign of habitation, could this be the address that the gentleman had meant? Had Ronald failed to remember correctly? If he didn’t find where he was supposed to go, if he didn’t reach there in time, he wouldn’t receive more sovereigns.
Frozen boards creaked as he inched inside and strained to see through the darkness. Dangling plaster touched his head.
A shadow suddenly appeared before him, raising the shield on a lantern, shining the light into his face. “What’s your name?”
“Ronnie,” he answered in surprise, then remembered the bearded man’s insistence that he should always use his formal name. “No. I mean Ronald.”
“What were you given?”
“Five sovereigns.”
“Follow me.”
The shadow stepped across what Ronald now saw was a hole in the floor, an ominous blackness beneath it. The man opened a door and motioned Ronald into a small courtyard that was occupied by a half-collapsed shed.
At another dark corridor, another shadow stepped into view.
“If he brought company, they won’t have trouble following his tracks,” the first man said.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” Ronald protested. “I swear it.”
“We’ll soon find out. No one will get past me,” the second man promised the first.
Ronald continued to follow his guide. At the end of the corridor, stairs lacked a banister. The lantern revealed occasional missing steps. At the top, they reached a gaping window, where a board stretched across an alley toward another gaping window.
“Go,” the guide ordered, closing the shield on the lantern.
Ronald’s confidence returned. Accustomed to climbing masts on a British East India Company ship, he had no difficulty advancing over a slippery, snow-covered board in near darkness. It was nothing compared to securing sails on a vessel pitching in a storm.
Four paces took him to the opposite side and a murky room that seemed to be filled with crates. His guide stepped down after him and pulled the board inside, then opened the shield on the lantern and led Ronald to a stairway, down which they descended to a cold, musty basement filled with more crates.
A murmur attracted Ronald’s attention. The murmur grew louder as they approached a door.
A shadow emerged from behind a crate. “Are you Ronald?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” The man put a friendly hand on Ronald’s shoulder. “Everyone’s been waiting for you.”
The man opened the door. The three of them entered a room filled with the glow of lanterns, the aroma of ale and tobacco, and the smiles of several men, who rose in greeting.
At the center stood the bearded gentleman with the silver-tipped cane.
“Welcome to Young England, Ronald!”
FIVE
The Throne Room
L ord Palmerston’s coach hurtled along Piccadilly, snow muffling the sound of horseshoes and metal-rimmed wheels. Despite the body heat of six people squeezed into a vehicle intended to hold four, the enclosed area felt cold, the silence outside unnatural.
Ryan
Few people were on the streets, most having taken refuge in whatever warren they called home. With little opportunity to ask for directions, Ronald felt more panicked. He had started searching at two, using clocks in various shops to measure his progress. But the farther he moved into the decay of Wapping, the fewer places had clocks, and in the falling snow, many windows were shuttered. Now Ronald had no idea how close it was to four o’clock. Eager to receive more sovereigns, he had a dark suspicion that the bearded gentleman would not be pleased if he was late.
Coughing from the chimney smoke that the snow pressed onto the streets, Ronald reached a partially covered sign on a wall. Brushing snow from it, he felt his blood rush when he saw the words GARNER STREET. He took longer steps through the snow and studied the numbers on walls. Nine. Seventeen.
Twenty-five!
A dark corridor beckoned.
Ronald peered nervously into it. Without lights or any sign of habitation, could this be the address that the gentleman had meant? Had Ronald failed to remember correctly? If he didn’t find where he was supposed to go, if he didn’t reach there in time, he wouldn’t receive more sovereigns.
Frozen boards creaked as he inched inside and strained to see through the darkness. Dangling plaster touched his head.
A shadow suddenly appeared before him, raising the shield on a lantern, shining the light into his face. “What’s your name?”
“Ronnie,” he answered in surprise, then remembered the bearded man’s insistence that he should always use his formal name. “No. I mean Ronald.”
“What were you given?”
“Five sovereigns.”
“Follow me.”
The shadow stepped across what Ronald now saw was a hole in the floor, an ominous blackness beneath it. The man opened a door and motioned Ronald into a small courtyard that was occupied by a half-collapsed shed.
At another dark corridor, another shadow stepped into view.
“If he brought company, they won’t have trouble following his tracks,” the first man said.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” Ronald protested. “I swear it.”
“We’ll soon find out. No one will get past me,” the second man promised the first.
Ronald continued to follow his guide. At the end of the corridor, stairs lacked a banister. The lantern revealed occasional missing steps. At the top, they reached a gaping window, where a board stretched across an alley toward another gaping window.
“Go,” the guide ordered, closing the shield on the lantern.
Ronald’s confidence returned. Accustomed to climbing masts on a British East India Company ship, he had no difficulty advancing over a slippery, snow-covered board in near darkness. It was nothing compared to securing sails on a vessel pitching in a storm.
Four paces took him to the opposite side and a murky room that seemed to be filled with crates. His guide stepped down after him and pulled the board inside, then opened the shield on the lantern and led Ronald to a stairway, down which they descended to a cold, musty basement filled with more crates.
A murmur attracted Ronald’s attention. The murmur grew louder as they approached a door.
A shadow emerged from behind a crate. “Are you Ronald?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” The man put a friendly hand on Ronald’s shoulder. “Everyone’s been waiting for you.”
The man opened the door. The three of them entered a room filled with the glow of lanterns, the aroma of ale and tobacco, and the smiles of several men, who rose in greeting.
At the center stood the bearded gentleman with the silver-tipped cane.
“Welcome to Young England, Ronald!”
FIVE
The Throne Room
L ord Palmerston’s coach hurtled along Piccadilly, snow muffling the sound of horseshoes and metal-rimmed wheels. Despite the body heat of six people squeezed into a vehicle intended to hold four, the enclosed area felt cold, the silence outside unnatural.
Ryan
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