Prologue #2
He tried street sweeping, but he didn’t have the gumption for it.
The successful boys jumped in front of people, swept a path for them, then demanded or finagled money from the unlucky passersby.
He was too big for a chimney sweep. A barkeep gave him a corner in the kitchen in exchange for running errands and tending the fire.
With a place to sleep, Sam had held horses for the genteel and sold newspapers on the street during the day.
A modiste gave him soup and bread whenever she needed a chore done around her shop.
But it was barely enough to keep himself fed and warm, let alone support his parents.
And then the final blow. Last week, a new barkeep had taken over the tavern. He had his own sons to help him, and Sam found himself out on his ear without shelter.
So, much to his horror, he found himself snatching food from stands and running like the thief he’d vowed never to become.
At low tide, he joined the other mud larks, combing the Thames’s muddy bottom for anything he could sell.
His clothes reeked of the foul river, the cuffs of his shirt and hems of his breeches in tatters.
His hands and feet blistered from the constant exposure to the frigid water and muck.
There, a boy of five had befriended him, offering “trade secrets” on pickpocketing for a share of Sampson’s stolen food.
Sampson J. Brooks, once a future solicitor with the world before him, was now a thief and a pickpocket—still an apprentice-in-training for the latter.
He hadn’t actually picked any pockets or stolen any purses yet.
But it had to be better than mud larking.
Except his hands shook every time he thought about it.
He saw a lively group in front of a tavern, just off Bush Lane. Maybe someone would drop a coin. He approached the stone building, blending with the rest of the businesses except for the sign above. The Dog’s Bone.
“Where’re ye goin’ so early, my friend?” A drunken portly woman called out from a tavern door.
A large man stumbled out, his hand up in a friendly goodnight wave, the echo of music and laughter following his huge dark form. “Home. I’ve a wife waiting. I won’t risk her wrath by not being home on Christmas Day.”
The murky yellow light spilling from the grimy window framed the customer’s silhouette into a giant menacing shadow.
Sampson couldn’t see his face, but he could feel the strength of the man.
But the glint of gold that flashed as the man twirled his walking cane had caught Sam’s attention.
How much could a cane like that be worth?
Enough to feed his parents for a month, he’d wager.
Sam leaned back, blending into the shadows of the stone steps and hoping the man would head his way.
He did, weaving ever so slightly across the street toward Sam.
Collecting his courage, Sam hid in the dark corner of the stoop, willing the feeling back into his calloused hands.
As the gentleman passed by—for he must have been a gentleman from his fine coat, hat, and gleaming boots—Sam prayed to any god listening that the man was foxed.
Slipping from the darkness, Sampson quickly moved behind the tall form, mimicking his victim’s walk as the river lad had taught him.
When the man leaned to the right, then to the left, so did Sampson.
He eyed the walking cane with the gleaming handle and intricately carved stick, knowing it would bring a month’s keep at the pawn shop.
He sucked in a deep breath, lunged forward, his hand grasping the stick, and—
“Mother Mary and Joseph. What d’ye t’ink ye’re doin’, boyo?”
A great paw pulled Sampson up by the back of his collar. It began to rip, and he struggled, praying the cheap wool that had never kept him warm would at least aid in his escape. His feet hit the ground again, and Sam took off once more, only to have the hook of the cane pull him back by his neck.
“Oh-ho. Ye t’ink to get away so easy?” boomed the deep voice.
Sampson raised his head and looked at the barrel-chested Irishman. His brogue was as thick as his red hair and beefy hands. I’m doomed. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the sturdy fist to find its target.
He stared at Sam for a while, then gave him another shake.
“Open those eyes, boyo,” the stranger demanded. “Ye want to die in a rat-infested prison or be transported to Australia?”
Sam shook his head, terrified of this monstrosity of a man.
“Tis no answer, boyo.”
Sam shook his head again, blinking back the hot tears stinging his eyes.
“No tongue? A mute, are ye?”
“No, my lord.”
That seemed to amuse the man, for he let out a hearty guffaw. “I’m a hardworkin’ Irishman. Not a drop of blue blood in me.”
“Yes sir,” Sam croaked.
“Da workhouse would give ye a meal and a cot to sleep on.”
“I need coin, sir.”
He barked a laugh. “Don’t we all. Better ways to get it besides robbing a man.”
“I’ve tried, sir,” Sam managed, imagining his mother’s tearstained face when he never showed up at King’s Bench again.
The man’s blue eyes narrowed, studying Sam for a long while. Sam held his gaze, waiting to be dragged to the nearest constable. Why had he tried for that walking stick?
“So ye have manners, I see. Where’d ye learn ‘em?”
“My parents, sir.”
“And where might they be?”
“At King’s Bench, sir.”
Another long stare as Sam fought the urge to squirm.
“How long ye been on da streets?”
“April last, sir.”
“What’d ye do before da family was put away?”
“My father owned a bookshop, and I was to start Winton last month.” Something in the stranger’s tone had changed, sparking a tiny flicker of hope in Sam’s chest.
“How long ye been stealin’ from honest folks?”
“Except for food from the costermongers—and only the finer dressed ones—you are my first. And I wish to God I could undo it!” he blurted out to his captor. “I swear I’ll never do it again.”
“Da fat is in da fire, lad.” The stranger eased up a bit on the cane around Sam’s neck, then snorted. “Do ye want a hot meal and a cot to sleep on?”
Sam nodded his head vigorously, his chin bumping the gold crook of the stick.
“Are ye willin’ to work for it?”
Another energetic nod.
“D’ye have a dram of loyalty in yer blood?” asked the burly man.
“At least a barrel, sir, if you don’t hand me over to the constable.”
“I’ll want every drop. I can put ye to work but no tongue waggin’.” He squinted at Sam. “I see sumtin’ in yer sad eyes, boyo. If I be a bettin’ man, I’d say ye learnt some life lessons and will come out da better for it.”
Sam hung his head, blinking back pesky tears.
“T’ink about it, boyo—”
“It’s Sampson J. Brooks.” He looked the Irishman in the eye. “My name is Sampson J. Brooks. I can read, write, and keep a ledger. I’ve read a dozen books about plants and healing. My brain is quick, but my hands…” He held up his hands, palm up, implying that pickpocketing wasn’t his best skill.
“Oh, ho! Well, Sampson, I don’t need a thief in my employ.
” He removed the cane from the boy’s neck.
“Tis yer lucky day, for I’m goin’ to release ye.
If ye run, I’ll not chase ye. Dat action will tell me ye ain’t worth da effort.
” He nodded and grinned. “If ye come with me, ye get a cot, a warm meal, and Christmas with da most generous and kind woman God’s ever seen fit to put on dis earth. ”
A tear slid down Sam’s cheek, and he brushed at it with an angry jerk.
He tried to take a deep breath, but a pain shot up his ribs.
Could he trust this man? He didn’t appear to be an angel.
But then, Sam had never seen one except in religious books.
He felt the giant paw on his thin shoulder and looked up. It couldn’t be worse than gaol.
You have manners, he’d said. Sam did have manners, and he’d make his mother proud.
“I would be honored to accompany you home, sir.”
“There’s the spirit, boyo. I’m Paddy O’Brien. Mister O’Brien to da likes of ye.” He chuckled, a warm rumbling sound that made Sam smile too—his first in months. “I think my Maggie will take to ye once she’s cleaned ye up.”