THE DEPRIVED...Chapter 4...Part 8.

A continuation of my book.

Sam woke with a start, his eyes wild as he stared upwards and then relaxed as he saw the bare ceiling joists above and knew he had been dreaming of his time as a boy, in the iron cage of the ship’s hold as it made its way across the ocean. Above the ceiling joists Sam could see through the missing roof tiles that it was the dark of night. He rose and refreshed himself before making his way carefully down the stairs.
The voice of Joe Ingrams the landlord came through the door on the ground floor and Sam stopped, his hand on the broken banister as he listened to Joe Ingrams complain to his wife that women seemed to be taking over the world.
“Bleeding women!” he shouted. “Do you read here what they are doing at Bryant and May’s match factory?”
There was as loud rustling of newspaper.
“Look at it! See the picture? It says the women are on strike and that they’re refusing to work and causing hell outside the factory gates. Bleeding women! The next thing is they’ll be after the vote!” It aint in a woman’s nature to demand things, is it?”
Sam did not wait to hear an answer from Joe Ingram’s wife, instead he made his way out of the street door closing it quietly behind him and set his mind on making his way towards Viaduct Street, his memory of the arches and its people distinct in his mind. As he walked through the night, his thoughts were on the times he had spent living under the arches with Kilpatrick, his mother and Beth. He hunched up his shoulders as he walked, hoping that he might find his sister Beth or at least learn some news from the people there about Beth. His hopes were dashed and the bitter taste of failure came to his mouth as he reached Viaduct Street and found the entrance to the arches had been bricked up. Slowly Sam turned, his mind searching for other places he might find information leading to the discovery of Beth. Making his way through the streets he made his way up to the early morning Spitalfields Market, moving among the busy stalls and costermongers with their handcarts, who bartered loudly to get the best deals. Sam realised that his wandering was somewhat futile. The market had changed to how he remembered it, the people and sounds different from those he remembered when he was a small boy who roamed the streets with Beth. He stopped to eat, a large bowl of mutton soup and bread at one of the small street cafes which had seemed to sprout up and run by families who spoke a different language. London was growing more cosmopolitan as people from all over the globe were drawn by its way of life. Sam had left the market and made his way down to Cable Street, to listen to the babble of night life as the Night-Girls and their ponces stood outside open doors and argued in strident voices. Sam turned away, feeling some relief that he had not seen Beth in this street and that she would never become a prostitute like his mother. His lip curled at the thought, the memory of his mother in her last days and the way her friends had turned their backs on her till she was forced to work down by the Docks. This brought his mind to that area of the East-End and once again his thoughts directed his steps towards the Docks and Wharves of the Wapping Wall and the darting shadows of seamen and those women deprived of health who worked the area. But once again there was no sign of Beth and in dejection Sam began to make his way back to his lodgings.

It was as he cut through from Cable Street to Commercial Road that he saw the woman who leaned against a wall in a drunken state. Or was she ill? Sam crossed the street to near her and hold her arm in helping her upright. She turned to face him, her eyes bleary while her breath fouled the air with drink. She cackled a laugh and leaned into him.
“Let’s have some fun” she said before bending over to be sick , spewing it out and staggering before wiping a hand across her mouth and to cackle again. “Come on.” she said. “Let’s have a game.”
She opened her mouth to grin at Sam, her face a mask of make-up which caused Sam to turn his head away in disgust. At that time, in that instant, Sam saw his mother’s face and he reeled back.
“No Mammy!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the early morning light. “No Mammy!” he cried again, a hand reaching down to his belt and grasping the handle of the knife.
It was better she died quickly, just a slash to her throat than die beneath an arch in Viaduct Street. The face of the woman and his mother became one as Sam drew out the knife and slashed the woman across the throat, cutting off her life.
There! He had saved his mother from the last hours of suffering. She was not like those dirty Night-Girls who gutted the streets, there was something pure about this woman. She was an image of his mother. Sam hurried away from the fallen body, not caring to take away her womanhood as he had done to the others. Her killing was a merciful release from this life.

Sam climbed the stairs to his attic room, to lay on the bunk and close his eyes. His lips moved in prayer as tears filled his eyes. Opening his eyes the once, he glimpsed the ceiling joists above him through his tears and he knew then what he had to do. Closing his eyes again, he silently counted out the Night-Girls who had betrayed his mother. There were still more who had to pay before he prepared himself for what he had to do. He began to pray again, his lips moving silently. Sam dreamed. He was frightened, with the sweat of claustrophobia causing him to shudder as he tried desperately to hang onto reality and not allowing the fear to grip him so that imagination swelled the feeling out of proportion.

“Sam!”
Sam awoke to hear Heathfield calling out his name and shaking him.
“You were shuddering and shouting out for your Mammy and Da!” cried Heathfield.
Sam said nothing, allowing his mind to gain sense of his surroundings.
“Are you alright?” questioned Heathfield.
Sam smiled, now aware of the crush of bodies around him, of the cries and moans and of the stink from unwashed bodies along with the loud cranking of the engines. He said nothing in reply to the small white face which stared up at him. He felt the sway of bodies as the ship rolled to the tides and waves, the crush of bodies not allowing anyone to fall but to sway to the motion like close-knit flowers pushed this way and that in the wind.
The ship was miles out to sea when the hold was suddenly opened and guards descended the ladder, to open the cage which held the boys and order them up on deck, to sit and eat from small trays, gruel and hard-tack biscuits, before being allowed to walk in a tight circle and watched closely by the guards who carried guns and clubs. Sam walked, releasing the cramped condition of his limbs and taking deep breaths of the ocean air, his eyes closed against the wind. The meal and walk lasted half an hour before the boys were ordered back down the ladder and locked into the cage once more.This allowance of a once a day outing seemed to give the boys a sense of relief, the knowledge that they were not to be drowned once out to sea as some feared and the allowance of a half hour per day of some freedom afforded a sense of time, the daily food and walk giving something to look forward to and a measure to the day. Each day the time appeared to get shorter, the hours driven on by the promise of a short period of time spent above the hold on deck, to sit and breathe in the salty air and then to ease cramped muscles by walking the circle in a tight round.
There were times when the boys were not allowed the pleasure of the walk, times when they would be kept in the cage for two days as punishment when one or two of the boys had broken away from the walk and jumped over the side of the ship, losing their lives to the deep. The guards did little to stop them and laughingly told the boys that those who drowned had done so to give others more room to move in the cramped conditions, even though this did not seem to be so to those who stood among the crush.

Sam was not aware of how long the journey took to reach its destination. The oceans gave no sense of time or seasons. There were no trees to have leaves change from the green of Summer to the gold of Autumn. The circling walk on deck was always midday so the light seemed to be the same, except for those days when the rain gave a grey to the skies above. Time was broken with the death of a boy, only known when the rest were brought out on the decks, when the guards would bring out the body and throw it unceremoniously overboard. Sam did hear once of whispered talk of a mutiny by the crew over a shortage of food, the whispers continuing that the crew should kill the convicts rather than die of starvation themselves. Sam had smiled grimly. Let the Englishmen know what starvation was! Let them know how the Irish people suffered through starvation.
“See how frightened the English get when their bellies tighten, Da?” he whispered to himself.