The practice of setting a fire under him is a well-documented ploy, resulting in several well-known phrases we still use today. (Hopefully the practice of lighting a fire under the Climbing Boy has ceased.) I may add the info I learned about sweeps and climbing boys a little later. Until then:
Joss groaned inwardly as he
climbed the ladder. Sam the Sweep was too drunk on his own reputation
for good luck. His cheerfulness worked like the sooty grit, grinding
into Joss's soul. Any
time, now, Joss
thought, I'll get
just a bit bigger and never have to be a Climbing Boy again, for I'll
be too big to fit down the chimneys. No more skin as black as the
Foul Pits, no more of Sam's devilish hot-foot remedies for stuck or
reluctant boys, and no more worrying that I'll suffocate to death,
lodged in a chimney.
He
crawled along the roof tree until he reached the first large stack.
The Duke of
Wellington is rich as Croesus. His fireplaces must be cavernous
indeed. He leaned
over and called down the flue, “Halloo there,” in Robbie
Tidewell's voice.
There was a muffled answer,
and then a louder, “Tis 'bout time ye were coming down. Shake a
leg, Robbie, ye lazy lout.”
“Mam gave me a meat pie.
I'm that full,” Joss shouted down.
“T'will be yer last iffen
ye don't 'urry.” The voice was gruff with aggravation, making Joss
think the man would probably pull Sam's trick if he didn't hurry. A
lit fire hurried a Climbing Boy up nicely, so they said. It also
often killed that boy. Joss nearly flew down the chimney, stopping
only a little to scrub at some clinker, which showered down, making
it appear he was working like a whirlwind.
Just as Joss feared, the
chimney opened up as big as a vestibule with very few footholds. In
fact, he had to jump down the last few yards.
“Took yer own sweet time,
Robbie. Sweep the rest of the soot and clinker into your bag an' I'll
go start on the next room. Ye'll sleep warm tonight in this lot. Coals are still warm.”
Joss refused to sleep in a
bag of soot, no matter how warm the coals. But he smiled and began to
sweep up the piles of clinker and dust. As soon as the other man was
out the door, Joss flashed the piles into his bag and left it while
he took off his sweep's slippers. Clean feet would leave no prints.
He had to be careful not to leave prints of any kind. Prints would
get them turned off without a character, which would, in return,
cause bad luck for the household.
Never had he seen such
breathtaking opulence, even as a viscount's son. The walls and
carpets were crimson and gold medallions and lined with paintings and
sculptures. The air was redolent of beeswax and polish and the scent
of banks of flowers. Joss took only an instant to appreciate it,
before he began his search for the Duchess Kitty's rooms. He avoided
the next room in the corridor and hopped ahead.
At last, when he had
despaired of finding it, he came to the Duchess' rooms. So spacious
and elegant.
And there, just as Sam had
somehow known, lay the necklace.
Joss held his breath, not
wanting to disturb that glinting piece, that marvel of coruscating
rainbows and shimmering beauty. He had no words with which to
describe it, even to himself.
For just a second he paused
to admire the fifteen large cabochons and the center pendant the size
of a hen's egg.
Then he sucked in a great
gout of air and snatched the carelessly tossed bauble, stowing it,
not in his pocket where any searcher might look, but down his
britches.
He schooled his face into a
semblance of calm, although his heart pounded like a rabbit's as it
runs from a fox. He could not run, only go as quickly as he normally
ran in large houses or they'd think it amiss. He'd forgotten how many
rooms he'd passed, galleries and drawing rooms and the great banquet
hall where Wellington had held his Waterloo banquet. The heady aroma
of the flowers made him lightheaded as he tried to remember which
room he had come through.
And there it was. Only now
the sweep occupied it, the steam boiling from his ears as he waited
impatiently for “Robbie.”
“Sorry, Sir. I 'ad to use
the necessary,” he croaked, trying desperately to calm his thudding
heart.
“Git on wi' it. We 'ave
more chimneys to do than ye can shake a stick at.” The man glared
at him, almost as if he could see the shapes of the stones through
the thin fabric of “Robbie's” trouser leg.
Joss wordlessly took up his
bag and began climbing back up the chimney. There had been no time to
secrete the gems in his bag of clinker. That went out with the sweep,
at any rate. How exposed he felt.
The climb was quick work
until he got to the narrower portion. Suddenly the flue seemed
alarmingly small, cutting off Joss's breath in a rare fit of
claustrophobia.
He felt the necklace begin to
slip.
Joss closed his eyes, praying
the strand would stay where he'd stashed it.
Every upward movement he
made, the necklace slid further down.
Joss could not stop climbing,
or the sweep would light a fire beneath him.
Or the jewels would fall.
Another inch.
Slipping.
Another.
He could feel the necklace
dipping below his knee, the gems cutting into the skin of his knee.
The sweep looked up at him.
Joss knew it because the
man's voice came sharply to his ears. “Ye are the slowest brat on
earth. P'raps a bit o' warmth to light yer way and get yer blood
a-pumpin'.”
No!
Joss bent his leg a tiny bit,
hopping to stop the gems from slipping, and the sweep from seeing the
gleam of them as Joss climbed.
The bricks of the fireplace
started to heat.
He had to move.
Smoke seethed around him,
causing his eyes to burn. I
swear I'll kill the man,
Joss vowed to himself.
He reached down, the journey
extremely slow.
At last Joss could reach the
protuberance which had his trousers caught.
Agonizingly slowly, he freed
the fabric and snaked his arm back up to grab for the next hold.
The necklace slipped,
plunging downward into the Stygian, smoky darkness.
©
2016 by H. Linn Murphy
What an end! lol
ReplyDeleteIndeed. And that's just a taste. More Dickens-y goodness on the way sometime. Care to Beta read it?
ReplyDelete