There existed, not many years ago, a certain street near the banks of
old Father Thames which may be described as being one of the most modest
and retiring little streets in London.
The neighbourhood around that street was emphatically dirty and noisy.
There were powerful smells of tallow and tar in the atmosphere,
suggestive of shipping and commerce. Narrow lanes opened off the main
street affording access to wharves and warehouses, and presenting at
their termini segmentary views of ships' hulls, bowsprits, and booms,
with a background of muddy water and smoke. There were courts with
unglazed windows resembling doors, and massive cranes clinging to the
walls. There were yards full of cases and barrels, and great anchors
and chains, which invaded the mud of the river as far as was consistent
with safety; and adventurous little warehouses, which stood on piles, up
to the knees, as it were, in water, totally regardless of appearances,
and utterly indifferent as to catching cold. As regards the population
of this locality, rats were, perhaps, in excess of human beings; and it
might have been observed that the former were particularly frolicsome
and fearless.
Farther back, on the landward side of our unobtrusive street, commercial
and nautical elements were more mingled with things appertaining to
domestic life. Elephantine horses, addicted to good living, drew
through the narrow streets wagons and vans so ponderous and gigantic
that they seemed to crush the very stones over which they rolled, and
ran terrible risk of sweeping little children out of the upper windows
of the houses. In unfavourable contrast with these, donkeys, of the
most meagre and starved aspect, staggered along with cartloads of fusty
vegetables and dirty-looking fish, while the vendors thereof howled the
nature and value of their wares with deliberate ferocity. Low
pawnbrokers (chiefly in the "slop" line) obtruded their seedy wares from
doors and windows halfway across the pavement, as if to tempt the naked;
and equally low pastry-cooks spread forth their stale viands in unglazed
windows, as if to seduce the hungry.
Here the population was mixed and varied. Busy men of business and of
wealth, porters and wagoners, clerks and warehousemen, rubbed shoulders
with poor squalid creatures, men and women, whose business or calling no
one knew and few cared to know except the policeman on the beat, who,
with stern suspicious glances, looked upon them as objects of special
regard, and as enemies; except, also, the earnest-faced man in seedy
black garments, with a large Bible (_evidently_) in his pocket, who
likewise looked on them as objects of special regard, and as friends.
The rats were much more circumspect in this locality. They were what
the Yankees would call uncommonly "cute," and much too deeply intent on
business to indulge in play.
In the lanes, courts, and alleys that ran still farther back into the
great hive, there was an amount of squalor, destitution, violence, sin,
and misery, the depth of which was known only to the people who dwelt
there, and to those earnest-faced men with Bibles who made it their work
to cultivate green spots in the midst of such unpromising wastes, and to
foster the growth of those tender and beautiful flowers which sometimes
spring and flourish where, to judge from appearances, one might be
tempted to imagine nothing good could thrive. Here also there were
rats, and cats too, besides dogs of many kinds; but they all of them led
hard lives of it, and few appeared to think much of enjoying themselves.
Existence seemed to be the height of their ambition. Even the kittens
were depressed, and sometimes stopped in the midst of a faint attempt at
play to look round with a scared aspect, as if the memory of kicks and
blows was strong upon them.
The whole neighbourhood, in fact, teemed with sad yet interesting sights
and scenes, and with strange violent contrasts. It was not a spot which
one would naturally select for a ramble on a summer evening after
dinner; nevertheless it was a locality where time might have been
profitably spent, where a good lesson or two might have been learned by
those who have a tendency to "consider the poor."
But although the neighbourhood was dirty and noisy, our modest street,
which was at that time known by the name of Redwharf Lane, was
comparatively clean and quiet. True, the smell of tallow and tar could
not be altogether excluded, neither could the noises; but these scents
and sounds reached it in a mitigated degree, and as the street was not a
thoroughfare, few people entered it, except those who had business
there, or those who had lost their way, or an occasional street boy of
an explorative tendency; which last, on finding that it was a quiet
spot, invariably entered a protest against such an outrageous idea as
quietude in "the City" by sending up a series of hideous yells, and
retiring thereafter precipitately.
Here, in Redwharf Lane, was the office of the firm of Denham, Crumps,
and Company.
Mr Denham stood with his back to the fire, for it was a coldish autumn
day, with his coat-tails under his arms. He was a big bald man of
five-and-forty, with self-importance enough for a man of
five-hundred-and-forty. Mr Crumps sat in a small back-office, working
so diligently that one might have supposed he was endeavouring to bring
up the arrears of forty years' neglect, and had pledged himself to have
it done before dinner. He was particularly small, excessively thin,
very humble, rather deaf, and upwards of sixty. Company had died of
lockjaw two years previous to the period of which we write, and is
therefore unworthy of farther notice. A confidential clerk had taken,
and still retained, his place.
Messrs. Denham, Crumps, and Company, were shipowners. Report said that
they were rich, but report frequently said what was not true in those
days. Whether it has become more truthful in the present days, remains
an open question. There can be no question, however, that much business
was done at the office in Redwharf Lane, and that, while Denham lived in
a handsome mansion in Russell Square, and Crumbs dwelt in a sweet
cottage in Kensington, Company had kept a pony phaeton, and had died in
a snug little villa on Hampstead Heath.
The office of Denham, Crumps, and Company was small and unpretending, as
was the street in which it stood. There was a small green door with a
small brass plate and a small brass knocker, all of which, when opened
by their attendant, a small tiger in blue, with buttons, gave admittance
to a small passage that terminated in a small room. This was the outer
office, and here sat the four clerks of the establishment on four tall
stools, writing in four monstrous volumes, as furiously as if they were
decayed authors whose lives depended on the result. Their salaries did,
poor fellows, and that was much the same thing!
A glass door, with scratches here and there, through which the head of
the firm could gaze unseen, separated "the office" from Denham's room,
and a wooden door separated that from Crumps' room, beyond which there
was a small closet or cell which had been Company's room before that
gentleman died. It was now used as a repository for ancient books and
papers.
"Very odd," said Mr Denham, and as he said so he touched a small silver
bell that stood on his writing-table.
The tiger in blue and buttons instantly appeared.
"Here, Peekins, post these letters. Has no one called this afternoon; I
mean, no one resembling a sailor?"
The boy in blue started, and his face became very red.
"Why, what's the matter, boy? What do you mean by staring at me,
instead of answering my question?"
"Please, sir," stammered Peekins meekly, "I didn't mean no 'arm, sir,
but you see, sir, his face was so drefful fierce, and he looked sich a
wild--"
"Boy, are you mad?" interrupted Mr Denham, advancing and seizing the
tiger by his blue collar; "what are you talking about? Now, answer my
question at once, else I'll shake the little life you have out of your
body. Did any sailor-like man call at the office this afternoon?"
"Oh, sir, yes, sir,--I--I--thought he was drunk and wouldn't let 'im in,
sir; he's bin a standin' stampin' at the door for more than--"
The end of the sentence was cut short by Mr Denham suddenly ejecting
the boy from the room and shouting, "Let him in!"
In a few seconds a heavy tread was heard in the outer office, and the
boy ushered in a tall young man, of unusually large proportions, with
extremely broad shoulders, and apparently about twenty-three years of
age, whose rough pilot-coat, wide pantaloons, and glazed hat bespoke him
a sailor. His countenance was flushed, and an angry frown contracted
his brow as he strode into the room, pulled off his hat and stood before
the head of the house of Denham, Crumps, and Company.
"I beg pardon, sir," began the sailor, somewhat sharply, yet without
disrespect, "when I am asked to come--"
"Yes, yes, Bax," interposed Mr Denham, "I know what you would say.
Pray calm yourself. It is a pity you should have been kept waiting
outside, but the fact is that my boy is a new one, and apparently he is
destitute of common sense. Sit down. I sent for you to say that I wish
you to take the `Nancy' to Liverpool. You will be ready to start at
once, no doubt--"
"Before the schooner is overhauled?" inquired Bax, in surprise.
"Of course," said Denham, stiffly; "I see no occasion for _another_
overhaul. That schooner will cost us more than she is worth if we go on
repairing at the rate we have been doing the last two years."
"She needs it all, sir," rejoined Bax, earnestly. "The fact is, Mr
Denham, I feel it to be my duty to tell you that there ain't a sound
plank or timber in her from stem to stern, and I'm pretty sure that if
she costs you money, she's likely to cost me and the men aboard of her
our lives. I strongly advise you to strike her off the books, and get a
new one."
"Mr Bax," said Denham, pompously, "you are too young a man to offer
your advice unless it is asked. I believe the engineer employed by me
to examine into the condition of my vessels is quite competent to judge
in these matters, and I have unbounded confidence in him. When I placed
you in command of the `Nancy,' I meant you to navigate, not to criticise
her; but if you are afraid to venture--"
"Afraid!" cried the young sailor, reddening. "Is anxiety about the
lives of your men and the safety of your property to be called fear?
_I_ am willing to sail in the `Nancy' as long as a plank of her will
hold to her ribs, but--"
Bax paused and bit his lip, as if to keep back words which had better
not be spoken.
"Well, then," rejoined Mr Denham, affecting to disregard the pause,
"let me hear no more about repairs. When these require to be done, they
_shall_ be done. Meanwhile, go and make preparation to sail by the
morning tides which serves about--what hour, think you?"
"Flood at half after six," said Bax, curtly.
"Very well, come up here at half-past five, one of the clerks will see
you. You will have to run down to Dover in the first place, and when
there my agent will give you further instructions. Good afternoon!"