A bastard by birth and orphaned at twelve, Charles has learnt to fend for himself in 1660s London. Homeless, he seeks shelter for the night in some canvas aboard a barge on the Thames. In the morning, he tumbles awake when the sail is hoisted, and t...
In this story, I use spellings, meanings and syntax from the seventeenth century, and many of these differ from our current usage. To assist the readers' understanding of some of the more obscure among these, I've used numbered footnotes in this format:[0].
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London, August 1666
As the plague waned, Mother fell ill, and she forbade me to approach her, lest I catch the contagion. She declined swiftly, and little more than a week later, she passed on.
I was twelve, her bastard son, and we lived in a garret above the mews behind Tavistock Street. The pittance from her toil as a charwoman, with the addition of my few farthings from begging, had paid the fortnightly rent, and what little was left went to food.
With her gone, I increased my begging, trying to afford the rent, but each fortnight, I fell short. Then one day I returned to find another family living there, my meagre belongings cast into the lane. After I had sorted through the heap and gathered what might be useful, I hefted the bundle to my shoulder and headed to the Embankment.
My best begging had always been there, along the Thames, soliciting those who could afford to pay passage on the river. Also, I enjoyed watching the skill of the boatmen and dreaming of someday working with them. But with the sun low to the west, my purpose this day was neither to watch nor to beg; rather, it was to choose a place to spend the night.
Most of the boats were small wherries, propelled by oars to carry one or a few people along or across the river. But there were also larger vessels, ferries and cargo barges, which were moved by long sweeps in calm and by sails in a breeze, and these were my interest. Some of the lowered sails were bundled, and I had thought they would provide not only a place to hide but also shelter and comfort.
The ferries were still busy, affording passage home to Lambeth and Southwarke[1] for many who worked in London, so they were of no interest. But the barges would be idle, secured by long ropes along wharves, and I knew they would remain idle until daylight – some longer while they awaited charges. Most were down the river past the bridge, so I headed back into the city and made my way there through the crowded streets.
As daylight diminished, I followed each of the lanes from Thames Street down to the river, all the way from the bridge to Tower Wharf, identifying possibilities. Then in the dimness of dusk, I boarded a barge close by Billingsgate. The sail had dampened with dew, so I unfolded some layers to find a dry space.
With the heaviness of events the past long while and the gentle motion of the barge, I was soon asleep. And without the noise and stench from the lane, it was a peaceful sleep.
