PROLOGUE
February 1800
Cheapside, London
Benjamin shuffled along next to the silent man. An icy puddle loomed before them, and he quickly sidestepped it so the cold, mucky water wouldn’t seep into his shoes. But he swerved too wide and ran into Smitty.
“Watch yerself, boy,” said Smitty with a slap to Ben’s head.
Benjamin rubbed the back of his head with his good arm, wiping the snowflakes from his neck. His right elbow was twice the size it should be, and it hurt worse than the switch they’d used on him at the workhouse.
Three months ago, he’d watched as the stranger handed some coins to the mistress and was ordered to go with the man, leaving the only home he’d ever known. Benjamin had thought his life was improving. He’d been told he would be an apprentice, which sounded very important.
“Whatcha gonna use him for?” asked Mrs. Benson. “Apprentice for what?”
“What’s it to ye?” asked the man with a sneer. “Ye wantin’ more blunt?”
She shook her head. “Just don’t tell anyone where ye got him, then.”
At first, Benjamin hadn’t minded crawling up the narrow chimneys, cleaning the flues, and sliding down. It was warm inside the narrow, cramped ducts as he pushed his brush up ahead of his body and cleared the soot. The dust got in his eyes, and they seemed to be constantly swollen. Smitty said it was Ben’s own fault because he rubbed them. The soot also coated his throat, giving him a chronic cough.
He didn’t get much to eat, but it was more than what he’d been fed at the workhouse. Smitty wanted him healthy but small, or Ben would get too big to do the work.
“Then I’ll have to put ye in a sack and toss ye in the Thames,” Smitty had said with a guffaw. “Like them mewling kittens the cat had last week.”
Ben had decided a semi-full belly and fewer beatings were better than daily beatings and being constantly hungry. He could take his mind off hunger pains, unlike the sores and bruises. Plus, he had his own corner in the kitchen by the hearth. Since it was his job to start the fire each morning for the cook, he often woke cold and was able to stoke the embers.
But a few days ago, they’d gone to a four-story tenement with seven flues. The longer flues of the bottom floor were connected at awkward angles, and Ben had found himself stuck more than once. On the last one, his foot had hit a loose brick on the way down. He slipped, scraping his arms and back against the rough, hot surface. To his horror, his knees were soon bent beneath his chin, and he was stuck.
Ben had heard of boys dying in the flues, with men having to remove bricks to retrieve their bodies. With that image in his head, he frantically pushed his forearms against the tight enclosure, wiggling and pulling and pushing until he was able to stretch his legs again. He heard the material rip at the knees of his trousers, felt the burn from the heavy scrapings. Smitty would be angry, for he’d have to buy him another pair. But the real pain came from his arm. He’d smacked his elbow hard during the struggle. Tears streaked his blackened cheeks when he’d emerged from the chimney, and Smitty had threatened to give him something worthy of those tears.
So as Ben looked up at the three-story building in front of them, a tavern with living quarters above, he prayed this job would be a quick one. Every foot up would be severe and awful. Holding his aching joint, Ben followed Smitty into a large, shadowy room. The windows were filthy, limiting the amount of winter light needed to brighten the interior.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark surroundings, he saw several men on one side of the room. The barkeep stood behind a long plank serving as a counter. “Got a new boy, eh?” asked the burly bald man.
“Aye, he’s a good ‘un. Nice and skinny. Nuttin’ he can’t fit into,” said Smitty with a pleased smile, squeezing Benjamin’s shoulder with an extra hard pinch of bony knuckles.
“Ye want a bumper while the lad’s workin’?”
“Do ye always ask dull questions?” barked Smitty with a laugh, turning to Ben. “Now get off that coat and ready yerself.”
Benjamin had stripped off his worn, dirty coat and homespun shirt when a shadow fell over them. He looked up to see a giant of a man standing in the doorway. The stranger’s face was shadowed, but Ben could see the bright blue of his eyes as he removed his tall hat, revealing dark-red hair.
“G’day, gentlemen,” said the newcomer, moving into the room. “Just finished a piece of work around da corner, and I’m t’irstier than a lost man in da desert.”
“Afternoon, O’Brien,” said the barkeep. “Whiskey?”
“Only if it’s Irish, otherwise an ale,” said O’Brien as he tossed a coin on the plank, his eyes landing on Benjamin. “Plannin’ on taking a bath, boyo?”
Ben’s eyes grew wide as O’Brien concentrated his penetrating gaze on him. Ben shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Den put yer clothes on, lad. ‘Tis a wee cold out there,” said O’Brien, then turned back to drink the whiskey in one gulp. “Now I’ll take dat ale.”
“Did ye find the thief?” asked the barkeep as he set a bumper in front of the customer. “Aye, and off to Bow Street, he is.”
“A thieftaker, eh?” sneered Smitty. “Make much?”
“Supports me family,” said O’Brien, turning around to watch Ben again, his blue eyes narrowed. “Dat yer lad?”
