Norton, Andre - Novel 39 (10 page)

 
          
 
"
Miss Lane
, I am Captain Ellison of the Salvation
Army. And we are most glad to see you."

 
          
 
Hester glanced down self-consciously at her
shabby garments. "Please excuse my appearance—"

 
          
 
"There is no necessity to apologize. It
was I who suggested Miss Scrimshaw instruct you to dress so as to be inconspicuous
during your journey here. And she has earned our gratitude for finding you. To
tell our side of the story will be a novelty.”

 
          
 
Her voice was cultivated, though there was no
affectation in tone or manner and her openness of expression appealed to Hester
strongly. She had not expected such ladylike demeanor from those in the ranks
of the Salvation Army.

 
          
 
"Tell me,
Miss Lane
, how much do you know of our work
here?"

 
          
 
"Very little, I must admit. I hoped you
might be able to provide me with some information regarding the Salvation
Army's history and purpose."

 
          
 
Captain Ellison nodded. "And so I
shall." Turning, she moved to a hall table on which rested a bundle with
the border dimensions of a folded newspaper, although considerably thicker. The
parcel, wrapped in brown paper secured by string, was also much heavier than it
appeared, as Hester discovered when the captain handed it to her.

 
          
 
"Here is some literature that should
help," she said. "There is more available at headquarters, but I made
do with what could be gathered at such short notice. At least it may supply you
with a basic account of the Army's history.

 
          
 
"As to our purposes, they are twofold.
While General Booth's primary aim was ministering to spiritual welfare,
physical welfare is of equal concern. Total salvation embraces both body and
soul." Captain Ellison paused momentarily, her wide mouth curving into the
crescent of a self-conscious smile. "Forgive me,
Miss Lane
. I fear I've been preaching at you."

 
          
 
"Not at all.
I
find what you say most interesting."

 
          
 
"What I say is of little consequence.
It's what you see that's important. Or, rather, what you will be seeing."

 
          
 
Hester shifted the paper-wrapped package to
the crook of her left arm. "Miss Scrimshaw's note mentioned a meeting."

 
          
 
The captain shook her head.
"Nothing
quite so pretentious—merely one of our regular street gatherings.
There
will be a formal assembly at headquarters before week's end, but it seemed best
to introduce you to our activities by way of a simpler example." As she
spoke Captain Ellison glanced down at Hester's footwear. "You have come
quite a way, I know. Could I impose upon you to accompany me a short distance
further?"

 
          
 
"By all means."

 
          
 
"Then let us be off."

 
          
 
Taking a shawl from a rack in the corner
between the wall and the threshold, the captain drew it over her shoulders,
then
opened the door.

 
          
 
Prepared as she was by her previous
experience, Hester steeled herself against the onrush of sights, sounds, and
smells surrounding her upon emerging again onto the street.

 
          
 
A quick glance to her left indicated that the
battling viragoes had vanished and their impromptu audience was dispersed, but
her companion did not lead her in that direction. Instead, after turning her
door key and removing it from the latch, she beckoned to Hester and moved off
to the right.

 
          
 
Here lighted doorways were less frequently in
view. Captain Ellison's eyes may have indicated fatigue when exposed to
lamplight, but in the darkness she possessed the visual acuity of a cat. At
least so it seemed to Hester as her guide nimbly dodged around reeking piles of
refuse heaped against the walls or littered to block their way along the
pavement.

 
          
 
But the moldering mounds of rubbish and offal
were not the only obstacles in their paths.
Earlier this
evening Hester had noted sleeping figures curled in doorways and slumped in
recesses along the walls.
Here amidst the deeper darkness similar
figures sprawled at random on the street itself.
The garbage
of humanity?
Or merely the fallen in an outcast army?

 
          
 
Those who walked, reeled, or lurched past them
paid no heed; they addressed one another, or the empty air, with slurred
sallies, muttered oaths, coarse laughter, and snatches of drunken song. Men
stumbled after women, women stumbled after men, men and women stumbled
together.

 
          
 
Shadows scattered along the walls on either
side of the street or darted low between recumbent and upright figures
alike—shadows of children, shrieking and chanting in shrill echo of their
elders.

 
          
 
Now Hester realized what Captain Ellison had
meant about the importance of seeing instead of saying. As if in confirmation
of the unspoken thought, her companion nodded.

 
          
 
"Allow me to explain the lack of a
conveyance,
Miss Lane
. While a cab would be more comfortable I am persuaded that what you are
observing at close hand speaks far more eloquently than any sermon."

 
          
 
Hester nodded. "There is so much for me
to learn."

 
          
 
"You'll find facts and figures aplenty in
the material I assembled for you. Hard facts and hard figures, appropriate to
the conditions they represent. But life here is a hardening experience. One
learns to endure the sight of human suffering."

 
          
 
"And yet Fred told me that you allow him
to take shelter in your home."

 
          
 
Was it a trick of light and shadow or did
Captain Ellison's cheeks betray a blush of embarrassment? "I acknowledge
young Fred represents a chink in my armor," she said. "Still, he
makes himself useful."

 
          
 
As they approached an intersection ahead, the
way grew brighter, and from the crossing came sounds of the passing traffic's
clop and clatter, the buzz of voices raised in excitement. Then, drowning out
all else, the booming beat of a bass drum.

 
          
 
"Just in time," the captain
murmured.

 
          
 
She rounded the corner and Hester followed,
blinking involuntarily amidst the sudden blaze of light framing the gaudy
fagade of the public house just to the right. A row of carriages had halted to
line the curb and a crowd massed and milled on the walk at both sides of the
garrishly lit entrance to the grogshop.

 
          
 
Within the circle cleared before it Hester
heard the boom of the drum and then, as if in celebration of their arrival,
trumpets blared, cornets chorused, a trombone sounded in unison with the
wheezing of a concertina.

 
          
 
"The band is here!" Captain
Ellison's voice rose exultantly over the drumbeat and its accompaniment, but
her announcement was unnecessary.

 
          
 
Hester's eyes searched the circle. So this was
what the Salvation Army looked like! The bandsmen in their military jackets of
red twill, their bespectacled leader holding a violin under his left arm and
conducting the music with a bow held in his right. And, grouped behind them,
men wearing military caps and uniforms of blue
guernsey
;
women clad in blue jerseys, their black straw bonnets trimmed with black silk.

 
          
 
Once again Hester's companion seemed to read
her mind. "I am not assigned to duty this evening," the captain said.
"Hence no uniform.
Although I
could not forgo the bonnet."
She smiled, nodding toward the
musicians. "I trust you understand what is taking place here."

 
          
 
"You told me there would be a
gathering," Hester said, hoping she was making her voice heard above the
boom and blare. "But I didn't expect a brass band."

 
          
 
"The band was General Booth's idea. Music
attracts the crowd, many will stay to hear the hymns, and it is to be hoped
that a goodly share will remain for the preaching that follows. Each night a
score or more of street gatherings are held throughout the city—skirmishes, you
might say, in an unceasing battle against the evils of drink."

 
          
 
If she intended to say more, the possibility
was precluded by the voices rising to augment instrumental accompaniment.
Hester thought she recognized the hymn as "Who'll Be the First to Follow
Jesus?" but she could not be sure. At this distance words not drowned out
by music were lost in the tinkling and tapping of timbrels carried by most of
the chorus.

 
          
 
Timbrels?
From some
recess of memory, perhaps a newspaper account of an American minstrel show,
Hester recalled that timbrels were now generally referred to as
"tambourines." She turned to ask her companion, but it was then that
the shrill shout rose.

 
          
 
"Cap'n! Cap'n! Come quick!"

 
          
 
Even above the stridency of sound Fred's voice
was clearly recognizable, as was the face beneath the broken brim of his hat.

 
          
 
Captain Ellison stared down at the panting
urchin. "Do restrain yourself, Fred! What is this all about?"

 
          
 
"Sallie Morton. The one as was knocked
about so terrible by 'er dad."

 
          
 
The captain nodded. "I sent her to stay
with Mrs. Kirby this afternoon. You know that, Fred."

 
          
 
"So does 'er
father.
Passed 'im wiv 'is mates down the street, proper boozed up, all of 'em.
Figgered to find you 'ere at the meetin' so I come runnin' quick as I
'eard."

 
          
 
"What did you hear?"

 
          
 
"'E's on 'is way to fetch Sallie from
there right now. Says she's worth ten quid if 'e sells 'er to the
slavers!"

 
          
 
They set off quickly, and soon the music and
voices faded, the boom of the drum lost amidst the thudding of their feet upon
the pavement.

 
          
 
Twice they turned, Fred in the lead, Captain
Ellison lifting her skirt as she strove to keep pace with him, Hester clutching
the paper-wrapped parcel tightly against her bosom. Except for the sound of
their footsteps, they moved in silence; Hester had no breath to spare for
questions, nor
Captain Ellison for answers. Clamping hat to
head, Fred darted forward swiftly and gave Hester scant opportunity to note the
details of their surroundings.

 
          
 
From what she did observe, however, these
streets were dissimilar to the ones earlier traversed. Here the hovering hulk
of tenements was replaced by rows of cottages and small well-lit houses; she
noted little odor and a scarcity of litter. Save for themselves there were no
other figures,
either upright
or recumbent, visible
along their way. A respectable neighborhood, Hester told herself.

 
          
 
But their progress was hasty and so was her
conclusion. As they turned
a final
corner
respectability vanished, driven from the scene by the sound of oaths,
imprecations, and a banging that echoed as loudly as the booming of the Army
drum.

 
          
 
Weaving back and forth on the stoop before the
front entrance to a house directly ahead, a mountain of a man, his face ruddy
with rage, pounded on the door with percussive fists. Behind him on the walk
below two companions shouted and gesticulated, urging him on.

 
          
 
"'Ave at it!" cried the mustached
man wearing a leather apron.

 
          
 
"Teach 'er to mind 'er manners," the
other man advised. "Bash it down!"

 
          
 
Fred halted abruptly, his words emerging in
gasps as he jabbed a stubby finger in the direction of the trio. "Like I
told yer—Sid Morton an' 'is mates."

 
          
 
Captain Ellison nodded,
then
turned to address Hester. "Wait here," she said.

 
          
 
"What are you going to do?"

 
          
 
"Stop them, of course."

 
          
 
"But you can't," Hester murmured.
"They're too far gone in drink—they won't listen to you."

 
          
 
"Then they must listen to the Lord."

 
          
 
Hester took a step forward. "I'll come
with you."

 
          
 
"That would be most inadvisable."
The captain nodded toward Fred. "Please see to it that
Miss Lane
remains here. I charge you with her
safety."

 
          
 
"Done."
As
the older woman moved away, the youngster captured the lower left portion of
Hester's shawl in a grimy grip. "'Ave a care," he called.

 
          
 
If Captain Ellison heard she did not heed.
Crossing the pavement to the opposite side, she marched directly to the two men
reeling on the walk. Both the one wearing the apron and his coster-clad
companion turned at her approach.

 
          
 
"What cheer?" mumbled the
costermonger. Striding past, the captain ignored him, but the man with the
mustache lumbered forward to bar her way.

 
          
 
"Where yuh fink yer goin'?" His
bleary blink fixed on her headgear, then widened into a stare of sudden
recognition. "Hallelujah bonnet!" he muttered.
"Yer
from the bloody Army!"

 
          
 
Now his mutter mounted into a shout as he
called out to the man pounding on the front door.
"Company
comin', Sid!"

 
          
 
Fists ceased to hammer as the big man turned,
staring down from the stoop. When his red-rimmed eyes focused on the woman
below, his stare became a glare.

 
          
 
"'Oo the 'ell are you?"

 
          
 
"Captain Ellison of the
Salvation Army."
She peered up at the burly figure. "Are you
Mr. Morton?"

 
          
 
"Jus' plain 'Sid' will do me. Naht to say
it's any o' yer bloody business."

 
          
 
Beside her his mates greeted Morton's response
with alcoholic appreciation, but the captain didn't share their laughter.
"I fear it is my business," she replied. "You are committing a
public disturbance on private property. I happen to know that this is the
residence of Mrs. Gertrude Kirby."

 
          
 
"Is it, now?" The big man put his
hands on his hips. "An' I 'appens ter know Mrs.-bloody-Kirby 'as me
daughrter Sal-lie 'id away someplace inside."

 
          
 
"I assure you Sallie will come to no harm
in her care." The captain's voice was level. "Indeed, she was taken
into custody to ensure her safety."

 
          
 
"Never you mind 'er safety!" The big
man's hands left his hips and balled into fists. "I'm 'er father. I 'ave
me rights."

 
          
 
"The right to abuse her
body?
The right to sell her in white slavery?"

 
          
 
"Yer a bloody
liar!"
Now the glaring eyes were directed at the figures of Sid
Morton's companions. "'Oo's been blab-bin'?"

 
          
 
Both of his mates shook their heads in
vigorous denial.

 
          
 
As Hester watched she was conscious that other
heads were present, silhouetted against the light as they peered from the
windows and doorways of dwellings surrounding the Kirby home. But while others
watched, none ventured to move. It was only Captain Ellison who started
forward.

 
          
 
"For the last time," she said,
"I demand that you desist."

 
          
 
"Demand, is it?" As the bonneted
woman started to mount the stoop, the big man's fists rose. "Stand clear
'o me, yah bleedin' cow!"

 
          
 
For a moment it seemed to Hester that time
stood still and that what she perceived was a picture fixed forever within its
frame. Now she noted particulars that had escaped previous attention; although
drapes had been drawn, those covering the first-story windows above were
slightly parted, so as to reveal the presence of watchers within. Hester had a
fleeting impression of eyes widened in terror, half-opened mouths ovaled in
anxiety. At the same instant she was conscious of color; the play of light and
shadow against the burly man's contorted countenance, the raw redness of his
knuckled fist upraised to strike.

 
          
 
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the moment
passed, and the fist started to descend. Now everything was happening at once
as though time moved at a gallop in compensation for its momentary standstill.

 
          
 
The fist swung down, Captain Ellison swerved
to dodge the blow,
Hester
tore free of Fred's
restraining grasp. The big man bawled a curse, Captain Ellison stood her
ground, and ignoring Fred's frantic cry of warning,
Hester
ran forward across the pavement.

 
          
 
Again the captain moved, but not in time to
avoid the glancing impact of the fist, which sent her reeling back, bonnet
askew. A growl emerged from deep within Sid Morton's throat, the growl of a
beast aroused by the sight of blood. He started down the steps, right arm
rising to swing and strike again.

 
          
 
Captain Ellison neither fled nor flinched, but
her lips moved in a murmur. "May the Lord have mercy—
"

 
          
 
Whatever the Lord's intentions may have been,
Hester felt no mercy in her heart. But there was strength in her stride as she
came abreast of the captain, strength in her own arm as she raised it, gripping
the wrapped parcel to strike the big man across the side of his face.

 
          
 
His grimace and outcry
were
more the product of astonishment than of pain.
"Scuzzy
slut!"
He started forward again, both fists balled. "I'll
learn yeh—"

 
          
 
But his words were scarcely audible amidst the
sudden surge of sound from opposite ends of the street beyond; hooves from the
right, running footsteps from the left. The latter was by far the louder, and
now the big man's mates sought and saw its source.

 
          
 
"Run fer it, Sid!" the coster
shouted. "'Ere come the rozzers!"

 
          
 
Turning to the right, he set a good example
that his leather-aproned companion lost no time in following. Sid Morton
hesitated, head cocked left. The thud of feet grew louder as a half-dozen
uniformed City constables appeared, helmets bobbing as they ran.

 
          
 
Sid Morton too invoked the Lord.
"Jesus!" he muttered. Without so much as a further glance at the two
women, he darted after his chums.

 
          
 
Hester moved to Captain Ellison's side,
peering at her solicitously. "Has he hurt you?"

 
          
 
"No harm done." The captain adjusted
her bonnet. Her lips moved but Hester heard no sound.

 
          
 
Then a hand closed about her left arm.

 
          
 
Surprised at the touch, Hester was even more
startled as she glanced up into the face of Albert Prothore.

 
          
 
His lips too were moving, and now she heard as
he tipped his hat to Captain Ellison and addressed her.

 
          
 
"I am taking
Miss Lane
to her lodgings,” he said.
"
If you wish to be escorted elsewhere—"

 
          
 
The captain shook her head. "No, thank
you. I shall be quite all right." She turned, light fanning her from the
doorway, which was opening above and behind her. "You see? We'll be
admitted to the house now that the bullies are gone." She started forward.
"Perhaps you'd join me—"

 
          
 
Hester's lips parted, but before she could
reply, her unexpected companion spoke for her. "I'm sorry. The cab is waiting."

 
          
 
Albert Prothore's grip was surprisingly
strong; it tightened as he swung Hester around and guided her toward the hansom
at the curb.

 
          
 
Now she understood why she had heard
hoofbeats; what she did not understand was the reason for young Mr. Prothore's
timely appearance.

 
          
 
There was no opportunity to reflect upon it at
the moment. Prothore
bustled
her quickly into the cab,
shouted to the cabby, then climbed in and closed the door as they started off.
Hester had only time for a hasty glance as they pulled
away,
assuring herself that Captain Ellison had entered the house, its door closing
behind her.