The World Duology (World Odyssey / Fiji: A Novel) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Lance Morcan, James Morcan
maybe both, communicated with me through nature.”
Drake Senior stroked his daughter’s cheek tenderly. He smiled, but Susannah sensed he didn’t draw the same comfort from her experience as she did. They resumed walking.
3
Southeast London, England, 1837
W hile London may have been the center of the civilized world, for twenty-one-year old Jack Halliday and untold thousands of other working class citizens, it was a place of never-ending hardship and poverty. Not even the approaching coronation of Queen Victoria was enough to lift the black mood that prevailed over the vast majority of the populace.
Of course, poverty was relative. At least Jack had a job. The young Cockney eked out a living as a blacksmith in Sullivan’s Foundry down in the dockyards by the Thames. Although he worked six days a week, the wage he made barely enabled him to survive even though he’d served his apprenticeship and was a qualified smithy.
Henry Sullivan, the foundry’s hard, mean-spirited proprietor, had a reputation for paying low wages. That he retained his hardworking staff was a reflection of the scarcity of jobs in London. Unemployment was at an all-time high; anyone lucky enough to have a job, did what they had to, to keep it. This opened them up to abuse from unscrupulous employers like Sullivan.
Thankfully, this particular working day was nearly over. For Jack and the others, the day had gone like any other day at Sullivan’s. The work was hard, monotonous and sometimes dangerous; the fou ndry was noisy, smelly and always busy. From dawn to dusk, the workshop reverberated to the sounds of loud hammering and the clang of steel against steel. As they toiled, the smithies were constantly aware of the hulking figure of Sullivan who, it seemed, was always looking over their shoulders, critically eyeing their work and productivity.
The proprietor stopped to inspect Jack's handiwork as the young smithy skil lfully shaped a molten horse-shoe with a hammer. Sullivan asked, “Will Mister Featherstone's order be ready by tonight, Halliday?”
Jack pointed behind his employer to a pile of railings stacked against the wall. “Already done,” he said. He continued hammering while Sullivan inspected the railings.
The proprietor seemed impressed. He nodded with satisfaction before walking off.
Jack ceased hammering for a moment to fasten his perceptive green eyes on Sullivan's retreating back. If me work’s that good, how about a raise, or a pat on the back at least? Anyone observing Jack would have seen the contempt he felt for Sullivan written all over his face.
When the foundry siren sounded, heralding the end of the working day, Jack and the other smithies downed tools. Before leaving, Jack approached the proprietor. He asked, “Mis ter Sullivan, how about paying me the overtime I'm owed?”
“I thought I told you, I'd pay you when I could?” Sullivan snarled.
“That was two months ago, sir.”
Sullivan became belligerent. He leaned forward so his brutish, granite-hewn face was close to Jack's. “Look Halliday, if you don't like it here there's plenty more men who'd like your job.”
Jack's right hand closed to form a fist. He was tempted to punch Sullivan then thought better of it. Not now Jack. Get the old git’s quid first . The young smithy turned on his heel and strode out of the foundry. Although his cheeky face didn’t show it, he was inwardly fuming.
Outside, it was already dark as Jack joined a steady stream of workers and others – most of whom were making their way home. The streets were teeming with people. A mixed bunch, they included merchants, laborers, stonemasons, professional men, beggars, pickpockets and drunks.
Jack decided against going straight home. Instead, he lingered outside a working men’s bar directly opposite the foundry. Unsure exactly what he was planning to do, he waited.
#
A short time later, Jack pulled back out of view when the foundry lights went out
Drake Senior stroked his daughter’s cheek tenderly. He smiled, but Susannah sensed he didn’t draw the same comfort from her experience as she did. They resumed walking.
3
Southeast London, England, 1837
W hile London may have been the center of the civilized world, for twenty-one-year old Jack Halliday and untold thousands of other working class citizens, it was a place of never-ending hardship and poverty. Not even the approaching coronation of Queen Victoria was enough to lift the black mood that prevailed over the vast majority of the populace.
Of course, poverty was relative. At least Jack had a job. The young Cockney eked out a living as a blacksmith in Sullivan’s Foundry down in the dockyards by the Thames. Although he worked six days a week, the wage he made barely enabled him to survive even though he’d served his apprenticeship and was a qualified smithy.
Henry Sullivan, the foundry’s hard, mean-spirited proprietor, had a reputation for paying low wages. That he retained his hardworking staff was a reflection of the scarcity of jobs in London. Unemployment was at an all-time high; anyone lucky enough to have a job, did what they had to, to keep it. This opened them up to abuse from unscrupulous employers like Sullivan.
Thankfully, this particular working day was nearly over. For Jack and the others, the day had gone like any other day at Sullivan’s. The work was hard, monotonous and sometimes dangerous; the fou ndry was noisy, smelly and always busy. From dawn to dusk, the workshop reverberated to the sounds of loud hammering and the clang of steel against steel. As they toiled, the smithies were constantly aware of the hulking figure of Sullivan who, it seemed, was always looking over their shoulders, critically eyeing their work and productivity.
The proprietor stopped to inspect Jack's handiwork as the young smithy skil lfully shaped a molten horse-shoe with a hammer. Sullivan asked, “Will Mister Featherstone's order be ready by tonight, Halliday?”
Jack pointed behind his employer to a pile of railings stacked against the wall. “Already done,” he said. He continued hammering while Sullivan inspected the railings.
The proprietor seemed impressed. He nodded with satisfaction before walking off.
Jack ceased hammering for a moment to fasten his perceptive green eyes on Sullivan's retreating back. If me work’s that good, how about a raise, or a pat on the back at least? Anyone observing Jack would have seen the contempt he felt for Sullivan written all over his face.
When the foundry siren sounded, heralding the end of the working day, Jack and the other smithies downed tools. Before leaving, Jack approached the proprietor. He asked, “Mis ter Sullivan, how about paying me the overtime I'm owed?”
“I thought I told you, I'd pay you when I could?” Sullivan snarled.
“That was two months ago, sir.”
Sullivan became belligerent. He leaned forward so his brutish, granite-hewn face was close to Jack's. “Look Halliday, if you don't like it here there's plenty more men who'd like your job.”
Jack's right hand closed to form a fist. He was tempted to punch Sullivan then thought better of it. Not now Jack. Get the old git’s quid first . The young smithy turned on his heel and strode out of the foundry. Although his cheeky face didn’t show it, he was inwardly fuming.
Outside, it was already dark as Jack joined a steady stream of workers and others – most of whom were making their way home. The streets were teeming with people. A mixed bunch, they included merchants, laborers, stonemasons, professional men, beggars, pickpockets and drunks.
Jack decided against going straight home. Instead, he lingered outside a working men’s bar directly opposite the foundry. Unsure exactly what he was planning to do, he waited.
#
A short time later, Jack pulled back out of view when the foundry lights went out
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