The Docks had been cut out of the earth in Wapping to form a deep, rectangular “harbor” filled with river water. The city surrounded it on all sides. Steamers and sailing ships were literally parked at the end of narrow, filthy streets.
They picked up an empty pushcart cart John had procure and began walking through the pre-dawn chill. Margo’s old boots and woolen, uncreased trousers chafed. Her ragged shirt and threadbare pea jacket barely kept out the chill. Swing docks afforded occasional glimpses of the river as they passed the stinking, bow-windowed taverns of Wapping. Sailors accosted everything female with such gusto Margo huddled more deeply into her boy’s garments, desperately grateful for the disguise.
Okay, so they were right. She didn’t have to be happy about it, but she could disguise herself. Fortunately, none of the sailors so much as glanced at her twice. Malcolm steered them toward the riverbank, where the stench of tidal mudflats was overwhelming. They watched young kids, mostly barefooted, picking through the freezing mud.
”Mudlarks,” he explained quietly. “They scavenge bits of iron or coal, anything they can sell for a few pence. Most children are suppose to be in school, but the poorest often dodge it, as you see. There used to be much fiercer competition down there, before mandatory schooling laws were passed. On Saturdays, the riverbanks are alive with starving mudlarks.”
One romantic illusion after another shattered into slivers on the cold road.
”What are those?” she asked, pointing to a boat midriver with large nets out. “Fishermen?”