“Thomas, do you have those trousers from the farm, or do I?” Mother called from her room. She knelt by her trunk, while Sarah and Thomas rooted through their own. It had been three days since Father had introduced his scheme, and Sarah would begin work as an apprenticed chimney sweeper the next day.
“I don’t think I do,” Thomas replied.
Sarah nudged him. “It’s a wonder you find anything in that mess.”
He rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you organize my section, then, if you care so much?”
“Perhaps I shall.”
“Here they are,” said Mother, coming into their room and handing Sarah the trousers. “They may be a bit large on you, but we’ll manage.”
“I have the rest.” Thomas handed Sarah a bundle of clothing. “What name are you to use?”
“Sam,” said Sarah. She’d decided on an alias that was common, easy to say, and not too different from her given name. “Sam Lee.”
She spread out the clothes on her bed: a white button-up shirt, brown trousers, and a tan waistcoat, all well-worn. Sarah tried on the outfit. The shirt sleeves were just long enough that a single fold brought the cuffs even with Sarah’s wrists. The trousers fit well about the waist, but Sarah had to hoist them up to avoid treading on the hems.
“No matter,” said Mother. “I can raise the hems a few inches[1] if needed.”
“I’ll need a hat to hide my hair,” said Sarah.
Thomas scrutinized her with furrowed brows. “I reckon you would do better to cut it.”
Sarah flinched from him, clutching her hair. “No!” Disguising herself was one thing, but cutting her hair would make the change too permanent for her liking. At Thomas’ look of surprise, she fumbled for justification. “The neighbors from church know I’m female,” she explained. “If my disguise is to be believed, I ought to be seen as a girl at church and as a boy at work.”
Thomas nodded, frowning in thought. “That makes sense. Then you must be careful to secure whatever hat you use.”
“Of course,” said Sarah, relieved.
Mother folded the hems of Sarah’s trousers so that they ended properly at the ankles. “Thomas, do you still have that flat cap you used on the farm? It should do to hide her hair.”
“Here it is,” said Thomas, fishing out the cap from his section of their trunk and handing it to Sarah.
Weeks without washing had left her hair greasy and snarled, and Sarah untangled it with difficulty before braiding it. Then she curled the braid around her head and pressed the cap over it. It was large enough to conceal the bulge of the hidden braid. She turned to Thomas and lowered the pitch of her voice as she said, “Well, how do I look?”
“Like a strapping young lad,” said Thomas, a faint grin playing upon his face. “No, truly. You look and sound like a boy.”
“I’m—” Sarah stopped and cleared her throat. “I’m glad to hear it, I suppose.”
“And you’re still using Thomas’ old shoes, are you not?” said Mother. “So we needn’t worry about that.”
“Aye, I am.”
Sarah stood up and smoothed her wrinkled shirt, glad for the first time that at twelve years old her chest was still perfectly flat.
“I reckon I’ll be far cleaner than the other sweepers,” she said with a throaty laugh.
Thomas grinned again. “I ought to start addressing you as my brother.” Then he lowered his voice, his expression turning grave. “You know, you don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” Sarah said. “But I’m ready. I can’t explain it, but a part of me wants this, Thomas.”
He pursed his lips. “I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
“You won’t,” she told him, flashing a reassuring smile. “I promise.”
###
The morning sky was just light enough for Sarah to rummage through the trunk where she’d stowed the boys’ clothing. She withdrew the outfit and donned the boy’s clothes, then braided her hair and folded the braid into her cap.
Thomas and Mother were in the sitting room already. Mother knelt at the hearth, where she was boiling water for tea, and Thomas sat at one of the benches.
“How is it?” Sarah asked.
“A bit of your hair shows on the sides,” said Thomas, removing the cap and sweeping the smaller strands into her braid. He replaced the cap, this time lower on her head, and checked the back. “That’s better.”
“Goodness, Sarah,” Mother said, glancing up, “you do look like a boy. Why, you look a bit like Thomas when he was your age!”
Thomas studied Sarah with interest. “Did I truly look like that?”
“You were certainly taller,” Mother admitted.
Sarah huffed. She stood only a bit above Thomas’ shoulder, and it was a sore subject for her. “You needn’t hold my height against me—”
“—or lack thereof,” Thomas muttered. Sarah swatted him playfully.
“Sarah, have some bread, and then we must be off,” said Mother. “Thomas, hasten your eating, won’t you? It’s past seven.”
Thomas retrieved his coat, snatched another slice of bread, and departed.
“How many chimney sweepers are there?” Sarah asked.
Mother thought. “Oh, twenty or thirty.”
Sarah considered the number through a mouthful of bread. “And they work every day? I didn’t know there were so many chimneys in London.”
“There are, and this isn’t the only sweeper lodging house. London has over a million residents, so I imagine there are always chimneys to be swept. From what I know, each sweeper is apprenticed to a master sweeper who trains and pays him. There are some who live at the lodging house and some who come there every day to work, as you will.”
Sarah finished her slice of bread, then followed her mother outside, across Drury Lane, down Russell Street, and into Covent Garden Market. It was a wide, open-air marketplace, far larger than Clare Market at the southern end of Drury Lane, and even at a quarter past seven it was a whirlwind of motion and noise. Costermongers[2] pulling carts of fruit, porters toting baskets, horses and donkeys laden with parcels, boys hawking newspapers, and girls selling flowers flocked into the square from the narrow streets that led to the rest of the city. At the far end, a church with four stone pillars rose above the market stalls.
After struggling for several minutes to cross the packed square, Mother and Sarah finally approached the lodging house, a small, derelict brick building with steps leading up to a double door. The sweepers had already dispersed across the square and into the surrounding streets, so the space around the lodging house was deserted. Mother pushed one door open and entered. A young man of about twenty-five stood at a wooden desk, staring down at them. He wore a shabby gray town coat[3] and a top hat. “How can I help you, ma’am?” he inquired.
“I’m here to apprentice my son to a master chimney sweeper,” said Mother. The words meant nothing to Sarah, but Mother had evidently investigated further into the job.
“What’s the name of your boy?” the man asked.
Mother didn’t reply. Realizing that the question was hers to answer, Sarah cleared her throat. “Sam Lee, sir.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twelve, sir.”
The man made a note on a paper on his desk. “Can you read?”
Stolen story; please report.
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Stanton can take you. He’ll be lodgin’ here?”
Mother shook her head. “He’ll stay at home for the nights.” It was peculiar for Sarah to hear the pronoun he on her mother’s tongue and know that it referred to her.
The man scribbled on his paper again. “Stanton will be here shortly,” he told them. “In the meantime, ma’am, would you…?” He handed Mother several documents, which she filled out and returned to the desk. Sarah guessed that much of the information Mother had written on the documents had been false.
The door behind Sarah and Mother swung open, and another man ambled in. He was about forty, short and thin, wearing a frayed black town coat and trousers covered with soot. He had a kindly face with an overgrown black beard, and a brown bag filled with brushes of various shapes and sizes was slung over his shoulder.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said, nodding to Mother. He spoke with a thick Cockney accent. “Thanks, Mr. Dacre. I’ll take it from here.”
Mr. Dacre handed his papers to the newcomer and left through a door at the side of the room. The newcomer took his place. “New lad, eh?” he said, reading the papers. “I’m Mr. Stanton. Sam Lee, innit?”
“Yes, sir,” Sarah replied.
“Twelve years old?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re startin’ a bit late,” Stanton mused, “but we’ll make do. Right this way, please, and I’ll give you your supplies.”
A bit late?
Mother bade Sarah farewell and left the lodging house. When Stanton had turned away, Sarah ensured that her hair was still hidden. He led her down a hallway and into a room full of sacks, bags, brushes, and what looked like bedsheets, all coated in a layer of soot. Mr. Stanton handed Sarah a wool town coat resembling his own and a pair of worn brown gloves. Sarah slipped on the clothes, grateful that the gloves would conceal her unfortunately feminine hands. Stanton then gave her a bag of tools and a dirty gray sack. “This,” he said, gesturing to the sack, “is for holdin’ the ashes. You brush the corners with this”—he indicated each tool as he spoke—“and use this to scoop the soot into the sack. The sack’s contents can be deposited back at the lodgin’ house, where we’ll make use of ‘em. You see?”
Sarah nodded.
“As it’s your first day,” continued Mr. Stanton, “I’ll take you with me on the job and show you how it’s done.”
“Yes, sir!” said Sarah. The thrill rose up inside her again, threatening to bubble out of her in a giddy laugh. She pressed her lips together.
“Follow me, then.” Stanton picked up his own sweeping bag and left the building, Sarah close behind. The crowd had dissipated slightly, but there were still far too many people in the market for Sarah’s taste. Stanton turned left at the western end of the market, where the four-pillared church stood.
“What’s the name of that church, sir?” Sarah asked, indicating it.
Mr. Stanton barely spared it a glance. “That’s Saint Paul’s,” he said.
Sarah frowned. “That can’t be,” she said. “I thought Saint Paul’s was the tallest building in London.”
Stanton laughed. “That’s the cathedral, son, ‘bout a mile down the Strand. This is Saint Paul’s Church.”
That certainly made things harder for her. Sarah had enough difficulty navigating without adding duplicate names to the mix.
“My assignment’s a house off the Strand,” Mr. Stanton told Sarah as they walked down Southampton Street. He navigated the streets with ease, checking each address. Stanton found the house he was looking for and pointed out the number to Sarah. “At the start of each day, you’ll report to the lodgin’ house ‘round seven in the mornin’. I’ll give you an address, and you’ll find the buildin’ and sweep its chimney. If there’s more than one what needs cleanin’, I’ll pair you with another sweeper.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The customer pays two shillin’s a chimney. You’ll get one o’ those for each chimney you clean.”
Mr. Stanton slipped through the back door of the house. “These folks specified they wanted me to come in the back,” he explained. Sarah marveled at the spacious rooms as Stanton led the way until they reached a sitting room with a fireplace. Stanton withdrew a common bedsheet so stained with ash and soot that one could hardly tell it had been white. He spread it across the floor in front of the hearth, explaining to Sarah that it prevented him from brushing ash across the carpet in the sitting room. Then he ducked into the fireplace and began to climb up the chimney. Sarah stared after him.
“Watch the way I use my knees,” said Stanton. “I can move my knees up the wall this way and support myself with my back.” He climbed farther up. Sarah poked her head into the fireplace and squinted to watch Stanton’s motions. She could hardly distinguish his silhouette in the darkness.
“I’m comin’ down,” Stanton called. Sarah retreated hurriedly as Stanton dropped to the ground. He held up several of his brushes and explained what each one was used for and in which order to use them. “I scoop the soot and ashes into the sack,” he said. “You’ll climb the chimney, sweepin’ as you go. Your job’s finished when your head pokes out the top. Then you climb down again.”
“Will we have more than one assignment each day?” Sarah asked.
“Not often,” Stanton replied. “You’ll return to the lodgin’ house if you’re finished early, and we may give you another assignment. Here, you try climbin’ up.”
Sarah cast him an apprehensive glance and stepped into the fireplace. The chimney was a dark, narrow prism that stretched upwards as far as she could see. Stanton helped her position herself in the chimney, her back against one side wall and her knees on the other, and she began to climb. It was slow work, and difficult even without holding any brushes. She made it to the first turn in the flue, then stopped to rest. Mr. Stanton called up from the bottom, “How are you farin’, Mr. Lee?”
Sarah broke into a false cough to stifle her laugh. It was a title meant for her father, or perhaps Thomas. “All right,” she said. “Just resting a moment.”
“Climb all the way to the top,” directed Stanton, “then pull yourself out and wait for me on the roof.” It was the strangest set of instructions Sarah had ever received, but she did as she was told.
It did not take long for fatigue to set into her untrained limbs. The space was uncomfortably small, and her knees and back pressed painfully against the hard bricks. Filth covered every inch of the walls. Sarah pressed her lips together to avoid inhaling soot, but the particles still tickled the inside of her nose as she breathed. She inched towards the square of light above her head. Finally, the top was close enough for her to latch onto the rim of the chimney and pull herself up. She climbed out and stretched her sore legs with a sigh. Then, clutching the brick chimney top for support, she turned to gaze upon the city from above.
She had never seen London from such a perspective. There were indeed many chimneys: dozens, even hundreds, sending curling smoke into the clouds. White steeples and black smokestacks pierced the gray sky. To the east, the stone dome of Saint Paul’s Cathedral rose from the street, and to the south, Blackfriars Bridge spanned the curving River Thames.
Mr. Stanton joined her soon after, his face and clothes streaked with ash. Sarah was shocked that he had fit in so small a space.
“There’s a good lad,” he said. Sarah suppressed another laugh. “Now, when you’re alone, remember which stack you come from. Some houses have got many chimney stacks, and it can be easy to lose your way.”
Sarah gulped, recalling Thomas’ worries about her safety. “Yes, sir.” The tickling in her nose became unbearable, and she sneezed into her elbow.
“God bless you,” said Stanton, raising his eyebrows. Sarah glanced at her sleeve and saw a black stain. She looked away in disgust.
Stanton climbed back into the chimney stack. “The way down’s faster than the way up,” he said, his voice muffled from inside the chimney, “but mind you don’t slip. If you catch a spot you missed, clean it. For now, wait for me to get all the way down first. I’ll tell you when to follow.”
Sarah waited for his call and squeezed back into the tiny space. Going down was indeed easier than going up: she could let herself slide a short distance before steadying herself with her hands and knees. Before long she was back at the first curve in the flue, where she jumped to the bottom. The impact jarred her ankles, and she nearly stumbled into the brick wall as she landed. Stanton caught her.
“Before steppin’ off the sheet,” he said, “brush off what soot you can. Customers don’t like sooty footprints ‘cross their sittin’ room.”
Sarah brushed the ashes off her jacket and trousers and ducked out of the chimney. Stanton packed up his brushes, folded the sheet, and stuffed it into his bag. As they left the house, the surrounding church clocks chimed five, earlier than she’d left the factory.
Mr. Stanton gave her sixpence back at the lodging house. “Good work, Mr. Lee. I’ll see you at seven o’clock sharp tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll give you a more experienced partner tomorrow, should you need the help.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sarah pocketed her money, shouldered her bag, and left the lodging house.
The sky was just beginning to darken as Sarah reached her house and climbed the stairs. Her knees ached with every step, drained from supporting her body weight all day. Abigail took one look at her as she entered and burst out laughing. “Sarah, you’re so dirty!” she said, touching Sarah’s shirt and giggling when her fingers came off streaked with black. She bent down and began to trace a picture on the wooden floor with her sooty left hand.
“I climbed a chimney,” said Sarah, setting down her bag and freeing her hair from its cloth prison with a sigh of relief. The idea was still alien to her; if she’d been told the week before that she would soon be scaling chimneys for a living, she would have laughed aloud.
Abigail looked up from her creation, a crude depiction of a smiling face. “Can I climb a chimney?”
Sarah laughed. “Not today.” She knelt at the water basin and scrubbed her face and hands until they itched. “Come here and wash your hands—we can’t have them all filthy for dinner.”
Abigail did so. The door opened and Thomas entered, hanging up his coat and grinning at the sight of Sarah’s masculine clothes.
“Now, who let the chimney sweeper in?” he joked, imitating a Cockney accent that sounded remarkably like Mr. Stanton.
Sarah smirked. “Oh, stop it.”
“How was work?” he asked.
“Dirty.” Sarah rubbed a sore spot on her back. “And cramped.”
He flashed a smile. “I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault. It wasn’t so bad, in any case. You can’t imagine how strange it is to be called Mr. Lee.”
He snorted.
“How was yours?” Sarah asked.
He tilted his head from side to side. “The usual: boring, exhausting, and smelly.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at the hearth, where Mother was making dinner. “I hate the factory.”
Sarah nodded, her mirth fading. In her relief to escape the factory, she had forgotten that her brother had remained. “I know,” she murmured.
“At least you aren’t trapped in that awful place anymore.” Thomas yawned and ran his fingers through his hair. “I hope dinner is ready soon—I’m starving.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “You’re always starving.” In the past year, accompanying his recent growth spurt that had left him six inches taller than Sarah, Thomas’ appetite had become insatiable.
“Well, you can’t blame me. We haven’t had a full meal in ages.”
Mother cast Thomas a reproachful look from the hearth. “Thomas, you know perfectly well—”
Thomas sighed. “Aye, I know.” The unspoken acknowledgment of their situation lingered in the air. Although Father would not admit it, it was clear that the family clung to subsistence by a thread even with Sarah and Thomas’ wages.
“We’ll eat in a moment,” said Sarah finally, eager to break the heavy silence. Thomas sat on a bench, facing outwards, and leaned back against the table as Sarah left to help Mother prepare the meal.
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[1] Though not regulated until the Weights and Measures Act in 1824 when the British Imperial System was put into place, inches, feet, and similar measurements were widely used in the United Kingdom for centuries. The UK adopted the Metric System in 1965.
[2] vendors who sell produce from a handcart at a market
[3] a single-breasted coat with lapels, a waist seam, and three buttons