Zachariah 2
Zachariah and Johnson
December 24, 1843
London, England
Pre-dawn
William Johnson, besides being a drunkard, was a “Master Sweep,” and Zachariah his apprentice.
The door pushed open suddenly, accompanied by a gust of wind that caused the flame in the fireplace to sputter, allowing a puff of dark smoke to roil above the mantel.
“Christ, but it’s cold in the crapper! Just ‘bout froze my arse on the plank.” Coughing, beating his arms about his chest, Johnson rushed to the fireplace.
“Get on with ya! Do ya business!” Coughing harder, becoming red in the face, he added, “I’ll get the mush goin’.”
A tall, thin man in his mid-thirties, Johnson’s face was pockmarked with scattering of deep-set blackheads across his wide forehead, his cheeks and the bridge of his thick, broken nose—a constant reminder of the years of his own youth spent in the tutelage of “Thornton & Son, Chimney Sweeps.”
Although Zachariah now did most of the work, caked with soot, all of Johnson’s visible flesh was filthy. As was the custom, he too kept his hair closely cropped.
William Johnson had a firm, outstanding chin that was covered with a dark, sparse, scraggly beard. His rheumy eyes closely set, their irises’ dark brown, almost black.
A life of subservience had caused Johnson—without being aware of the habit—to never look directly into the eyes of any person that might be on an equal social par with himself and, most certainly, not at anyone on a higher social strata.
The few exceptions to this were when he became exceptionally angry—or wanted to be presumed as being exceptionally, rightfully angry—or extremely drunk, when he became a toady to his cronies and obsequious to his customers.
This behavior made him tolerable—barely tolerable—to most of his drinking chums; ‘barely’ , only because Johnson was usually the butt of their practical jokes.
The social system—being what it was in nineteenth century London—allowed Johnson’s customers to accept his subservient conduct as proper, but he was totally disliked by most of the butlers and head maids.
In a number of the larger households the contracting of outside services, such as chimney sweeping, was ordered by these same butlers and maids, and they seldom allowed Johnson back for a second sweep; those that did, did so because of their fondness for Zachariah and looked forward to slipping “the poor child” a sweet or a jellied biscuit.
Because of this lack of repeat business, Johnson was among the lowliest and poorest of his profession.
Always on the lookout for a new customer, Johnson would often leave Zachariah at the start of a job — that was meant for the labor of two as he went from door to door of the neighboring houses soliciting future business. But no sooner would he contract a future job, than he’d be off to the nearest pub for “a few fast ones.”
Fortunately for Johnson, he’d. so far, avoided sooty wart.— cancer of the scrotum. Unfortunately, though, the sooty dust of a thousand sweeps had settled in his lungs and he would often go into tearful, gasping coughing spasms, which he knew was consumption, but would not admit to—not even to himself.
A product of the times, during Johnson’s period of apprenticeship he was treated in an extremely harsh manner by old man Thornton. However Johnson was one of four apprentices, so the duties—along with the punishments—were equally divided. The broken nose was not due to Thornton himself, but rather to one of his overly zealous three sons.
Johnson’s treatment of Zachariah and the life he’d forced on the child were harder then Johnson had ever endured. But ‘tis the only way to treat a ‘prentice, he rationalized, taking his frustrations out on Zachariah—the only person in the world he thought was on a lower plane than himself.
Occasionally, though, he wondered, Why’d I do such a mean thing to the lad? ‘e’s a good one. Why’d I say such a thing?
At those rare instances guilt would drop into his stomach as molten lead and he would feel the pain of remorse, yet never would he think of saying, ‘Zachariah, I’m sorry!’
Johnson did not understand his feelings of guilt or remorse and they would quickly be dispensed of and reversed by a trip to a pub, or a swig from a bottle.
Removing a large bowl and a pewter jug from the wooden box on the shelf outside the window, he went to the fireplace, pulled the grate out, and ladled thick gruel from the bowl into a crusted black saucepan.
The door opening, shivering, blowing into his cupped hands, saying, “Lordy, it ain’t much warmer in ‘ere!”
Rushing to the fireplace, Zachariah held his hands to the heat.
At the table, looking over some scribbled notes he’d taken off the shelf, Johnson said, “Archie, an’…” unable to read his scratchings on the tattered scrap of paper, “the lady, an’ the ol’ bastard…” Muttering to himself, trying to figure what that day’s take should come to, Johnson began to cough.
Coughing harder, his face turning red with the effort, fists clenched tightly, the man forced himself to stop.
Taking two wooden bowls off the mantel, looking down, Zachariah scowled, saying, “Damn bug!” Using his finger, he flicked a large, brown cockroach out of one of the bowls. Sailing through the air, landing on its back on the table, the roach tried to right itself.
Seeing the movement from the corner of his eye, “Damn bug!” Nonchalantly smashing the roach with the palm of his hand, Johnson brushed the corpse onto the floor leaving a wet smear on the surface of the table.
Pulling the grate out, using the ladle, the boy stirred the near solid stuff then plopped equal portions of the barely warmed, lumpy gruel into each bowl.
Serving Johnson first, Zachariah was careful to give him the bowl that had contained the cockroach, then poured barely usable milk from the jug over it. Poured a splash of milk into two mugs and set both on the table.
“‘urry’up!” Speaking in his usual harsh tone, “We ain’t got all day, ya know!”
The bowls on the table before them, eating quickly, noisily, the boy brought spoonfuls of food to his mouth, while holding the bowl just beneath his lips, slurping even more noisily, the man shoveled it directly into his mouth.
Waiting till Johnson was almost through before making up his mind to speak.
“Sir.” Speaking rapidly as though to forestall a negative answer. “You’ve seen the ol’ gray cat at the wheel factory! Well, Sir, that cat just made a box of baby cats an’ Mister Archibald, Sir, uh… well, Sir, Mister Archibald, ‘e said iff’n it were with your ‘proval, ‘e’d let me ‘ave one of ‘em. Ya know’s, Sir, we got a powerful lots’a mice runnin’ ‘bout, an’ Mister Archibald, ‘e said that the mama cat’s a real good mouser an’ ‘er babies should be real good mousers, too. We do need one ever so much, an’ I’ll care for it, Sir, an’ I’ll even be givin’ it some’a my food to eat. Can we, Sir? Please, Sir!”
The boy rarely asked for anything, and now, his spoon to his lips, a trickle of gruel ran down his master’s chin onto his scraggly beard as a larger chunk fell onto the table with a soft plop, because…
Amazement showing on Johnson’s face: Somebody had offered to give the boy something! Nobody had ever offered to give Johnson anything! Oh, a drink now and then, but nothing of consequence. Nothing for himself to keep.
Yes, a cat would be nice! Johnson thought. Yes, we do ‘ave lots of mice about. The lad’s a good lad. ‘e works ‘ard and ‘e don’t ask for nothin’. Never gives me no trouble. Why shouldn’t ‘e ‘ave a cat?
But instead, Johnson said, “Your Mister Archibald, ‘e said that to ya, did ‘e? ‘e ‘ad no right to be talkin’ to ya afore talkin’ to me!”
Zachariah did not want Mrister Archibald’s kind gesture returned to him in the form of Johnson’s anger.
“Oh, Sir, ‘twas only ‘cause ‘e said I work so well an’ cause tomorrow’s Christmas an’ all. An’ ‘e said t’would be a kindness for me to be ‘avin’ somethin’ of me own to care for.”
‘e’s right, Johnson thought. Archie’s right and so’s the boy. But instead said, “‘e said that to ya, did ‘e? That ‘you’re a good worker,’ did ‘e?” Starting to cough, his neck and face becoming red. “‘e ‘ad no right to be speakin’ to me ‘prentice a’fore speakin’ to me first!”
Coughing, he gasped for air… Catching his breath, “Get on with ya!” His tone softening slightly, “An’ I’ll be thinkin’ on the cat,” Johnson said, then remembering that his authority over the boy should be complete, “An’ I’ll be speakin’ to ya Mister Archibald!”
Standing suddenly, pushing away from the table, knocking the chair over with a clatter, “We ‘ave a full day’s work ahead!” Once again speaking angrily, “Get on with ya!” And once again, Johnson began to cough.
Gulping the near rancid milk down. Knowing full well that this might be all the food he’ll have till that night, shoving the last spoonful of gruel into his mouth, the boy licked the bowl clean with his tongue. Then lifting the saucepan from the fireplace, running his fingers inside, getting every last morsel, Zachariah took the bowls, mugs and spoons outside, returning for the wash basin and, going out again, the boy rinsed the utensils in the same water he’d washed his face in earlier.
Impatient to be gone, “Come on!” Johnson commanded. “Come on, can’t ch’ya!”
Rushing into the shack, putting the pot on the grate, the utensils on the mantle, the boy then finished dressing.
His filthy clothing threadbare, Zachariah wore over sized britches held up by a rope belt tied about his waist, and a patched and re-patched woolen shirt given to him by a customer whose three sons had outgrown. He wore no socks, but upon his feet were scuffed, badly worn shoes, one of which still had a buckle while the other was held closed by a piece of twine. The boy wore a black long-coat that he’d found in the trash bin behind the establishment of one of their only repeat customers, “Hobbins’ Funeral Parlor.” The long coat had hung to his ankles and the sleeves to his knees until a kindly maid made alterations while Zachariah worked on the chimney.
Once the sharp odor of embalming fluid and the stains of the undertaker’s trade had been washed away, the black coat became the warmest article of clothing worn by Zachariah.
A long, ratty scarf was wrapped about his neck and over his head, and was then tucked into the collar of the long-coat. He wore the scarf for three reasons: to keep his head and neck warm, to hide his shaved head and filthy face, and to wrap over his mouth and nose in an effort to keep as much soot and dust as possible from entering his lungs while working.
Watching as the boy dressed. Waiting impatiently, Johnson had a toolbox at his feet containing the tools of their trade and a bundle of drop cloths, a handful of poles, assorted brushes secured one to the other by heavy twine, and a long coil of rope.
The boy finally dressed, Johnson heaped the equipment of their trade onto and about Zachariah.
The coil of rope was placed about the boy’s neck and hung from his left shoulder. The homemade flue brushes of assorted sizes tied loosely with twine went around his neck and left shoulder, he also carried some drop clothes within his arms. The rest of the drop clothes held between his arm and chest as the man easily held the toolbox in one hand, with the poles, slung over his shoulder, in the other.
“Come on!” Prodding the boy with the bundle of poles,
Johnson followed Zachariah into the damp, cold day.
Screenplay
EXT. JOHNSON’S SHACK - NIGHT
The air is full of fading fog. Smoke rises
from every building in sight, creating a
layer of smog above the sprawling city.
Johnson can be heard coughing inside the
shack. The door opens Zachariah stumbles
out, pushed by Johnson.
The Climbing Boy V100 5. ZACHARIAH
(CONT'D)
The boy is laden with a bandoleer of
homemade brushes and bristles, a sack full
of cloths, sacks and bags. He also carries a
coil of rope. Still coughing, Johnson closes
the door and follows Zachariah away,
carrying only a toolbox and a bundle of
poles. The boy is quickly over taken by
Johnson, striding ahead.
EXT. LONDON STREET - PRE-DAWN
We follow them through the side streets of
London. The few people out and about so
early are seen as shadowy figures in the
dissipating fog.
Next: Zachariah 3
