Zachariah 3
SCREENPLAY
EXT. JOHNSON’S SHACK - NIGHT
The air is full of fading fog. Smoke rises
from every building in sight, creating a laye
r 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.
Zachariah 3
December 24, 1843
London, England
Dawn
Zachariah and Mister Archibald
Dawn
Two figures trudged up the dirt road.
The tall man taking long, purposeful strides.
The young boy weighed down by the load he carried about his neck, shoulders and within arms, his harsh breath coming in white plumes, panting and struggling to keep up with Johnson, Zachariah didn’t notice as a single coil of rope slipped off his shoulder, trailed behind and tangled in his feet. Tripping, he fell to his knees at the place the dirt road ended and the cobblestone street began.
Paces ahead. Looking over his shoulder and stopping with a deep throated sound of disgust, going back to the fallen boy, Johnson lifted him bodily onto his feet and with a hard slap to the back of his head, sent him stumbling forward once again.
Through shame, anger, the cold or all three, continuing on, struggling under the weight he carried on his shoulders and in his arms, Zachariah hunched his head even deeper into the collar of his coat.
Finally, ahead a half mile or so, the glow of the factory’s furnaces could be seen through this diminishing mornings darkness.
Soon, the noise of men at work came softly, then, as they came closer, the sounds became louder, the voices pronounced.
As the boy and man entered the massive brick and block barn of a factory, sounds assailed their ears: the irritating noise of grinding; the tortured whine of cutting steel; the nerve-jarring din of steel hammering onto steel.
Thick black greasy smoke hung beneath the three-story rafters. Dozens…
Screenplay
INT. WHEEL FACTORY - DAWN 7
Dozens of men are moving around the factory, some carry white hot metal strips from coal-fired furnaces to nearby anvils, where men hammer the strips. On a platform several feet above the factory floor, JOHN ‘ARCHIE’ ARCHIBALD (30) stands behind a battered foreman’s desk overseeing his workmen, while Making notes in a ledger. Archie looks up to see Johnson snaking through the factory towards him with Zachariah struggling to keep up. Archie puts his quill in its ink well and waits for them to reach him, while commenting on the sight of Zachariah to himself. ARCHIE Lord bless ‘im…
Looking up, Lord bless ‘im! Archibald thought as he saw the boy struggle beneath the weight he carried.
John “Archie” Archibald was a short but powerfully built man in his late thirties. He had thinning brown hair, a ruddy complexion and a kind face. When smiling, his entire face would take on a crinkly, affable appearance, but when angry, the crinkles would smooth out and his skin became crimson in color.
A fair-minded, just man, Archie was held in high esteem by both the men that worked under him and the factory’s owners.
Married, John Archibald had two adored children. One, a boy, was about the age as Zachariah. Whenever he would see Zachariah he’d think of his own son and, sadly, make a mental comparison between the lives of these two children.
An orphan himself, Archie was also a product of the apprentice system.
Taken from the orphan’s asylum at the age of five, he’d worked and learned from a master whom, although not as rigid and wretched as Johnson, was stern, unbending, and fast with a birch switch.
But, of course, this training, as hard as it had been, was what in time led Archibald to this very worthy position.
Having gone through this system himself, completely detesting a system that allowed young children to be exploited and forced into unbelievably squalid conditions—the chimney sweep trade being the very worst—Archibald was among small army of London citizens who were partitioning Parliament to set forth guidelines governing the treatment and mistreatment of all apprenticed children. Particularly Climbing Boys.
Holding back a cough, but not his anger, Johnson arrived at the platform with Zachariah still trailing behind.
“Mornin’, William...” Archibald said, looking down from his heightened platform. Then, smiling as the boy came closer “...Mornin’, Za…”
“Archie! I wanna…”
Holding his hand forward silencing Johnson, Archibald waited for Zachariah to arrive at the platform.
“A bloody damn sod on ya ‘good mornin’,” Johnson muttered lowly enough to be sure not to be heard.
Paying scant attention to Johnson because, intent on the boy, watching for his inevitable, infectious smile, “...Mornin’ Zachariah.”
The smile came, “Mornin’, Mister Archibald,” a little late and noticeably forced.
Seeing the hard set of Johnson’s face and the downcast look of the boy, sensing a tension between the two, wondering if his offer of the kitten yesterday was the reason.
“Ya wanted to say somethin’ to me, William?” Archibald questioned.
“Yeah, Archie, I’ve a mind to.” Pointing at Zachariah, “You, boy! Get there an’ wait for me!” Motioning over his shoulder with his thumb. “I be wantin’ to ‘ave a few words with ya friend ‘ere.”
Looking at Johnson’s face, Zachariah saw the anger that he’d so often seen in the past, usually during bouts of intoxication.
In a demanding tone: “ ‘ow can I ‘elp ya, William?”
“ ‘ow can ya ‘elp me? ‘ow can ya ‘elp me! Ya can ‘elp me by not be talkin’ to me ‘prentice!”
Looking at some imaginary point behind and to the left of him, Johnson’s demeanor confused Archibald because he knew the other man was speaking to him, but wasn’t looking at him, so he glanced over his shoulder to see what Johnson was looking at, but other than the factory there was nothing.
Speaking softly, “Go on with ya, lad...” Archibald said. “...wait for…” — ‘Master’ not being a word he liked using, other than in prayer — “...Mister Johnson by the stairs. ‘e’ll be there shortly.”
“Aye.” Turning, walking the length of the factory, going to the darkness beneath and behind the staircase, Zachariah looked into the black shadow until his eyes adjusted and was able to see the outside light’s reflection on nine pair of feline eyes.
Stooping, the boy reached into the wooden crate containing eight mewing kittens and their mother.
Gently lifting a kitten by the scruff of its neck, he snuggled it under his chin while stroking its warm underside.
The softly purring kitten brought the trace of a smile to
Zachariah’s face, but the smile disappeared when he turned back and looked at the two men.
Still gazing behind and over the older man, gesticulatingwith both hands, “Archie, ya got no call to be tellin’ me ‘prentice…” jerking his thumb over his shoulder in Zachariah’s direction, “...that ‘e can be ‘avin’ a kitten a’fore ya be askin’ me on it first!”
“William, for the sake’a Christ, it’s Chris…”
“An’ also…” his eyes flickered to the older man’s for a moment, then quickly away as he started into a hard fit of coughing.
Doubling over, Johnson turned his body from Archibald, whom — recognizing the sound, and reason for the harsh, gasping cough, waited patiently for younger man to catch his breath.
Gaining control, he swiped the back of his hands across his eyes then, looking at Archibald’s chin, finding some small degree of courage, poking and re-poaking his forefinger to within an inch of the other’s chest. “An’ furthermore, don’t ya be tellin’ ‘im ‘e’s a good worker! If I wants ‘im to be knowin’ ‘e’s a good worker I’ll be tellin’ ‘im! I don’t want ya turnin’ ‘is ‘ead!”
For a moment Archibald thought Johnson might possibly be right, then, No, he thought, ‘e ain’t right at all!
Archibald’s face becoming red. Straightening his body and pulling his shoulders back, the hidden muscles flexing beneath his coat.
Sensing and seeing the older man’s physical change, Johnson slowed the motion of his near-poking finger.
Taking hold of Johnson’s hand, moving it from before his chest while squeezing the thin, bony fingers; taking some delight at the look of pain and fear that came to other’s face.
Speaking softly through clenched teeth, “You…” Bringing his anger under control. “...William, that little boy works ‘ard as any grown man I got ‘ere…” Making a sweeping, back-handed motion with his other hand, “...an’ better’n most, an’ I’d be glad to ‘ave the likes a ‘im workin’ ‘ere for me! But not as you work ‘im—not as a blinkin’ slave…”
Knowing the other might very well vent his frustrated anger on Zachariah, his face softening, releasing Johnson’s hand.
“Bill, ‘e’s but a little boy. ‘e’s not got parents. ‘e’s got but you an’ what you gives ‘im, an’ Lord knows that’s precious little.
Tomorrow’s Christmas. For Christ’s sake, Bill, let the lad ‘ave somethin’ for ‘imself. It’ll cost ya nothin’, an’ for the boy it’ll be a blessin’—a blessin’ an’ a kindness.”
‘e’s right, Johnson thought, ‘e’s right! But, his voice tinged with anger, “It ain’t for ya to say ‘ow I treats ‘im, an’ what I gives ‘im!” Turning his head, he looked at Zachariah, who was standing by the stairs holding a kitten in his arms, and felt a pang of guilt at the life he’d forced on the boy… But still, I’m the Master! Zachariah belongs to me!
His inferior ego demanding that he have authority over something! Over someone, at the very least this boy.
“No! ‘e’ll ‘ave what I give ‘im and nothin’ else! An’ I’ll not allow ‘avin’ your praise make ‘im lazy!” Now, for the first time, Johnson looked into Archibald’s eyes. “No, ‘e won’t be ‘avin’ the cat, thank ya!”
Turning from Archibald, he forcefully walked towards Zachariah.
“Bill!”
Johnson stopped, but did not look back.
“Think on it, Bill! Ya can pass by ‘ere on the way ‘ome!Ya can come in an’ let the lad pick whichever kitten ‘e wants. Think on it, Bill. For the boy!”
Muttering, “To ‘ell with ya, Archie.” Taking long, angry strides, Johnson walked to the staircase that led to the roof and, “Come on!” snarled at the boy. “Come on, can’t’ch’ya!” and waited impatiently as Zachariah went beneath the stairs to place the kitten back into its box.
Zachariah had put the rope, drop clothes, and brushes on the bottom step when he’d gone for the kitten. Only needing to carry the rope for this job. Putting the heavy coil back about his neck and shoulder, dreading the climb up the long, steep staircase, he started up with Johnson at his heels —who carried the toolbox only.
Breathing heavily, silently grunting with each step, the long climb upstairs with the weight of better than a hundred feet of rope about his neck and shoulder caused Zachariah to perspire. Momentarily hesitating as he wiped sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of the coat, Johnson purposely hit him on the backside with the edge of the tool box causing the boy to trip on the next step and fall, painfully, onto his knees.
As predicted, “Watch ya’self, ya lout!” As expected, taking his anger at Archibald out on the boy, roughly picking him up by the seat of his coat and pants, Johnson set him on the next step.
Sleet mixed with rain was falling when, three stories up.
glad to be done with the stairs but apprehensive about what he knew he would very soon face.
Zachariah, the sheen of now cold perspiration on his face and the dampness beneath his clothing instantly changing to the feel of ice, pushed through the door onto the roof.
On the roof, out of the lee of other buildings, the wind blew rain and sleet with a near-stinging velocity.
The darkness had given way to a streaky grayness as the early morning light attempted to break through thick, moisture-laden clouds, and the City of London lay sprawled below in the dull, overcast light.
Jutting from the roofs of thousands upon thousands of houses, tenements and factories, for as far as the eye could see, a jungle of chimneys of all sizes and heights emitted broken spirals of dissipating gray-black smoke.
Sounds of the city could now be heard: children shrieking, women yelling, the clanging of bells from peddler’s carts, the whinny of a horse, the wake-up call of a rooster. Sounds of boat horns and ships’ bells came from the direction of the unseen Thames River.
Thick plumes of dense smoke roiling upward further blackening their exposed skin, the three working chimneys rained particles of black soot mixed with sleet and rain upon the boy and man.
Hunching their bodies forward into the wind, they made their way to the fourth—currently inoperable—chimney that, as the other three ran from the floor of the factory, three stories below, to the roof, and twenty feet higher.
Huddling as best they could out of the weather alongside the leeward side of the chimney, “Com’er, boy, let’s make ya ready.”
Screenplay
EXT. FACTORY CHIMNEY - DAY 8 The wind howls around the chimney as we move around it to a set of metal rungs. Sleet falls. Zachariah is climbing the rungs, shivering as much from fear as cold. A tool belt made of rope has been tied around Zachariah’s waist, from which a metal scraper and a large stiff bristled brush hang on strings. The coiled rope has been fashioned into a harness. The sack full of cloths and bags, is tied to the belt, it serves in part as a cushion against the inner chimney wall. Johnson is about twelve feet below the boy, coughing. The Climbing Boy 10. ON JOHNSON: Struggling to hold on, sleet blowing into him, he can’t stop coughing. He fearfully hugs the rung before him, while trying to control his coughing. The rope becomes taught. JOHNSON STOP! - old on ya beggar! Lord almighty gimme strength. The rope slackens. Johnson continues coughing...
Next: Zachariah 4;
