Zechariah 5

December 24, 1843

London, England

Fearful now of the sounds about him. The boy heard the whispered ‘whisk’ … ‘whisk’… ‘whisk… of his clothing upon the cylindrical wall and the ‘whooooo’… ‘whooooo’ … ‘whooooo’… of the moaning wind and his eyes opened wider… wider as, looking down, trying to penetrate the darkness.

Tis only brick‘n mortar, he told himself. Tis only brick ‘n mortar! Tain’t nothin’. Attempting to convince himself, Nothin’!

The moaning wind. The eerie shadows. The whisk of his body upon the cylindrical wall and the acidic odors of damp soot and ash.

Imagination mixing with claustrophobic fear, Tain’t nothin’… Nothin’!

Zachariah became damp with sweat and an internal coldness penetrated his clothing. Trembling, he wrapped his arms about his chest as...

Lowering inch-by inch…

lowering foot-by-foot.

Lowering so slowly…

Until...

“ ‘ere’!” The sound of his confined voice loud upon his ears. “ ‘ere’!” For now the soot-brushed, creosote-scraped brick ended and all below was coated and blacker. “Master Johnson!” his voice echoing up the flue, “Stop ‘ere!”

Forty-seven feet above, securing the rope, freezing, his hands cramped from grasping and playing out the rope, Johnson awaited the word from below to once again…

“lower away.”

The scarf bound over mouth and nostrils, a brush in one small, blood-scraped filthy hand, the scraper in the other, the boy began.

For leverage, his feet and back braced upon opposite sides, working as quickly as possible, Zachariah corkscrewed his body foot-by-foot as, scrapping, as brushing…

“Lower away!”

The man above lowered the boy below.

Reaching above his head, the brush hit upon a pocket of soot that had built up over an indentation in the wall and soot— caustic, powdery soot—cascaded onto his head, over his shoulders and through the weave of the scarf, into his eyes, ears and throat. It ran down his neck and onto his back.

Dropping from his hands, the scrapper and brush dangled from the belt of rope about his waist.

Yanking the scarf from his face, scrabbling at his burning eyes with filthy knuckles. “hhhuuu!” Gasping, the boy, “hhhuuu!” tried to pull breathable air into his lungs. “Hhhuuu!” Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Zachariah was able to inhale… then exhale.

“Aye, Zachariah! What’s keepin’ ya?” Johnson’s hollow voice coming to the boy’s ears. “Get a move on! It’s bloody cold up ‘ere ya know!” Yelling down the flue.“We got to get finished today!” Tugging the rope, “Move your arse!” And…

…Zachariah is yanked from his back and leg braced position and dangled for a moment or two before he braced himself, and reseated his position and once again, started into brushing, then scrapping.

In the factory, now slightly less than one story below, the huge double doors were opened allowing entry to a horse and dray.

The open door causing a strong draft of air to blow through the factory lifting eddies of dust along the floor and the change of internal air pressure also causing an updraft in the closed furnace pushing dust and soot upward, catching the boy again, this time from below.

Coughing again, dropping the tools again, Zachariah scrabbled at his eyes again.

Above: Hammered by rain, sleet, and wind, Christ! His feet on the third rung, hanging onto the support rung, the upper portion of his torso remaining bent across the flue, Christ!

Every few minutes, in an effort to straighten his aching back, stepping down to the fifth rung while entwining both arms through the first rung Johnson hung on. But from this position he couldn’t hear the call to ‘lower away’ so, climbing back to the third rung with his upper body again draped across the flue...

“Come’on! Come’on!” Johnson repeated over and over. “Come’on, can’t’ ch’ya?” yelling down the flue. “Can’t ‘old on ‘ere much longer! Come’on, can’t’ ch’ya!”

Working steadily, “Lower away!”

Working quickly, “Lower away!”

The boy’s back and legs aching from the strain of bracing himself.

“Lower, away!” Zachariah had but one objective in mind: ‘To be done with this job’.

“Aye!”

Listening for the boy’s call…

“Aye!”

At least now the rain had stopped, but still,…

“Aye!”

“‘urry up!”

Until, at last...

“All’s clear!”

Unclipping the lantern and stepping out of his rope harness. “I’m at the bottom!” Cupping his hands to his mouth, Zachariah yelled up the echoing chimney, “I’m at the bottom, an’ takin’ off the ‘arness!”

Above:

Hearing the boy’s hollow voice echo up the flue, “I’d’ a done it faster!” Johnson yelled back, then clambered down the chimney rungs as fast as his cramped hands and legs would allow.

Below:

Straightening his back, ‘Thank ya!’ Grateful to be through with it. ‘Thank ya for bringin’ me down afore gettin’ killed.’ Silently thanking his unknown God while rotating his neck and stretching his back and arms as, standing on the inside firebox of the furnace, feeling… Sensing the bars of light that shone through the slats of the steel hatch as warmth upon his face… With one more ‘Thank ya’, pulling the release rod, Zachariah pushed the hatch open.

Above:

Back on the solid footing of the roof, pushing his fists into the small of his back, flexing his arms and legs, Johnson began to regain the feelings in his hands, feet and back.

Below:

The sudden opening of the furnace hatch from within momentarily startling two workmen passing by.

“What’s this?” Each carrying the end of a large, wooden tray, one of the men, almost dropping his end of the load asked, “What the ‘ell’s this?”

Above:

Johnson yanked on the rope. Finding no resistance he pulled it through the flue and when it reached the top it fell from the chimney into a heap on the deck..

Below:

Anxious to be out of it and to breath fresh air, reaching through the open hatch, a soot-covered arm set a lantern on the floor, then a filthy head and shoulders appeared as…

Above:

Johnson’s stiffened fingers did not want to cooperate and it took longer than usual for him to coil the hundred foot length of rope as…

Below:

Zachariah saw two sets of legs and, looking up, saw the two men that towered above him.

The upper portion of the boy’s face was black as coal and the lower portion, the part of his face that had been somewhat partially protected by the scarf, just slightly lighter.

“‘ere there...” one of the workmen asked “...what’s this thing?”

“Blimey...” said the other “...looks like a blinkin’ dust mop!”

The thought made Zachariah smile, and his eyes, retracted dimples and teeth shown as pure white in a field of black.

“Aye...” one of the men said to the other “...wha’d’ya do with a blinkin’ dust mop?”

Looking at each other a thought passed between them, and in unison the men put the tray down and, reaching under the boy’s arms, pulling him fully out of the furnace, held him between themselves two feet above the ground.

“Yeah, ya shakes a blinkin’ dust mop...” one of the men said “...ya a shakes it good!”

Frightened a moment, Zachariah looked from one face to other. Seeing the men smile, knowing that they were playing with him and not going to hurt him, his smile turns to a giggle.

The men began to laugh, and they did — holding him from beneath the armpits and ankles, they swung the boy, and as they did Zachariah’s giggle turned to laughter, too, as…

Above:

The rope finally coiled, hoisting the toolbox onto his shoulder, Johnson started down the stairs.

Laughter? On the dais, hearing an unusual sound above the din of the factory, Laughter? Lifting his eyes from the ledger in front of him, John Archibald looked to see, Who’s laughin’? Seeing the two men swinging the boy between them, his face becoming red and smooth, standing angrily he started off the dais, but stopped when he realized that the boy was laughing too, and John Archibald’s face crinkled and his anger turned to a smile as pointing at the workman and the boy, the smile became bellowing laughter.

Laughter? Hearing laughter coming from above the usual noise of the factory, Stopping work to look about, the other men saw Archie, the boss, laughing, pointing toward the furnaces.

Curious, they left their places to go to the furnaces.

From the foundry to the loading platform all work stopped as the workers went to the furnaces to watch the swinging boy, and to join Zachariah's laughter because, as the two men swung Zachariah, ash dropped from his coat, soot fell from his trousers, dust shook from whatever hair had regrown upon his head, and the unusual, contagious sound of laughter spread throughout the factory.

Coming down the stairs, entering the factory, Laughter?Johnson heard the laughter, too and, as the others looking for its source, saw the men swinging Zachariah, but didn’t realize that the reason they were laughing—the ‘only’ reason they were laughing —was because the boy was laughing.

With an unusual show of courage, “Shame!” he said, pushing his way through the group of workmen. “Shame on all’a’ya laughin’ at a poor workin’ lad!”

Reaching the two men he grabbed the no longer swinging, laughing boy from their hands. “What’s’a matter with ya? Ain’t ya never been dirty?”

The laughter ebbed as the men of the factory looked to Johnson.

Johnson looked back…

Looked back for a moment, then his stare withered, his eyes dropped and, his Adam’s apple moving up and down his throat. Looking downward, the chimney sweep walked through the crowd.

Picking up the lantern and rope belt that he’d laid on the floor, and with one last, weak smile at the two workmen, Zachariah followed Johnson.

As though at a loss for what to do, the workmen looked across the factory to Archie, to the boss.

His eyes glancing at all, with a movement of his arm Archibald motioned the men back to work and within moments…

A hammer hammered.

A crate scraped across the floor.

Another hammer, and another.

The saw... The grinder , and within seconds the din of the factory was back to its usual pitch.

“Wait ‘ere!” Johnson commanded when they reached the side entrance.

Walking quickly to the center of the factory. Stepping onto the dais and going to the foreman’s desk. “Me job’s done!” His hand outstretched. “Me payment if ya don’t mind.”

Pulling the drawer to his desk open, reaching inside Archibald removed a stack of pre-arrainged coins. “Bill, ya were a bit misguided there...” nodding his head toward the furnaces “...the men weren’t makin’ fun’a the lad, they were playin’n with ‘im.” He handed the coins to Johnson, who, studying them a moment, put them in his pocket then silently turned away.

“Bill!”

Johnson turned back.

“Bill, it was nice’a ya comin’ to the boy’s defense that way. I know you ‘ave some feelin’s for ‘im. Remember what I told ya. Stop back on your way ‘ome and let the lad pick a kitten for ‘isself.”

Thinking, ‘e’s right, but, “I don’t thinks so, Archie. The boy’ll ‘ave what I gives him an’ not more. I don’t want ‘im to be ‘avin’ your gift.”

About to say something, “William…” but thinking better of it, Archibald stared at Johnson a moment thinking, Lord ‘elp the lad! Turning back to the work on his desk, with a disgusted wave of his hand dismissed him.

Standing before the doorway, Zachariah watched the two men. Seeing Archibald turn from Johnson, feeling a tug in his chest because he knew if he were to have the kitten, Mister Archibald would have given him a sign of some sort.

Sighing, he placed the coiled rope and string of brushes about his neck and around his shoulders.

Pointing to the mound of drop cloths, “Take the ‘quipment!” Johnson grabbed the poles and toolbox. “Com’on!” Jerking his thumb toward the door, motioned for Zachariah to follow.

Looking up, he watched as Johnson approached Zachariah, picked up the poles and the toolbox, then motioned for him to follow.

Tis a shame, lad, Archibald thought as he saw the overloaded boy obediently follow his ‘master’ out the door. Closing his eyes, for the third time on this day: An’ I pray the Lord Jesus to ‘elp ya outt’a this kind’a poor life, m’boy. And he did; John Archibald did once again pray for Zachariah.

Outside:

Though the air was still cold and damp and the sky deeply overcast, the rain had stopped.

His face black and marbled with sweat. Heavy patches of dirt had coagulated around his nose, mouth and eyes. The shaking by the two workmen doing little, if anything, to clean him. Since stepping out of the factory furnace every fiber of Zachariah’s clothing was permeated with soot, and as he walked the boy left dusty footprints. .

Rushing to keep up, “Master Johnson, might I shake myself off?”

Stopping, turning, “Make it fast, we’re late as it is.”

Dropping the drop clothes, shrugging the brushes and rope off his shoulders, removing his scarf and long-coat and taking a deep breath before starting; shaking both, Zachariah became enveloped in a cloud of dust.

With the rope and brushes again about his neck and shoulders, with the drop clothes in his arms, the boy and man rushed toward the second job of the day…

“Bloody ‘ell!” Seeing them. Having encountered them in  the past. Zachariah's stomach tightening because he knew what was coming. Muttering one of his master’s favorite phrases, “Bloody ‘ell!”

The two brothers, apprenticed themselves; one to the butchers trade and the other to a printer, though each bloodied and ink smeared, always ready to taunt one smaller and one perceived to be lower than themselves —the chimney sweeping trade considered the lowest.

Knowing their taunts, embarrassed by his appearance as well. Unable to use both hands so using one only, Zachariah attempted to tighten the long scarf around his recently shaved head but only succeeded in loosening it further. As he and Johnson came abreast, the two boys stepped into the gutter making room for them.

“Mornin’, m’lords!” Doffing their caps as they had on two other occasions and bowing low with exaggerated curtsy’. “Aye, m’lords!” one of the boys said as following as closely behind as he dared. The other boy, being careful to stay out of the reach of Johnson, “Ai, black boy! What’s ‘appened to your ‘air, black boy?” taunted Zachariah.

Looking straight ahead, his stomach tightening, Zachariah did his best to ignore the boys as, gaining courage, coming closer, the larger of the boys grabbed the tail of Zachariah’s scarf and yanked, causing him—the drop clothes falling from his hands—to spin in a tight circle, to slip and fall on the wet cobblestones.

Yelling to his brother, “‘e’s a bloody top, ‘e is!”

Forgetting, the boy came within Johnson’s range and, wanting to in the past, but never allowed close enough, ‘whap’, swinging the poles with all his force, Johnson hit the boy across his neck and shoulders knocking him onto the street.

Standing above him, the poles forcefully poked onto his chest, Johnson straddled the boy.

Cowering. “Don’t ‘urt me...” covering his face “...we’s only funnin’. Don’t ‘urt me!”

Reaching down, grabbing boy by the lapels of his coat, “You bastard!” Hauling him to his feet, shaking him with one hand, Johnson’s other hand holding the poles, menacingly inches from the boy’s whipping head…

“Don’t ‘urt me!”

Slapping the boy’s forehead with the poles, leaving wide, black smudges, Johnson flung him towards his brother causing the boy to slide, collide into a wall, and fall.

The younger brother running already. Hauling himself up, the larger boy quickly followed.

“Go on…” calling after them “...ya bloody bastards! I’ll  ‘urt ya next time! I’ll ‘urt ya good next time!”

Turning back — the kindest thing Zachariah could recall Johnson doing, “ ‘ere, there.” offering his hand, Johnson helped Zachariah to his feet, but did not help the boy gather the scattered drop clothes

                               SCREENPLAY

The Climbing Boy 17. At Archie’s platform, Johnson drops his toolbox with a clatter and glares angrily at Archie.  

JOHNSON (CONT’D) Me job’s done. I’ll ave me payment. Archie reaches into a drawer and takes out some coins which he counts into Johnson’s outstretched hand. ARCHIE It was good o ya comin to the boy’s defence like that, though they was only avin fun. Seems ya ave some feelin for im after all. The offer o the kitten still stands. Johnson pockets the money, picks up his toolbox and starts walking away.

ARCHIE (CONT’D) William… You… Johnson hesitates. Archie changes his mind, sighs and resumes his work. Johnson walks away without looking back. As Johnson reaches the factory doors, Archie looks up to see Zachariah smiling at him. He returns his smile, looks away from the boy and back to his work. Archie prays quietly. Zachariah, realizing he won’t be getting a kitten, sighs in defeat and follows Johnson away.

ARCHIE (CONT’D) Lord bless and keep ya lad. May e bring ya to a better place and bless and keep ya. Archie continues writing in his ledger. 16 EXT.

         Next: Zachariah 6 ; Marcos