The Artful Dodger

4. The Yankee Dodge

The sun beat mercilessly down on the chained convict's dirty necks, burning the pale skin underneath that hadn't seen the light of day in several months. They shambled forwards in a dreary line, until they arrived at one of two doctor's stations where they were examined. It was here where they were handed their fate, usually going one of two ways: grueling work as a chained prisoner for the rest of their short, pitiful lives, or a second chance as a convict servant.

Dawkins was seated at one of these stations outside the Port Victory Royal Hospital, doctor's tools spread across the desk and a roll of parchment laid out for him to write names down of those requiring medical attention. Unlike Sneed, who sat across from him at the other station, Dawkins had the head nurse Hetty writing down the names for him.

"Name?" Dawkins asked the next convict in line, a small, gentle woman hiding behind matted red hair and dirt smudged on her face.

"Milly Wince," she stammered in trepidation. Dawkins sighed. Definitely not another one for the chain gang. He'd have to bend over backwards to allow her to be a servant somewhere. Exhaustion nipped at his bones; this wasn't something he wanted to be wasting his time over with the debt weighing heavily in his empty pockets.

"And your crime?"

"I..." She swallowed, looking down at her bound hands that she wrung nervously. "I stole clothes for me baby. But–but he died on the way over."

Piqued with sorrow for the poor woman, Dawkins hesitated a moment before blinking up into her pale blue eyes. "What was his name?"

"Benjy," she said in a small voice. As the doctor waited in silence once more, the ghost of a smile crossed the woman's face. "Bright little 'un, he was."

Dawkins gave a nod to one of the soldiers standing behind her. "She can help the schoolma'am."

The soldier saluted and began to tug on her chains. "But–but I can't read," she protested, sounding fearful, and Dawkins nodded sympathetically, able to understand where her frustration came from.

"She'll teach you." As the woman was dragged away, Dawkins rubbed his eyes and called for the next prisoner.

When he blinked open his eyes and stared into the next eager, grubby face, half-blinded by the sun, his blood froze to a chilling, icy slush. He was met with the smug face of his past. The old man was a ghost before him that hadn't aged a day.

He did a double-take, overwhelmed with shock and terror as the bald old man's gnarled beard twitched into a grin and gave one of his dirt-crusted hands a wave. Dawkins' breath started dragging laboriously in his chest.

"Hello, Dodge," the old man greeted in a raspy voice. He gave Dawkins that knowing wink, as if they hadn't been apart for a day. "Been a time?"

Dawkins' brain accelerated into fifth gear as anger wrapped its fist around his chest. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the old man by the arm, roughly dragging him through a wrought-iron gate and into an alleyway. A guard saluted him as they passed, and as soon as they were out of sight, Dawkins shoved the old man forwards, viciously slamming him into the wall. Their quick, panicked breaths hit each other square in the face, but Dawkins didn't quease in the slightest at the putrid smell.

They stood like this for a few moments, sizing each other up. The old man gleefully soaking in Dawkins' tense confusion, Dawkins struggling to understand where the old man's mysterious joy came from. He found himself taking several steps backward, the fright of his childhood years creeping up his spine again.

"You're...you're dead," the doctor finally managed, as if simply speaking it would make it happen. "They hanged you fifteen years ago in Newgate."

"Surprise!" The old man chuckled like Dawkins should be happy about his apparent resurrection.