Then I went down and stole the baby's blanket.

Chapter 47.

It was a nice blanket. It was a light blue, with pink needlework along the edges and tiny white flowers in the center and...

"Do you want me to go on? I told you I was a criminal, didn't I? Yes, so you should not have been so shocked at my action. And I might have had some other use for the blanket in mind. Maybe I had a plan forming in my head-did you think that might have been possible, oh, you who are so quick to condemn me? Shall I go on? All right, then..."

I kept an eye on the young man and young woman who had lost their baby. He went out each day to work and his wife resumed her chores, she did, but she did it without joy. She no longer sang, and sometimes, when she thought no one was around, she'd sit down on her steps and cry, rocking back and forth in her grief.

On the Sunday following the funeral, I took Jesse up for his breakfast at Mrs. Little's and then left him in the loving care of Judy, happily snugged in his new blanket. Then I went to check on the still-grieving parents to see if they would keep on going to church, now that God had taken their joy. They did, a downhearted two instead of a joyous three, but they did. And I had to know that.

"No, Rebecca, I couldn't just walk up to them and give them the baby. Don't you think I would have done that if I could, for Jesse's sake, as it was growing colder by the day and we'd see no more warm days till spring? No, the husband would have taken one look at me in my rags and filth, and he'd have refused to take him in. The same with leaving Jesse on their steps and knocking on the door and running away. Nay, there had to be another way to do it. Now, dear, pray let me continue."

Saint Paul's Cathedral sat like a huge fortress in the middle of its own open square, with no other buildings near it and no way into its fastness. Or so thought the smug bunch of tightfisted priests who ran the place, the same bunch who would not let us in the door for services, nor give us any money from the poor box, though you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone poorer than we were. The cheap sods.

It serves them right that the Rooster Charlie Gang found a way in.

There is a graveyard on the river side of the cathedral with the usual gravestones and markers, and a few of them are those little stone houses-mausoleums, I think they're called-where people stick the bodies of their dead 'cause they don't want to put them in the ground with the poor folk.

Anyway, about two years before, on a warm summer's day, when Charlie and me is out on our own tryin' to scare up a little action, we go up a side alley and come out on that graveyard. We go to cut across it on our way to the Bull and Boar Tavern to see what's shakin' there, when we see this bloke dressed in a long priest's cassock come walking through the yard toward us. Charlie grabs my arm and pulls me behind a large tombstone so's we can watch and see what the fellow is up to.

He walks along, then he stops in front of one of those mausoleums, one that's got some bushy trees around the doorway, hiding it, like. He looks about him, as if to make sure no one is about, then he steps behind the bushes. We hear the faint jingling of a ring of keys, the creak of a door opening and shutting, then silence.

A slow grin works its way across Charlie's face. "It's a priest hole," he says.

I ask what that means, and Charlie explains, "It's from back in the old days, when Protestants were runnin' around killin' Catholics and vice versa, all in the name of God, of course. Sometimes a churchman had to get out quick and secretlike, before the mob nabbed 'im for a roastin'. So a lot o' churches, and even some houses, had secret escape tunnels, called 'priest holes.' Get it?"

I got it, and Charlie got out his little lock-pickin' kit he kept tucked in his blue vest, next to his shiv, and we creep over and duck into the bushes where we saw the man disappear. Charlie runs his hand over the door and peers at the lock, and then chooses a pick and sticks it in.

"Are you sure about this, Charlie?" I say. "What if he's in there?"

"Wot? In there payin' a visit to 'is great-great-grandmum? Nah, 'e was out gettin' 'imself a nip, 'e was, or else 'e's got a lady friend out there somewhere 'e don't want 'is vicar to know about." He pulls out another pick and puts it in next to the first. "Ha!" he says as the lock clicks and the door swings open. "I knew it'd be easy. I mean, who wants to break into a crypt? Come on."

We step inside. With the door open and letting in some light, we can see that there is an opening in the floor and stone stairs leading down into darkness. There does seem to be a few real tombs in here, as well, and on top of one sit several oil lamps, along with a flint striker. Charlie takes a lamp, lights it, closes the door, and heads down the stairs, with me followin' a bit fearfully, I can tell you.

The stairs go down about twenty feet and then there is a door. This door is not locked and Charlie carefully looks in. "Good. It's what I thought it would be. It's the catacombs." He opens the door and we go in.

It is a long, long tunnel of stone, probably as long as the church itself, and on either side are shelves, and on the shelves are stone coffins, and on top of some of them are dead bodies just laid out in the open. Charlie's lamp shines on the face of one whose head is to the side so the gaping eye sockets of the skeleton look right at me. I whimper and grab on to Charlie's hand.

"Now, now, Little Mary," he says, soothingly, "these churchmen won't bother you. It's the ones upstairs you've got to worry about." But I ain't convinced ... There's one what ain't been dead too long, his eyes sunken, the skin on his face like brown leather. Oh, God, there's one that- But finally we come to the end, and there's another flight of stairs going up, and up them we go. When we reach the top, there's another door, and Charlie puts his ear to it and listens. Then he opens it. He puts the lamp down on the top step and steps out, with me hangin' on to him like a leech.

We have come out into the great, silent cathedral itself, in an aisle to the side. Light pours in through the grand stained-glass windows and the row of windows that go around the base of the great dome high overhead. Charlie heads down the aisle toward the entrance, toward where he knows the poor box will be. There's a foyer, and there's the box. Charlie sticks his hand in. "Damn!" he hisses. "Cheap bastards prolly don't let the money stay in there for even a moment 'fore they pulls it out and go spend it on themselves! Come on, let's see what's behind those doors."

We go back down the aisle and Charlie opens the door at the end of it. "It's where the altar boys hang their robes. Nothing for us there. Let's check the other one."

We cross in front of the huge altar with all the fine things on it and around it. It was probably the richest-looking thing I had ever seen in my life up till then. There's statues there, too, and they're very realistic. That's gotta be Mary and that Joseph, and there's Jesus in His cradle. Charlie's reaching for the handle on the other door when- "What! Thieves! How the hell did you get in here?" shouts the man who comes out the door to gaze at us, astonished.

"The front door was wide open, Guv'nor!" says Charlie, backing up. "We just come in for some spiritual guidance!" The man charges.

"Run, Mary!" shouts Charlie, making for the front door, but he don't have to tell me, as I'm leaping across pews and down aisles in my desperation to get away.

We make it to the foyer and have the door open, when the man catches both of us by the neck and shakes us about violently. Then he kicks open the door and thrusts us down the stairs.

"Gutter scum!" spits the man as he glares down at us sprawled on the cobblestones.

"Peace be with you, too, Brother," says Charlie, sitting up and then getting to his feet. He reaches down and pulls me up, and grumblin' about the milk of human kindness and all, we head on down to the Bull and Boar.

So, though we didn't get anything we could sell or eat that day, we got something even more valuable-now we knew how to get into the place, anytime we wanted. And some of the times we wanted to were on those nights, in the dead of winter, when it got too unbearably cold to be out and huddled about the banked fires of the blacksmiths. On those freezing nights, our gang would creep into Saint Paul's through the priest hole to find some warmth, and we were grateful for it.

On this morning, this morning of Christmas Day, I take up Jesse and have him say good-bye to the Rooster Charlie Gang, there under Blackfriars Bridge. He giggles and coos and waves his arms about as Judy and Nancy each kiss him on the forehead and say, "Good-bye, Jesse," and brush away tears from their eyes. "Bye, baby," says Polly, hardly more than a baby herself. Jesse grabs one of Hughie's big fingers as he pats the boy on his head by way of farewell. Then Charlie and Jesse and me leave the kip and head up into the town.

I had gone down to the river this morning and washed my face and hair as best I could with a bit of soap that Charlie had got from somewhere. Then I went back to the kip and Judy combed my hair out straight with the comb that we had borrowed off Mrs. Little last evening, when Jesse had his last supper with her. We then put some Mother's Little Helper on his gums and gave him a little sip, besides, right out of the bottle.

Jesse falls into a sound sleep as Charlie and I walk along. We go up Earl to Saint Andrew Street and then up that alley to the churchyard of Saint Paul's Cathedral and to the entrance to the priest's hole. Charlie opens the door and lights the lamp and leads the way through the catacombs to the door at the other end. Again he listens, then opens the door, and I step through, holding the wrapped-up Jesse in my arms.

"Good luck, Mary," whispers Charlie.

"Thanks, Charlie. You'd best go back now," I whisper in return. He nods and retraces his steps out of the church.

It's a good hour before Christmas service is to begin, and there is no one in the great room. I can hear the priests off in their vestry, prolly puttin' on their gear.

I hurry down the aisle to the little room holdin' the altar boys' robes. I put down the slumbering Jesse, choose one of the garments, and pull it over my head. I pick Jesse back up and head for the altar, my heart thumpin' madly in my chest-to get caught now would ruin everything.

I dash across in front of the altar and see that they have now placed the Nativity scene directly in front of it. I, quick, pull the statue of the Baby Jesus out from under his swaddling clothes, say, "I'm sorry, Jesus, but I think You'll understand," and I put baby Jesse in the cradle in His place. I rush the Baby Jesus statue back into the robe room and stick it under some velvet material that lies folded on a shelf.

I go back to Jesse and tuck him in carefully. He certainly is sleeping soundly. I lean down to plant a last kiss on his brow and then turn to go make myself scarce. I figure I'll head up into the choir to watch what happens from there and- "You, there, boy. What are you doing?"

I freeze. There is a man standing there. A man in church robes. A deacon or a sexton.

"I-I was just giving my devotions, Sir. To the Baby Jesus," I stammer.

"Who are you? I've not seen you before." He peers at me closely.

"I've come in from the country, Sir. I'm Henry Hat-field. I'm with Father Philpott. To be here on this special day. The Reverend Philpott's off having his breakfast, Sir."

"Ah. Very well," he says, apparently satisfied. "Well, let's get started, shall we? Open the Gospel to Luke 2:1. Then we'll bring out the other things."

What other things? I'm thinking, as I go up on the altar and open the Bible and feverishly flip through. Ah, there's Luke ... I thumb through three pages and there it is, Luke 2. As I'm doing it, I see some other boys come in and go to the robe room and put on their vestments. Hope one don't notice his is missin'.

I can hear the crowd gathering outside, and the church bells are starting to ring. The boys, now robed, come up to me and ask who I am and I say, "Henry Hat-field, in from the country to help out," and they say, "All right."

"We will have a Processional, of course. You-country boy-you're the smallest. You'll lead. Get the things."

I'm numb with terror, but I notice one of the boys going toward a cabinet and I follow him, hoping ... Yes, he reaches in and hands me this large, long silver cross. I take it.

Churchmen are beginning to come in and take their places on the altar dais. The choir is up in the balcony, tuning up. A man goes to the great organ by the altar.

"Open the doors!"

I hear the crowd begin to pour in and take their places in the pews.

"All right. To the foyer. Places, everyone!"

Places? What places?

From the way the man in the center of a small group is dressed, he must be the head man. I go and stand in front of him, desperately clutching the cross, which must be quivering in my hand.

Hands take me by the shoulders and turn me around, facing the altar. I guess they're figurin' me for a country rube, which, for once, is good. A bell sounds, the organ blasts out, the screen in front of me opens, somebody nudges me from behind and I start walking down the aisle, my robes swaying gently back and forth. The choir starts singing: Ades-te fi-del-is, lae-ti tri-um-phant-es!

Ven-i-te, ven-i-te, in Beth-eth-le-hem...

I get down to where the Nativity scene is and don't know which way to go, so I just go around on the left, figurin' the man behind me will want to go up where the Bible is, and since the heavens don't come crashing down and nobody yells at me and pulls me the other way, I guess I was right. I go over and stand out of the way and my breathing returns to normal. Sort of normal. I steal a look down at Jesse. He is still quietly asleep.

I chance a look over the congregation and ... There! There, dressed in mourning black, is my young father and mother, on the aisle four rows back.

After the choir gets done beltin' out the "Adeste Fidelis," which I didn't know then but which I sure know now, and all goes quiet, the congregation gets to its feet and the head bloke stands up and goes over to the stand that holds the Bible.

He takes a deep breath and begins to read.

"'And it came to pass in those days, that a decree went out from Augustus Caesar that all the world should be taxed. And all went to be taxed, each to his own city.'"

I'm standin' there, holdin' on to my cross for dear life and hoping this all works out.

"'And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David which is called Bethlehem, to be taxed with his espoused wife, Mary, being great with child.'"

Come on, Jesse, this'd be a good time to wake back up, I'm thinking.

"'And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she be delivered...'"

Come on, Jesse! Ah! I see a stirring! I see a little fist poking out of the blanket and waving about!

"'And she brought forth her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger.'"

"Wah!" shouts Jesse, and he starts tossing his swaddling clothes aside there in his own little manger. "Wah!" Oh, and he's got a pair of lungs on him, he has! Good boy! I know from his tone that he's got Mrs. Little's Thelma and Betty more on his mind than scripture, but, hey...

The priest stares in amazement. He's a stern-faced type that looks like he don't believe much in miracles, in spite of his line of work.

There is a common gasp from the congregation. I watch my chosen parents over in their pew. Come on, little mother, come on...

She does. She walks timidly out into the aisle and her husband follows her.

"Whose baby is this?" bellows the priest. "Whosoever it is, come and take it up now!"

That ain't no "it," I think, a trifle resentful, that's Jesse.

The wife comes up and leans over Jesse and touches his blanket.

"Oh, look, Joseph, it's our baby's blanket," she says to her husband.

"If it's your baby, Madame," roars the priest, angry that he's been topped in this show, "then take him up now!"

"Oh, can we, Joseph?" she asks, the tears plain on her face.

The young man nods and she leans down and takes up Jesse and wraps his blanket around him, then the family walks down the aisle and out of Saint Paul's Cathedral, clutching their little Christmas miracle.

After the service was over, I stood with the others and handed back my silver cross, and turned to go, but I stopped when I saw the man I had first seen when I'd entered the church, who now was putting coins into the hands of the altar boys. "Good job, lads," he said, and then pushed a coin into my fist. I looked at it. It was half a guinea, more than I ever seen in the world.

I said good-bye to the other boys and thanked them for showin' a country bumpkin the ropes and slipped out the front entrance. On my way back to Blackfriars Bridge, I sold my robe for twelve pence, and I bought five full meat pies and a big wedge of cheese, and then slipped back into the kip.

We ate hearty that night, even as we mourned our lost member.

Oh, I kept track of Jesse over the next year or so, till I left Cheapside ... From my rooftop I watched him take his first few steps, heard him say his first word, and watched him grow straight and strong. I heard his mother laugh again and I heard her sing to him. He belonged to them now and not to me, and that was all right. He was safe now, as safe as he could be in this world.

Jesse was just the best little baby ... and for just a little while, he was mine.

Chapter 48.

They all knew I was a bit drained last night from telling Jesse's story, and after I finished and had crawled back up into my kip and burrowed in with Annie and Sylvie and Rebecca, and was silently-well, maybe not so silently-crying in the dark, Hepzibah Van Pelt spoke up softly and said, "Can we sing you that song, Jacky, the 'Adeste Fidelis'? Will that make you feel better?"

I sit up and say, "I'd like that very much," and they do it, and it does indeed soothe my soul. When they are done, I ask her if they would also do that Nobby Patches song. "The choir at Saint Paul's sang that song, too, on that day."

"Nobby Patches?" asks Hepzibah, confused. "I don't think I know that one."

"Yes, you do. I've heard you do it. It's the one that goes...," and I hum a bit of it.