by Mark Hodder
The government of the time, led by Lord Melbourne, had flown into a panic in the wake of Queen Victoria’s death. There was only one clear successor to the throne: her uncle Ernest Augustus I, the Duke of Cumberland and King of Hanover, the fifth son of King George III. However, the thought of him becoming the king of England filled almost everyone with horror, for sixty-nine-year-old Ernest had, without a doubt, inherited his father’s madness. There were persistent rumours that he’d brutally murdered his valet in 1810, fathered a son by Princess Sophia—who happened to be his own sister—and had indecently assaulted Lady Lyndhurst. He was also an extreme conservative, and thus out of step with the more liberal politics that were sweeping Britain at the time. Besides, it would mean reuniting the royal houses of Hanover and the United Kingdom, which had only been separated three years before, after Victoria came to power.
In the immediate aftermath of the assassination, the populace took to the streets to protest at the possibility of Ernest becoming their king. Riots broke out in several cities. A bomb exploded near the Houses of Parliament.
The government declared a constitutional crisis, the Duke of Cumberland’s accession was blocked, and regal powers were passed to a council of high officials, among them the then foreign secretary, Lord Palmerston. These men turned their attention to an item of legislation that had been due for presentation in August of 1840. It was the Regency Act, prepared when Victoria declared her first pregnancy and designed to allow her husband, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, to be designated regent in the event of his wife’s death before their child reached the age of majority.
Palmerston, who’d been intensely disliked by Victoria due to his propensity for acting without going through a proper consultation processes, knew a good thing when he saw it. With a political sleight of hand, he and his fellow council members backdated the Regency Act to make it effective from the time the royal couple’s child had been conceived, rather than from the time of its birth. The Act was then rushed through Parliament and approved unanimously.
It was, of course, sheer hocus-pocus.
The unborn child had died with Victoria, so Act or no Act, the prince regent had no right to the throne. To achieve that, further manipulations were needed. The constitution required a rewrite.
Ernest Augustus I was, of course, furious. Had Hanover been any larger than a small English county, he may well have declared war. As it was, he looked on helplessly while the British politicians made the necessary adjustments and signed away his rights of accession.
In April 1842, the throne of the British Empire was passed to the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha.
Albert became king.
THE HOG IN THE POUND
The Government is the Empire’s brain.
The Technologists are the Empire’s muscle.
The Libertines are the Empire’s imagination.
And I, God help me, mast be the Empire’s conscience.
—HIS MAJESTY, KING ALBERT
ednesday tried and failed to dawn. It wasn’t until late morning that the fog allowed a smudge of daylight to filter through.
Sir Richard Francis Burton had spent the previous evening pondering the report Detective Inspector Trounce had loaned him. There was one aspect of it that he and the Yard man hadn’t discussed: in every description given by witnesses—even those where the apparition was said to be a ghost or a devil—its age was estimated as “early forties.” Yet twenty-four years had passed since the first manifestation. If Jack had been in his early forties when he pounced on Mary Stevens then he should be nigh on sixty-five by now. The face Burton had seen beneath the globular helmet had been lined with madness and pain but certainly not with age.
He was beginning to agree with Trounce that the Spring Heeled Jack phenomenon might involve more than one person—and perhaps more than one generation.
As was his habit, he slept lightly and restlessly, awoke early, and wrote for three hours before taking breakfast.
Throughout the rest of the morning, the gas lamps glowed in both his study and the library upstairs as he brought down stacks of books and searched through them for references to any mythical being that might resemble his assailant. While he was at it, he kept his eyes open for information concerning wolf-men, too.
In the latter case, there was a plethora of references to loups-garous—or werewolves. Tales had been told of half-man, half-wolf creatures all over the world and throughout history. The same could not be said for Spring Heeled Jack; Burton found but one mention of a stilt-walking spirit.
He was smoking a hookah while studying the reference when Algernon Swinburne called at one o’clock.
The poet stood on tiptoe and peered over a wall of books at Burton, who’d absentmindedly muttered “send him in” when Mrs. Angell announced his friend’s arrival. It was plain that the great explorer was in one of his “scholarly funks”—as Swinburne called them—and was blind to all but the book in his hand.
“Boo!” said the poet.
“Moko Jumbi,” announced Burton.
“Eh?”
The explorer looked up. “Oh, hello, Algy. There’s nothing. No reference I can find that at all resembles Spring Heeled Jack with the exception of the Caribbean’s ‘Moko Jumbi,’ which is represented in carnivals by stilt-walking dancers. The origin is definitely African. Moko is a god of the Congo region; the word means ‘diviner.’ As for jumbi,’ I believe it roughly equates with the Arabian ‘djinni’ and probably has its origin in the Congolese word ‘zumbi.’ So: ‘Diviner Spirit.’ Interesting.”
“Is it?” said Swinburne. “Why are you researching Spring Heeled Jack? Are you joining the Rakes? And why do you have a black eye?”
“The one gave me the other.”
“What? What? Are you telling me that Spring Heeled Jack whacked you in the eye?” exclaimed Swinburne, moving around the books to sit in the armchair facing Burton’s. His elbow caught a stack and sent volumes cascading to the floor.
Burton sighed. “Do you consider ‘whacked’ to be a suitable word for an up-and-coming poet?”
“Shut up and answer the question!”
“If I shut up I can hardly—”
“Richard!” screeched Swinburne, bouncing in his seat.
Burton laughed. It looked like it hurt him; his upper lip curled, revealing over-long canines, and his eyes seemed to wince, as if seldom-used muscles had come into play. Three deep-chested barks, then the face fell back to its normal savage aspect and the penetrating eyes levelled at Swinburne’s own pale green orbs.
“It’s true, Algy. I was attacked by Spring Heeled Jack after leaving you at the Cannibal Club,” he said, putting his book aside. He proceeded to describe the incident.
“Great heavens, but that’s wonderful!” enthused Swinburne when he’d finished. “Fancy being punched in the head by a myth! I don’t believe you, of course. Have you eaten?”
“I can assure you that I’m telling the truth and it felt far from wonderful. No, I haven’t.”
“Come on then—let’s go for tiffin at the Black Toad.”
Burton put the hookah aside and stood. “Very well, but go easy on the ale. Last time we lunched there, I had to carry you out over my shoulder.”
“Funny.” The little poet chuckled. “I don’t remember that at all!”
As he leaped up, his foot clipped another pile of books and sent it crashing down.
A couple of minutes later, the two men, with overcoats buttoned up to their necks, top hats at a jaunty angle on their heads, and canes swinging in their hands, strolled out of 14 Montagu Place and headed east toward Baker Street.
The fog had turned from a deep hellish red to a pustulant pale yellow. People, animals, and vehicles moved cautiously through it. Sound was muted. Even the sudden report of a nearby velocipede’s boiler exploding, and the rider’s yells as his calves were scalded, sounded strangely muffled.
“Algy,” said Burton, “you’ve knocked around with a Rake or two. Why their
enthusiasm for Spring Heeled Jack? What exactly is their philosophy?”
“They’re extremists,” declared the poet. “Anarchists. Nihilists. Very naughty boys. They claim that all moral codes and social conventions are entirely artificial and that by following them a man is willingly allowing his authentic identity to be suppressed.”
They crossed Gloucester Place and entered Dorset Street, Swinburne hurrying along with his characteristically springy step and nervous movements. As they passed the corner, the sweet odour of roasting chestnuts caressed their nostrils; one of the rare pleasurable scents the streets of London could offer. Burton tipped his hat at the vendor.
“Afternoon, Mr. Grub. How’s business?”
“Rotten! No one can see me in this blinkin’ pea-souper. Can I do you a bag?”
“Sorry, old son. I’m on my way for a nosh-up at the pub!”
“Ah well. Enjoy, Cap’n!”
It was one of Burton’s great talents, this ability to communicate with anyone, whatever their social standing. Some of his acquaintances sneered at it; they considered it indecorous to converse with the hoi polloi, but their opinions did little to influence him.
“The difference between a True Libertine and a Rake,” said Swinburne as they moved on, “is that the one is concerned with how and what an individual should contribute to society, while the other is concerned only with how society shapes the individual.”
“You make the Libertines sound rather virtuous. That’s not their reputation.”
“No, no! Don’t misunderstand me! Both branches of the movement are thoroughly disreputable by the fabled Mrs. Grundy’s puritanical standards. Our mystical mother of propriety stamps her little foot at the merest whiff of scandal; and the Libertines stink of it, not least because sexuality is a focal point for their cause. They identify it as the area where the Empire’s hypocrisy is most apparent; and they are wickedly unrestrained in their support of eroticism, pornography, pederasty, de Sade, and all manner of vices.”
A gentleman walking past at this moment muttered, “I say!” as he caught some of the poet’s words. Swinburne chuckled and raised his voice so that other passersby might hear.
“The True Libertine points to the thousands of prostitutes on London’s streets and says: ‘Look! Sex for sale! This is what these woman—and men!have resorted to in order to survive in this so-called civilisation! Where are your much-vaunted morals now, Society? Where is your restraint; your puritan ethic? And these prostitutes have customers! Men whose sexual tastes cannot be satisfied within your rules of so-called decency! You, Society, generate the very thing you denigrate!”
Burton glanced around as heads turned and disapproving glares were cast at his companion. Swinburne continued regardless, sermonising with more than a little relish.
“The Rake, meanwhile, celebrates the sexual act as the one place where men and women are literally and metaphorically stripped naked and reduced to their purest nature—I mean ‘pure’ in the sense of unaffected; the one occasion when we are most liable to shed the artificial skin of Society and gain a sense of our own fundamental identity.”
The two men turned right into Baker Street.
“The Rakes say of shame: what is it? Of virtue: we can miss it. Of sin: we can kiss it. And it’s no longer sin!”
Burton gave a derisive snort. However, after a moment of thought, he conceded: “I can sympathise with the general sentiment. Any intelligent man can see that the hypocritical politeness and studied mannerisms of our civilisation suppress and oppress in equal measure. They certainly serve to obliterate difference, enforcing a regime that discourages intellectual, emotional, and sexual freedoms. Far better for Society that its citizens are built according to its dictates, rather than in their own image. It makes them better slaves.”
“Hear! Hear!” agreed Swinburne. “Those who allow their identity to be formed by the Empire are nothing but the willing fuel for it! This is why the Libertines, and the Rakes in particular, offend, disconcert—even frighten people. The movement pushes at boundaries that the masses aren’t even aware of until they are pushed; and it is those boundaries that define most people’s identities and which tell them that they’re a valued member of a stable society. People like to feel wanted, to know they have their part to play, even if it’s only as fuel for the Empire’s furnace! My goodness, look at that!”
Swinburne pointed to where an elephantine shape was emerging from the miasma. It was one of the new dray horses—a mega-dray—which the Eugenicists had recently developed. These gigantic beasts stood fifteen feet high at the shoulder (measuring them in “hands” had been deemed ridiculous) and were immensely strong. The cargo wagons they towed were often the size of small houses.
Burton and Swinburne pressed against the wall of the building beside them as the towering animal plodded closer, trying to move as far from it as possible; and with good reason, for mega-drays had no control over their bladders or bowels and were overproductive in both departments. This had proven a serious problem in London’s already filthy streets until an enterprising member of the Technologist caste had invented the automated cleaners, popularly known as “litter-crabs,” which now roamed the city every night scooping up the mess.
Sure enough, as the horse came abreast of their position, towing an omnibus behind it, large boulders of manure thudded onto the road, splattering across the pavement, narrowly missing the two men.
The mega-dray faded into the lazily swirling pall.
Burton and Swinburne walked on.
“Where does Spring Heeled Jack enter into it, Algy?” asked the king’s agent.
“According to the Mad Marquess,” answered Swinburne, “if we transcend the borders that define us, we will gain what he termed ‘trans-natural’ powers. Spring Heeled Jack jumping over a house, he maintained, is an illustration of this, for Jack is the ultimate example of a being who dances to nobody’s fiddle but his own—law or no law, morals or no morals. This freedom is, apparently, the next step in our evolution.”
Burton shook his head. “Being liberated is one thing; sexually assaulting young girls is quite another,” he objected. “By God! Poor old Darwin’s theory seems to have proven dangerous for everyone. It’s all but destroyed the Church; Darwin himself has been forced into hiding; and now it’s being used to justify sexual aggression against innocents! Surely, Algy, such acts are indicative of regression rather than evolution? If we must remove suppressions in order to evolve—and in that much, I agree with the Rakes—should there not also come a self-generated code of conduct that disallows such acts of depravity? Evolution should move us away from animalistic behaviour, not toward it!”
Swinburne shrugged and said, “The Rakes specialise in being bestial. They glory in perversion, black magic, drugs, and crime. They want to break taboos, laws, and doctrines, all of which they view as artificial and oppressive.”
The Black Toad came into sight.
“Praise the Lord!” enthused Swinburne. “I’m parched!”
“Can you last a little longer?” asked Burton. “I have it in mind to bypass this place and walk on to the Hog in the Pound on Oxford Street.”
“Ah, you want to see the birthplace of the Libertines, hey? Certainly, let’s leg it over there. But why the sudden interest, Richard?”
Burton told Swinburne the story of Spring Heeled Jack’s tenuous connection with Edward Oxford.
Half an hour later, they arrived outside the Hog in the Pound. It was a dark, overweight building; ancient, timbered, crooked, and begrimed. A litter-crab had broken down in the road outside the premises and curious onlookers had gathered around. It was collapsed with its four right legs curled underneath. Half of the thin litter-collector arms on its stomach had been crushed or bent out of shape, and steam wafted sluggishly from a split in its raised side. One of the left legs twitched repetitively.
Swinburne giggled. “You see,” he announced at the top of his voice. “The spirit of the Libertines still haunts the Hog
in the Pound! All machines that pass here must surely die! Hoorah for art and poetry! Down with the Technologists!”
They entered the public house and pushed through the dimly lit, lowceilinged taproom—where a thirsty mob of manual labourers, clerks, shopkeepers, businessmen, and city gents were swilling away the soot that lined their throats—to the parlour, which was considerably lighter and less well attended. Hanging their coats and hats on the stand beside the door, they crossed to a table and made themselves comfortable. A barmaid took their order: a glass of port for Burton and a pint of bitter for Swinburne. They both chose steak and ale pie for their meal.
“So this is where it all happened,” observed Swinburne, looking around at the smoke-stained, wood-panelled chamber. “The very room where the Mad Marquess preached to his followers.”
“A sermon of lawlessness, madness, and self-indulgence, by the sound of it.”
“Not to begin with. At first it was fairly mild Luddite stuff. Machines are ugly. Machines steal our jobs. Machines dehumanise us. The usual sort of thing. Personally, I think the marquess was pandering to the crowd; I don’t think he much believed in his own preaching.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The fact that he was known to have struck up a close friendship with Isambard Kingdom Brunel back in ‘37. They were often seen together at the Athenaeum Club. If Beresford was truly a Luddite, why the blazes was he so often seen in deep conversation with the leader of the emerging Technologist movement?
“By ‘43, if I remember rightly, he stopped railing against the Technologists altogether and, instead, introduced the idea of the trans-natural man. That became his obsession, and he became much more the extremist. Ah! The drinks! Thank you, my dear. Cheers, Richard!”
Swinburne took a gulp from his pint, which looked enormous in his tiny hand. He wiped froth from his upper lip then continued, “Delicious! The problem for the marquess was that most of his followers were more interested in opposing the Technologists than they were in all the evolving-man bunkum, so in 1848, a more palatable version of his preachings was developed by a small breakaway group, comprised of painters, poets, and critics, and led by William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, and my friend Dante Gabriel Rossetti.”
