by KW Jeter
I leapt down from the top of the wall and, in an instant, regretted it. A pool of water, choked with reeds, had collected against the stones; the mud splashed up to my chest before I found any solid footing underneath: Chilled to the marrow, I struggled forward through the ooze sucking at my boots, grasping handfuls of the rank foliage for leverage. I at last crawled shivering up on to ground that, if still soggy and yielding to my hands and knees, at least afforded some security against drowning.
Spitting out a mouthful of the thick water, I stood up to reconnoitre my position. Several yards away, the black expanse of the wall hid the battle raging in and around Bendray Hall. Looking about, I feared for a moment that I had lost the direction in which the village lay. Then I spotted a plume of smoke blotting out a thin wedge of stars, and at its base a faint glow of lanternlight through a crossed window frame. I set out for this promise of safety.
By the time I reached the village, I was even more thoroughly drenched, having blundered into a good half dozen of the rivulets and stagnant ponds that had lain in my path. One such had been a stream of current sufficient to pull me off my feet and send me thrashing for several yards until I managed to grab the bankside weeds for anchor; a family of water rats, bright eyes glittering, had stared at me before retreating into their nest. Thus, dripping mud and oozy vegetation from every limb, I at last staggered into the central open space of Dampford.
The plume of smoke I had spied earlier arose from the largest of the squatty buildings. I assumed it to be the village inn, or what passed for one; through its open doorway I could hear voices in mingled conversation – a dialect so thick, combining the mangled syllables I had heard in Wetwick, with the heavy guttural "r" of the countryside, that I could not make out the words from only a few feet away – and barking laughter, all to the clink of tankards against wooden tables.
I was correct; a good portion of the village's population, both male and female, appeared to be inside. Beneath a sagging beamed ceiling obscured by a haze of tobacco smoke, their goggling eyes turned towards me as I presented myself in the doorway. Talk ceased; pipes were laid down; and at the tables in the far corners, heads were raised from pools of spilled ale. Even the lumpish village women, grey hair straggling across their sloping brows, ceased the gossip and knitting in which they had been engaged around the smouldering hearth.
Doubtless I seemed an appalling spectacle as I grasped the edge of the doorway for support. A brownish puddle began to form around my feet. "Good people–" I managed to speak before halting to gather my swirling thoughts. The piscine faces continued to stare at me with no discernible emotion. "There's been frightful events–" I raised my arm to point into the night, sending a cold rivulet trickling down my sleeve. "At Bendray Hall – men attacking… some sort of ghastly army – you've got to help…"
The villagers looked amongst themselves back to me, then resumed their conversations as before, though perhaps at a slightly lower pitch. One or two of them cast a further inquisitive eye in my direction before raising a tankard; but none of them made any expression of interest in my plight, or any motion towards assistance. I staggered forward into the room, looking amazedly around at the indifferent villagers, ostentatiously ignoring my pleadings. "Don't you comprehend? Lord Bendray… up at the Hall… your duty as his tenants–"
One of the ugly women stared at me before sniffing haughtily and returning to the low whispering directed at her neighbour's ear.
"Simple Christian charity, for God's sake–" I grabbed the arm of one of the men, interrupting his guzzling pull at his ale. "You've got to hide me – before they find me here–" The man swore something ill-tempered and incomprehensible and roughly shoved me away.
It struck me where I had encountered an incivility similar to this before, from people who were the urban counterparts of these unsightly rustics. In that London borough of Wetwick; there had been a remedy as well, for their bad manner towards a stranger. A token commanding respect; one that I still had upon me, in my waistcoat pocket. My fingers dug into the sodden garment, and drew out the Saint Monkfish crown.
"Your attention, please!" I held the coin triumphantly aloft; anger at my shabby reception sent my voice ringing to the far walls. "Do you see what I have here? Eh?"
The voices fell silent again; the protuberant eyes were fastened on the glittering object.
I thrust the coin under the nose of the nearest man, who a moment before had pushed me away with the flat of his beefy hand. His trembling fingers took the bit of metal; his companions at the table crowded about his shoulders to gaze down at it. Throughout the room, a general hubbub broke out. Men and women swarmed around the table, gesticulating and jabbering. The coin was the focus of their excitement.
Smiling to myself with satisfaction, I stood apart from the noisy pack. The token had worked its still-inexplicable magic, shattering the villagers' sullen indifference. The rising clamour, as the coin was passed from hand to hand, was more to my liking; I awaited the deference it had wrought before, and the speedy offering of the assistance I had requested.
The Dampford villagers looked up at me. One of the women shouted an angry curse; a thrown tankard struck me on the forehead. En masse, they churned up from the table, scattering chairs and benches behind· them, and were upon me. Dazed from the blow, I was lifted backwards as though by a wave. Arms pinioned, I was borne out the door, above the heads of the shouting crowd.
My head was still ringing when my vision cleared well enough to see that the population of Dampford had formed a surging ring about me. I discovered that my hands had been bound behind me; a rough hempen rope had been tied around my neck and looped over the branch of a gnarled tree in the village's centre. One old crone marched up to me, thrust the Saint Monkfish sovereign into my shirt, and spat in my face. A debate had broken out amongst the men holding the other end of the rope; from their violent gestures I quickly discerned that one party advocated dragging me up into the air forthwith, the other group maintaining that I should be placed on a wooden bench that could be pulled out from under me.
"Wait!" I cried. The rope burned across my throat as I twisted about. "There's some mistake! I haven't–" My protests only fuelled the villagers' anger; their shouts and imprecations grew louder; torches and lanterns were thrust higher, the yellow glare serving to make the contorted faces uglier still.
One viewpoint had prevailed among the men. I felt the knot tighten at the back of my neck as they pulled the rope.
For a moment, I was lifted up on tip-toe, the abusive crowd swimming in my sight; my tongue seemed suddenly too big in my mouth, stifling me from any further call for mercy. Then, through the blood roaring in my ears, I heard a distant volley of explosions. Another woman's scream cut through the clamour, as the rope went slack and I pitched forward on to my hands and knees.
Gasping for breath, I stared at my fingers clawing into the trampled ground. Above my head, the villagers' excited jabbering mounted into frenzy. The noise came again; I could recognize it as pistol shots now. I looked up and saw the villagers scattering towards the inn and the other low buildings, leaving me in the middle of the deserted space.
"Here you go, mate – how's your windpipe, then?" inquired a jovial voice. I was lifted up on to my feet by hands underneath my arms. Two men supported me on either side; they were such as I, even if unshaven and considerably more muscular in build, and not of the repellent physiognomy of the Dampford villagers. A third man facing me was the one who had spoken; all three of them were dressed in rather stained and greasy velvet jackets over dirty frilled shirts. Though still of imposing physique, with the coarsened features and calloused ears of former pugilists, the buttons of their vests were now strained with the swelling gut that heavy drinking puts on such men.
My interrogator prodded me with the muzzle of his pistol. "Did them bloody fish-faces bang you about much, then?"
I coughed to clear my throat, and shook my head. "I'm – I'm all right."
The two other
s withdrew their grip on my arms, leaving me wobbling but still upright. They stuck their own pistols inside their waistbands.
"We'd best be away from here," said the leader of the small band. "Afore them pop-eyed coves get their knobs up and see as there's more of them than there is of us. Steady on; this way, right smartly now." He turned me by the shoulder towards a path leading out of the village; in a close bunch we struck off for the countryside.
"Fresh up from London, then, are you?" In the darkness, the leader bent close to peer at my face as we marched along the boggy road.
I took my hand away from massaging my chafed neck. "That's right," I said. Though they had come as angels of deliverance, the men were of an appearance sufficiently rough that I refrained from volunteering any more information about myself until I was sure in whose agency they were employed. An innate trust was an element of my nature that had been dissolved through harsh experience.
He nodded sagely. "I thought as I didn't mark you from the bunch Mollie Maud brought out with herself. But seeing as she set out a general call for every brothel bully from Whitechapel to Marylebone, I'm not surprised there are a few new faces in the crew."
Discreetly, I cast a glance at the other two bringing up the rear of our party. My initial impressions were confirmed upon this less hurried examination: the three of them had that brutalised aspect, smirking dull and sly at the same time, of those guardians seen slouching in the doorways of houses of ill repute, charged with the profitable intimidation of those unfortunate women whose erring footsteps on the pathways of shame had brought them under the exploitation of a brothel-keeper, and the maintenance of a riotous order among the inebriated hedonists who sought their carnal pleasures in such dives. Bully was the name such men earned by their bulk and careless violence; and here I was surrounded by a party that had assumed me to be one of their squalid number. Outraged decency would have occasioned an outcry against such an insulting presumption, if caution had not dictated a more circumspect quietude.
"New at this here dodge, are you?" The leader was in a talkative mood, his face flushed with drink and the military triumph over the villagers. "Not been out on one of these recruiting drives, I takes it."
Recruiting? Another mystery to be added to the mounting list. "Ah… yes. Quite." I drew myself up and attempted to ape their rolling swagger, to add conviction to my performance. "Rather jolly fun; I think it."
"'Jolly'?" spoke up one of the others. "I can't bear it until we're back in the city, meself. This muck they call country – trees and bogs and shite–" He spat at the side of the road to express his opinion. "If the toffs want their mackerel-mugged green girls so bad, they should bloody well come out here and get 'em themselves, says I."
"Green girls" – my memory shifted itself, casting up the voice of the London cabby who had taken me to Wetwick; he had mocked me with those words in the low alehouse.
"Aye, and where would us lot be then?" The leader sneered over his shoulder at his compatriot. "They pays for their pleasures, them fine gentlemen do. And it's jingling coin in Mollie Maud's purse, and a bit of it into our pockets, because they do. What do I care if them swells are so jaded they prefer these fishy delights – green girls and such-like – to a good, honest roundheeled lass? As long as they puts their rhino up front, then Lor' bless their wicked hearts, says I."
"Unnatural blighters," muttered the other, wrinkling his nose in a show of distaste.
A tentative hypothesis began to form in my mind: perhaps the "green girls" were the young daughters of the Dampford villagers, that these employees of Mollie Maud – evidently a brothel-keeper of some import in the city had come to this rural district in order to enlist as prostitutes. Such practices as this, the seduction of the countryside's innocents into London's sordid netherworld, were common, by all informed reports. As to what qualities the Dampford girls could possess, that would make them particularly attractive to rakes no longer excited by normal female charms, I shuddered to hazard a guess.
"I expected you was fresh at this game, when Nigel–" The leader pointed his thumb at the third in the band, "he said he'd seen you through the window of them lot's scabby inn, a-trying to pass off a rum couter on 'em."
"Pardon?" I said, puzzled.
He stared at me as we continued walking. "You know a couter, a crown, that is. He saw you flashing one of them dicey coins, with the phiz of the fish-face pope on it."
"Fish-face… You mean, Saint Monkfish."
"Who else, indeed? It's no wonder they mobbed you like that. Hadn't ol' Mollie given you the skilamalink on that, then?"
I hazarded a small confession of ignorance: "No…"
"Well, then, me lad." He brought his beefy face, smiling with lubricious secrets, close to mine. "You see, we gives these silly country lasses, as what doesn't know any better, one of them bright shiny coins to come with us to London town., where they'll soon see a fair parcel more of 'em. It reassures 'em, like, to get such a precious bit with the bust of someone who looks just like 'em stamped on it. And a saint, too! Makes 'em think London must be a respectable sort of place – we tells 'em as much – where they'll come to no harm. What we don't let on is that all they'll see of this Saint Monkfish when they're working on their backs in Mollie Maud's cribs, is if some spiff gentleman drops the coin he uses to show that he's a member of the discerning clientele what appreciates a spot of green." The bully smirked, obviously self-satisfied with his inside knowledge. "Clever, eh?"
I nodded, feeling a general distaste welling in my throat. If not all, a few mysteries – such as the cabby's jocular remarks – were illuminated.
My informant pursed his thick lips in a pantomime of thoughtfulness. "It's grown a bit shiny with use, I personally think. Harder and harder to find one of these goggling bints who hasn't tumbled to it; and sure all their parents know what the Saint Monkfish coin means!" He laughed and slapped me on the back. "They'd got their clammy hands on a seducer of their fair virgins all right, when you waved that silver bit around – if Nigel there hadn't seen it, and come and fetched us, you'd have been in a deal of trouble. Mollie should've warned you to keep it on the hush."
"Yes…" I managed an abashed smile. "I rather suppose so."
"More 'n likely, she'll say it's your own bloody fault, for being such a gawp. But you can make your own complaint to her, if you care to. Here we be."
The path had slanted upward from the surrounding marshland to a rise of relatively dry ground. A team of horses grazed the coarse vegetation at the limit of their tether; the carriage to which they had been harnessed stood at one side, sheltering a simple fire. Near a dozen more brothel bullies roistered in a semi-circle around the blaze, passing bottles back and forth, laughing as they drank until the red liquor trickled from the corners of their mouths. They formed a sycophantic court around a woman of large stature, seated with her back towards me. A garish red wig was piled on top of her head, and laced with strands of pearls; more of them swaddled her thick neck. A bottle for her private enjoyment was grasped in a be-ringed, pudgy hand; the fluid sloshed and bubbled as she swung it about, joining in the rough badinage of her attendants.
I halted in my tracks; certainly I had no desire to meet the queen of this distasteful band. "Perhaps… I should just… go back to the village, and look around a bit. Attend to business, as it were – now that I've got a better idea of how to go about it."
"Naaw – there'll be no more ugly girls sent on their way to London this hour of the night." A slab-like hand was clapped on my shoulder, propelling me forward. "'S time for a piss-up – Mollie would be right offended if you got all this way to the fire and didn't have a drop with her."
The circle of ruffians brayed at our approach, slapping each other and holding their bottles aloft in invitation. the large woman wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at us.
"Here you go, Mollie." The leader of my rescuers gave me a push between my shoulder blades, nearly throwing me off balance. I stumbled direct
ly in front of the woman. "Your lad here's a bit on the raw side – maybe you should've seasoned him up a bit before you sent him out here." The two others choked around the bottles from which they were already swigging, and sputteringly began to explain this witticism to the rest of the party.
"Who's this, then?" The woman blinked at me, focussing through the haze of her own inebriation. "I don't bloody remember any–" She fell into amazed silence, her jaw dropping open as she recognised me.
I was equally stunned. The bullies lapsed into quiet, as they regarded the two of us staring at each other. Though I had seen this woman only once before, the occasion had been seared into my memory.
"You!" cried Mollie Maud. The bottled dropped from her hand, and shattered upon the rock she sat upon.
"Good Lord," I muttered. I felt quite dizzy; beneath the florid rouge of the brothel-mistress I could clearly see the stern, commanding features of Mrs Trabble, the leader of the Ladies Union for the Suppression of Carnal Vice.
