For Judge Again, Gratefully-Great men, taken up in any way, are profitable company. We cannot look, however imperfectly, upon a great man without gaining something by him. He is the living light-fountain which it is good and pleasant to be near, ... a natural luminary shining by the gift of Heaven in whose radiance all souls feel that it is well with them. ...
Thomas Carlyle
THF
PRINCE
OF EDEN
The new turnkey looked down, alarmed, into the Common Cell where the prisoners were beginning to stir. "What's 'appening, sir?" he whispered.
Jawster Gray, head turnkey of Newgate, followed his gaze downward from their perch high atop the catwalk. The lad was right. The pit was breathing new life.
Jawster halted his patrol and looked closer. There was neither revulsion nor acceptance in his face. His sole reward for having spent forty-two of his sixty years in this dark, foul pit was a comforting objectivity. It was primordial slime beneath him, that's what it was, out of which would never crawl anything better or worse than humanity.
"Just shiftin' for the evening," he reassured the lad. "No cause for alarm."
The new turnkey, a boy of sixteen, adjusted his black coat with two solid rows of brass buttons and walked a hesitant step forward on his patrol around the catwalk.
Jawster Gray held his position. The vast room below was chill and dark save for wall torches flickering in their fixed standards on red brick walls blackened with years of soot. He leaned still closer to the railing. The slime never stirred without a reason. They stirred to eat and drink and fornicate. But eating and drinking were over for the day, and the fornication wouldn't start until Jawster, with the help of the boy, extinguished the wall torches.
On the catwalk across the way, the new lad called out, a rising hysteria in his voice, "Raise the ladder, sir!"
Quickly Jawster glanced down. Gawd! The ladder was at the ready, left there from earlier in the afternoon when in the safety of daylight, Jawster had descended to break up a fight. Hurriedly he bent over and drew up the ladder, twelve slender rungs, the only connecting links between himself and the scabs below.
He was getting careless. Perhaps they'd sent him the new man just in time. "You, there!" he shouted to a bent old man who was passing quickly among the prisoners, whispering something. "You! Hold your tongue. If it's talk you want, I'll put you on the treadmill. That'll ease the talk out of you right enough."
The old man looked up and smiled a toothless grin. He drew open his buttonless trousers and displayed for Jawster's benefit a limp, diseased penis.
The gesture won for the old man a scattering of applause and hoarse shouts of approval. The entire floor of the Common Cell was now stirring, the whole miserable community on their feet; street thieves and pickpockets, footpads and shoplifters, whore bullies as well as a scattering of whores.
In the accelerating tension, Jawster looked down, dismayed that he'd spent most of his years in such company.
The new lad was at his elbow now. "Look at 'em, sir," he gasped. "Just look-"
At that moment a sharp female scream pierced the air. Jawster's head swiveled toward the far corner, dimly lit where the spill of torchlight did not fall. "You! Over there!" he shouted. "Step forward!"
When after several moments nothing had emerged from the shadows, Jawster called again. "I warn you. The crank and treadmill's waiting. Step forward!"
A cadaverous, hollow-eyed woman moved slowly out of the shadows. The top of her bodice was down about her waist, revealing two sagging breasts. "T'aint nuthin, Guv," she called up. "Me mate was hungry is all, if you know what I mean." She smiled and hurriedly drew the bodice up about her shoulders. "I wanted to feed him, 'fore—"
Abruptly she clamped a soiled hand over her mouth as though she knew she'd said too much.
"Before what?" Jawster shouted down at her.
But she was saying no more and quickly she moved back into the shadows. A few moments later Jawster heard giggling.
The mysterious activity below continued. Jawster cursed under his breath. Usually by this time of an evening, the prisoners were quiet, on
the verge of sleep, which meant that Jawster could slip away for checkers and a pint in the Warden's Hall.
But not tonight. In fact if he hadn't looked up and seen black beyond the high barred ceiling windows, he would have sworn it was morning, the prisoners preparing themselves either for release or further punishment.
In a rush of anger, Jawster shouted, "Line the walls! Every rotten one of you. Put your asses flat and hands out straight."
The sixty or so faces merely gaped up at him.
"You heard what I said," he cried again, pacing back and forth on the catwalk. "Line the wall! If it's a fete you're planning, you can pass the night pressed against cold brick."
But the prisoners were paying no attention to him and continued to jostle each other, the excitement clearly rising, several now facing the broad barred iron doors through which new prisoners were placed in the Common Cell.
The new turnkey leaned close with an opinion. "It's like they was waitin' for someone, sir. Look! Look how they stand!"
The scabs did seem to be forming close to the doors. Still it made no sense. Customarily the last prisoner delivery was made by six o'clock.
The new lad pressed closer, clearly growing more frightened. "Sir, please let me call for reinforcement. We don't know what—"
But Jawster's reply was quick and firm. "No! We're here because the Warden expects us to know what to do. Remember that," he added in a scolding tone, "if you ever want to rise higher than where you are."
Chastised, the new turnkey stepped back. "But what do we do, sir?" he pleaded.
"Keep a sharp eye and ear, that's what," Jawster scolded again. "And remember there's only twelve foot of air between you and them." Jawster glanced over his shoulder at the lad. "Now, go along with you," he urged, softening his tone. "Get on your side of the walk so we can keep all in view."
Suddenly he called after the new turnkey. "Where's the lady? The young one they brought in this afternoon?"
The boy hurried back as though grateful for a reprieve. "Down there she is, sir," and he pointed toward the far wall to their left, toward a mound of straw and a slight figure crumpled as though dead upon it. "She ain't moved since they placed her there this afternoon. I know, sir. I've kept my eye on that one—"
"I'll just bet you have," Jawster concurred with a wink. While the rest of the prisoners continued to gather about the broad barred doors at the opposite end of the cell, Jawster stared downward at the isolated
figure. Seldom did they get nobs like her in the Common Cell. Jawster knew her case well enough, as did everyone in London who could read or had ears to hear. She was Charlotte Longford, the young wife of a rich linen merchant in Oxford Street who had been charged by her husband with adultery.
Jawster felt an odd surge of pity. She did not belong here, yet here she was, and here apparently she would stay. Only that afternoon, an old magistrate named Sir Cedric Dalrymple, with heavy-handed and high Tory arrogance, had come down hard on her sentencing. Apparently choosing to use her as an example for the upstart middle class, the bewigged old man had resurrected an ancient form of punishment for adultery, sentencing her to be burned on the palm of her hand with a hot poker in public court, but first to pass a week with the denizens of the Common Cell, knowing full well that if she survived the latter crucible, the former would be as nothing in comparison.
Upon hearing her sentence, the young woman had collapsed and they had brought her in, and deposited her on the mound of straw. Once or twice Jawster had seen her stir, but for the most part, she had appeared lifeless.
Now in th
e face of the new and mysterious ferment going on below, Jawster warned the new turnkey, "Keep your eye on her. We owe her that much."
The young man nodded. Apparently the order was to his liking.
Wearily he turned his attention back to the crowd pressing closer to the iron doors. Again he shouted down, "I don't know what it is you're waiting for, friends, but you might start praying for new skin to make up for that which you'll lose come morning. Now turn to, I mean it, and line the walls."
In spite of the new harshness in his voice, the tattered rag-covered company scarcely looked up. One old man cried out, "'Tis new skin we're waitin' for right enow. Guv. Keep your eyes peeled and you'll see it as well."
A pickpocket looked up and saw him eavesdropping. "Close your traps, mates. Old Jawster's givin' us a listening ear."
Jawster stepped back, anger increasing. He had no weapon save his voice and an awesome stance of authority. "Move away!" he cried, feeling that authority begin to crumble before the now silent crowd. Stalemate! The slime were still now though they continued to press close to the doors. In all honesty they were doing no harm. If they chose to pass the night standing like cattle at Smithfield's, then Jawster was of the mind to let them. Fatigue would overtake their wasted bodies soon enough. There wasn't anything coming through those
barred doors tonight, of that he was certain. They'd been locked and bolted at sunset, and they'd stay that way until sunrise.
"Then hold your places, scum," he called down, "till you drop for all I care."
Now suddenly from the front of the cell, he heard a hoarse cry. "He's comin'!" Jawster looked sharply up. All the scum were shouting now, their vow of silence forgotten in the excitement of the moment.
The new turnkey called over the din, "What are they talking about, sir? What's coming?"
Jawster ignored him and moved quickly back around the catwalk. A chorus of voices had now taken up the cry, an unruly, yet curiously measured shout of "He's comin', he's comin'!"
A grin broke out on his ruddy face. Gawd! It wasn't possible. Yet it was, and the proof was there in the yelling, stamping crowd beneath him, their glazed eyes turned expectantly toward the iron doors, hands outreaching as though to assist the still invisible presence through the doors and welcome him into their midst.
The grin on Jawster's face broadened as he shook his head. How had they known? That was what puzzled him. How had the senseless, illiterate creatures known who was coming? Yet they knew. They knew! The dreariness of their daily existence had lifted. In each upturned face he saw the light of hope. The chant grew to a din, a continuous refrain of "He's comin', he's comin!"
The new turnkey was again at his side. "Who is it they're—"
As Jawster was on the verge of explaining, the vast cell fell ominously silent. Hands upraised, frozen in position. The entire milling pushing crowd fell without warning into a tableau, the only movement the red flicker of fire coming from the wall torches.
Beyond this silence Jawster heard the sound of bolts being thrown on the other side of the door. Still the tableau held, every trembling thief, pickpocket, whore turned expectantly toward the doors, emotions vaulting, yet somehow held at bay.
The new turnkey whispered, "My Gawd, what is it?"
"Shhh!" Jawster hushed him, then moved slowly down the catwalk, the better to get an unobstructed view.
At that moment the doors were flung opened. A dozen Peelers rushed in, their brass buttons gleaming in the firelight. They formed a ready passage, a half dozen men on either side. The gaping criminals inched backward, their eyes still focused on someone just out of sight.
Suddenly a woman cried out, "It's him!"
Jawster leaned sharply forward against the railing. Below him, from his angle of vision, he saw first the toes of highly varnished black boots
with lofty heels that clacked softly against the stone floor. Next he saw peg-top trousers, sash-cut, the fabric straining against leg muscles. And such an astounding waistcoat, crimson, like fresh blood, such a white flowing neck scarf, and such a plain, sober, but elegant black velvet cape, floor length. Hatless, the overlong fair hair appeared slightly mussed. There was a small wound over his right temple, the blood staunched, but still glistening on his strong forehead.
Now the man stood full portrait before the gaping, admiring criminals. There was a faint smile on his remarkable features which spoke of a passion for doing as one likes. Jawster himself looked admiringly down. It was him, as he had guessed.
Then a great roar went up from the crowd. As though at last given permission to move, they surged forward, their hands outreaching until they engulfed the newcomer. Two strong men lifted him to their shoulders while he, laughing, turned this way and that, greeting all, many by name.
Still leaning on the railing, Jawster found himself laughing with them.
The man was directly beneath Jawster now, still sitting astride shoulders. He looked up at Jawster high on the catwalk. "Good evening to you, sir," he called out quite cheerily.
Flattered, Jawster returned the greeting. He straightened up from his inclining position on the railing and touched his chimney-pot hat in salute. "Good evening to you, sir." He motioned toWard the small wound over the man's right eye. "I see they tossed you about a bit. No lasting damage, I hope."
The man threw back his head and laughed openly, struggling for balance atop the shifting shoulders. "No lasting damage, I assure you," he grinned. "I left two broken batons and some missing teeth in my wake. It's becoming increasingly difficult to gain admittance to your nightly salon." His dark eyes burned with a hard gemlike flame, as though it were nothing to him to maintain this ecstasy.
Jawster laughed heartily. "Ask your friends there how they do it, sir," he called down. "They'll give you practical lessons enough."
The man bobbed his head, and as the shoulders were now carrying him away in the opposite direction, he craned his head back and lifted his voice to Jawster. "As soon as the festivities are over, sir, I want your ear for a moment."
Again Jawster nodded. He watched carefully as the scum bore him away, their upturned faces as bright as children's.
Then the new turnkey was there again with his unbroken refrain. "Who is he, sir, please? Who is he?"
Jawster's smile softened into a reflective angle. He leaned forward in a relaxed position on the railing. Quietly he spoke. "The Prince of Eden, lad."
Apparently the identification meant nothing to the young boy. He now pointed down into the Common Cell, his young face awash with indignation. "Look what he's doing, sir. Now, that's not permissible, is it? I mean—"
The boy was becoming tedious. Jawster considered sending him on to the Women's Ward. After all, his job for the first month was to gain experience in all parts of grand old Newgate. Jawster had suffered him long enough. But no. Perhaps this experience was as important as any to be gained in Newgate, the knowledge that, under certain conditions, there were forces larger than all the rules and handbooks, and against such an incomprehensible force, all that the turnkeys and wardens could do was shuck the rules, like foolish burdens borne for too many years.
Against the shocked expression in the boy's face, Jawster turned away. He knew what was going on below. He didn't have to look, but he looked anyway.
The inmates had deposited the Prince of Eden near the center of the Common Cell. Upon the instant of alighting, the man had flung open his great velvet cape, revealing carefully sewn pouches, a walking storeroom containing many bottles of gin, loaves of bread, white bread, unknown in Newgate, and pouches of tobacco. This bounty he was now distributing liberally about the floor to the eager, outstretched hands of the prisoners.
Apparently the new turnkey had been shocked into silence at the sight of the incorrigibles passing bottles and loaves around. Jawster tried again to make him understand. "Pay them no mind, lad," he counseled. "A little gin won't hurt them. Their sins will be intact come morning when, as belated punishment, you can mask the lot of them."<
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Obviously it was cold comfort. "Does this go on nightly, sir?" the lad asked with clenched jaw.
"Oh my, no," soothed Jawster. "Certainly not nightly. The Prince of Eden gives us the pleasure of his company perhaps once, twice a month. The rest of the time—"
Suddenly a great cheer arose from the Common Cell as apparently all felt the impulse to pay communal homage to their benefactor. Jawster looked down. Someone had arranged a firmly packed throne of straw and on this the Prince of Eden was now sitting, the bottles passing back and forth before him. The conversation had fallen so low that Jawster couldn't hear what was being said. Again, no need. He
knew that families were being inquired after, charges being discussed, knew further that by dusk the following evening, many of the rabble would be back in the alleyways of London, their freedom due to the generosity of a nameless solicitor.
"What's the good?" the new turnkey grumbled. He shook his head, as if nothing within his line of vision made sense.
"Where's the harm?" countered Jawster, eager to relax the boy in view of the events yet to come.
"Who did you say he was?" the new turnkey asked again, looking down.
Annoyed, Jawster snapped, "I told you; The Prince of—"
"No, I don't mean that. His real name—"
In a voice peculiarly lacking in intonation, as though the facts were not nearly as fascinating as the man himself, Jawster recited all he knew about the man. "His name is Edward Eden. He's a bastard. His father was a blueblood. Dead now." He lifted his head. "Rich as sin, the bastard is," he concluded quietly.
Throughout this brief recital Jawster had never taken his eyes off the object of his description. The criminals were beginning to move away from him, taking their half-filled bottles off into the shadows.
Without at first being aware of it, Jawster saw now that the Prince of Eden was staring up at him. Slowly the man rose from the throne of straw and walked through the rabble until he was standing directly beneath Jawster. He reached inside the bounteous cape and withdrew a full bottle. Not mere gin this time, but as well as Jawster could tell, a lovely bottle of red and warming port.
The prince of Eden Page 1
