by William Hunt
Grabbing what he could for himself, Charlie fled the room, leaving Billy in possession of the canvas bag. “All the more for me then,” Billy chortled to himself and blithely continued with the leisurely robbery.
Charlie had never worked with Billy before. And after this, he vowed never to do so again. His thoughts were to prove more prophetic than he could know. But for the moment it was time to apply his own adage – ‘Out like a rabbit’ – Charlie darted along the hallway and made straight for the front door.
Thankfully, a key remained in the door lock. Fumbling with the lock and a couple of bolts, Charlie pulled the door ajar and cautiously peered out onto the street below before making off. But there was a problem.
“Oh bleedin’ Sarah Siddons!” he fearfully cursed under his breath. It was the Night Watch.
Two big men wearing tri-corn hats and long coats were approaching. One held an upright stave which he tapped rhythmically against the cobblestone to reassure their paymasters of their dutiful presence.
With thumping heart, Charlie closed the front door and retreated back down the basement stairs. In the darkness of the laundry room, he stared upwards out of the broken window, awaiting the first opportunity to flee the scene.
But Billy Dadge… with all sense of personal safety forgotten… perused the Aladdin’s cave of elegant things… lost in wonderment among the objects ‘de art’.
By this time, the continuing disturbances below had stirred the lady of the house from her fitful slumbers. With her husband away that night, she was not sleeping so well.
What was that noise downstairs? Had the cat knocked something over? With trailing nightgown and candleholder in hand she fretfully made her way down the stairway to investigate.
“Jolly! Jolly! Puss! Puss!”
Meanwhile, Jolly the cat kept Billy Dadge good company throughout, purring contentedly and rubbing its sleek sides against the robber’s legs whenever permitted.
At the sound of a voice on the stairs, Billy Dadge finally took alarm as the gravity of his own situation began to sink in. At this stage, a cool head might douse the lights and throw the cat out into the hallway. With any luck, the mollified householder might retire back upstairs with the cat.
But Billy Dadge wasn’t so clever. Clutching the loot filled canvas bag, he stood rooted to the spot whilst the incessant calls for Jolly grew ever louder. Finally, Billy Dadge broke cover and blundered out into the hallway, colliding with the householder in the process.
“Ah! Intruders! Help! Help!” Billy dropped the canvas bag and clumsily attempted to silence the woman by smothering her mouth. But it was a messy business. The lady of the house wasn’t going quietly.
Outside on the street, the thumps and half smothered yells caught the passing attentions of the night watchmen, who now stopped directly outside the doorway where the commotion was taking place.
Finally, Billy Dadge desperately smote the woman a heavy blow from which she collapsed into a heap onto the hallway floor. But by now the discordant noises had roused the household staff and cries of alarm were heard from the servant’s quarters on the upper floors.
Blindly, Billy Dadge raced to the front door and tore desperately at the handle, which (thanks to the earlier tinkering of Charlie Rackford) instantly flew open. Relief was short-lived. His escape route was blocked by the night watchmen steadfastly making their way up the steps.
Both parties gazed blankly at each other for a few seconds, and then the law found its voice.
“What’s all this?”
Even as Billy Dadge began his blundering retreat along the hallway, he was overtaken and felled by a crunching tackle from the leading watchman.
Right behind, the second watchman joined in the arrest by belabouring Billy Dadge with a rapidly produced truncheon.
For Charlie Rackford, cowering below in the laundry room… it was now or never. Squeezing through the window, he stole up the basement steps and crept out of the side gate. Nobody heard the hinges squeal in soft complaint.
Just as he was on the point of breaking away, Charlie stumbled against the night-soil bucket teetering precariously on edge of the landing. Over went the bucket. With a splosh and gurgle, the effluent disgorged onto the pavement and the emptied bucket rolled noisily along the street pavement.
Up went the hue and cry, “There’s another – After him!”
One of the watchmen dashed from the house. The chase was on. Almost immediately, it was clear who had the legs to win.
Charlie Rackford was a short stocky person and fast off his mark. The bigger burly man with knee boots, and full-length coat was quickly left behind.
Frustrated the pursuer hurled his truncheon in the direction of his quarry where it bounced and clattered along the street cobblestones. But Charlie Rackford legged it past the streetlights, and made off into the safety of the darkness beyond.
Back at the scene of the arrest, and amid the growing pandemonium it became clear that the lady of the house was dead.
With Billy Dadge now manacled and placed in charge. The two watchmen – their tricorn hats back on – proceeded to manhandle him out of the building.
“Well, you’re a bright little farthing and no mistake,” scowled one of the watchmen to his charge. “Why didn’t you – Do – for one of the servants instead? We could lose our jobs now.”
“I swear to God I never done it” Billy Dadge replied ingenuously. Hearing this, the watchman drove his truncheon hard into the midriff of his charge… to an approving nod from his colleague.
“Oh! We’ve arrested the wrong man, ’ave we?” The watchman subsequently adopted a sarcastic air of solicitous concern.
“Why we do humbly begs your pardon, sir.” And without more ado, the groaning and gasping Billy Dadge was promptly and unceremoniously frog marched off to the Marshalsea prison.
Time to Go
Along the daylight streets of London, the throng of humanity was in full flow. With the lamp wicks snuffed out, and the lamplighters gone home, the daytime activities and (sometime) entertainments could commence.
On this particular morning, the incessant ringing of a hand bell was to be heard on the streets, accompanied by the loud cry of a herald:
“Bear set on today! – Bear set on today!”
The crowds parted to make way for the oncoming spectacle. Leading the parade was a gang of villainous-looking dog-handlers with teams of fighting dogs straining on multiple leads. The dogs snapped and the men cursed oaths at their charges.
Frequent beatings took place as the handlers sought vainly to curb the ever-growing excitement of the dogs, already primed up for the coming conflict.
Many yards behind the fray, came the muzzled and chained bear, placidly shambling along, occasionally shaking itself in vexation at the harness so borne, blithely unaware of its impending fate.
Charlie Rackford stood among those watching the circus pass by. Safe and sound after last night’s antics, he’d finally reached his lodgings (a garret near the Haymarket), just as the dawn began to break.
Charlie peered uneasily about, as though sniffing the late morning air. It had been a close thing last night. Too close. He soberly reflected on what might have been. And then there was Billy. What happened to him?
As the crowd took possession of the street once more, Charlie Rackford joined the melee. Things didn’t look good for Billy for sure. But whose fault was that? Charlie reasoned… Billy got too greedy, that’s what. He’d seen it happen before.
And on top of everything else, there was precious little to show for last night’s capers. In the hasty retreat, even the tools had been abandoned.
Still, Charlie Rackford took consolation in his own liberty. And along with one or two nick-knacks in his jacket pockets, there lay the purloined package, which (amid all the excitement) remained unopened.
He was getting hungry. It was time to make his way to the ‘Raven Inn’, for a mug of ale and helping of eel pie. He frequented the place, and found good compa
ny there. Not least the buyers of trinkets, and baubles. Always ready to snap up a bargain… And no questions asked.
Just then, the street hubbub was broken by further cries: “Murder done last night!”
“Reward offered.”
Barefoot urchins turning a half-penny, made their way distributing handbills to whoever would take them. Open hands eagerly reached out and grabbed the leaflets. Those who couldn’t read (and there were many) sought enlightenment by clustering round those that could.
Charlie frowned in puzzlement. Wanted posters were usually displayed outside the courthouses. After which the professional thief takers got to work. So why all the fuss now he wondered?
Curiously, he snatched a handbill from a passing juvenile vendor. Charlie could read after a fashion. When a child, he’d attended Sunday School Catechism Bible classes set up in the parish vicarage by an enthusiastic young curate. Slowly and carefully, Charlie deciphered the main points of the wording.
FOUL MURDER IN DOVER ST
FIFTY GUINEAS Reward to whomsoever gives information leading to the capture of a man known by the name of
CHARLES RACKFORD
A villain now at large, who did barbarously murder
Mrs Margaret Bagshaw. Beloved wife of Jeremiah Bagshaw
London Old Bank: Throgmorton Street
Charlie was aghast. “Billy! You done a murder!” He spoke in startled undertones. And now his partner in crime was singing like a cock linnet. In disbelief Charlie read the handbill once more. There was no mistake. They were after him.
A chill shiver of apprehension passed through Charlie Rackford. London was big… But as with all creatures of habit, he seldom strayed (other than nocturnal adventures) beyond the confines of a few streets. Why, the very handbills themselves had pinpointed his haunts to a nicety.
Charlie was in big trouble. He was well known in this manor, and those casual friendships wouldn’t stand the test of fifty guineas. No doubt of that. It was time to get out-or swing.
But where should he to go? His first notion was to hole up at his lodgings for the while. But others knew his whereabouts. Why, in no time at all he’d be scooped up like a Thames flounder in a net. Even as he reflected on this stratagem, Charlie realised he’d escaped his digs by the skin of his teeth that morning. There was no going back.
In desperation, Charlie began to think beyond the streets of London. He recalled his childhood home in Redriff. Maybe he should pay his poor old mother a long overdue visit. He’d never got on with his father. Too many beatings. That was the reason he left in the first place.
But he knew the old man was long since dead, and Charlie felt sure his mother would be gladly welcome her son back with open arms after all this time.
“Like the prodigal’s return in the Bible,” he mused happily, but then a sudden thought popped into his head.
Does she live still? Charlie wondered. He certainly hoped so. In any case there was nothing else for it. Once he’d crossed Old London Bridge, a few hours walk should see him back on his old stamping ground. And with any luck… he could lie low until things calmed down.
Fortified by his plan, Charlie casually took a measured view around the street to see his way was clear. And satisfied no one was eying him up; he set course for Redriff.
By the time he reached Redriff, Charlie was quite heartened. In the distance he could see the masts of the tall ships docked on the Thames, but the family cottage was set back inland on the outskirts of town.
This should do for now, thought a relieved Charlie, taking stock of the familiar sights around him. The old parish pump was still there too. At its stone base was carved the legend:
DRINK AND LET NO MAN HINDER THEE
Charlie was grateful for that and pumping the handle, gulped down a long draught of well water. Now refreshed, he walked down the lane towards the house where, (some thirty years earlier) he had been brought into the world. Abruptly, he halted in his tracks…
Just round the bend his keen ears detected a hubbub of discordant voices. Altogether, quite out of character with the quietude he’d so far traversed.
Borne of long practice, Charlie sidled up and sneaked an eyeful in the direction of the fuss.
To his consternation, a crowd was gathered directly outside the old house. And there on the doorstep – Yes – There was his dear old mother, wiping a tearful face with her apron.
In front of her - and here, Charlie could scarce believe his eyes- stood two Bow Street Runners resplendent in their high hats and cut away coats. Still yet another handbill was on display, and Charlie recognised some of his old neighbours. Their indignant utterances were distinctly audible.
“Murder you say?”
“Charlie Rackford, eh?”
“He always was a bad un.”
“How much is that bounty again?”
“Fifty guineas?”
Now for the first time in his life, Charlie was really scared. In all his born days dodging the law, he’d never encountered such resolute pursuit before. The thief takers had tracked him back to his pre-determined hidey-hole. And with such alacrity, they’d even beaten him to the front door.
Charlie was shaken to the core of his being. It was clear enough. Important personages with resources to command were determined to have him… Charlie was running for his life.
“Oh Gawd! They want me bad,” he gasped…
He was a lost soul, a hunted man with nowhere to hide. Dazed by this confounding turn of events, Charlie stumbled mechanically away from the scene of his erstwhile harbourage. Should anyone spot him now… then he was well and truly done for.
It took all his inner strength to keep going… one step at a time.
Finally, and much fatigued, Charlie Rackford came to rest. Where was he? He’d been walking for ages now. Hardly daring to look, he furtively glanced over his shoulder. All was quiet – no pursuers. Charlie heaved a sigh of relief, and steadied up.
Taking stock of his surroundings, he found himself on a country lane of vaguely distant childhood memory. No cobbles here, just cart tracks dusty from the summer heat. Suddenly a gust of hot wind swirled into a funnel, sucking up debris into the air.
The briefest of whirlwinds formed, and swept circuitously along. Then as quickly as it began, it ceased. The straws and leaves momentarily lifted skyward, now floated gently back down to earth.
Quite his old self again, the watching Charlie was minded to apply a positive philosophical gloss on his current predicament. He saw in this ephemeral natural phenomenon… a portent of good omen.
“Now you see it. Now you don’t… That’s the way to be, Charlie boy.”
Summoning up his new-found resolve, Charlie Rackford set off at a steady pace westwards. Far from London and all he’d ever known… And he never looked back again. Not once.
Over the Water
To the great frustration of the Irish volunteer militia’s and redcoat troopers, and despite their best efforts, John Hughes escaped arrest. New Ross harbour had been scoured. Waterford and Wexford traversed. But of the fugitive… not a trace could be found.
Now into his third day of flight, the young man, bowling down the Cork highway, had put many miles between himself and New Ross.
He’d never been so far from home before. The country he traversed was wilder and more rugged by far. The Knockmealdown Mountains rose up before him along the route, and filled his young mind with wondrous awe.
From time to time, he was obliged to make way for the occasional passing coach. And mindful of his father’s advice, used these official conveyances as rough and ready direction finders. At other times, he sought confirmation of Cork’s whereabouts from other sources.
When posing the question to a passing pack horse drover on a particularly wild stretch of road, the drover looked theatrically around in gormless surprise, and then sarcastically replied, “Sure, and where else is there to go?”
The drover was right. It was onward or back. Once more John trekked the l
onely ribbon of winding highway stretching across the moorland; with only the mountains and the great emptiness of the sky for company.
On that third morning John noticed another wayfarer traversing up ahead. By now, needful of some company himself, John quickened his pace and steadily closed down the distance between them. Within the hour, he’d drawn alongside of the traveller.
The man (a few years older) was friendly enough. He carried a knotted bundle of belongings slung over one shoulder, and as they exchanged pleasantries, he proved to be the most talkative person.
It seemed that he too was bound for Cork, and like John was set to board a boat out of the ‘old country’. He gave his name as Fergus O’Donnell.
As the midday sun grew warm, both men took shelter in the shade of an old blackthorn bush and cast off their burdens. Then Fergus brought forth a leather water bottle. After nosily slaking his thirst, he handed it over John.
Gratefully, John (in return) fished out a wedge of stale cheese from his satchel, broke it in two and handed a piece to Fergus… thus cementing their fellowship of the road. And as they rested awhile, the garrulous Fergus had much to say about the state of their homeland.
“Why, this place is a bog,” he announced. “There’s no future in it. I’m off over the water to breathe some free air.”
"And where might that be? John asked with some puzzlement.
Fergus looked at him in surprise, “Why the America’s of course. There’s no bloody English left… Thrown out to a man.” At the conclusion of the sentence, he gave a broad smile, and added conspiratorially.
“It can be done see.”
John listened on, whilst Fergus talked at great length about the great commotion in France, and how it might be the saving of Ireland… One day.
John frowned and became critical of his companion.
“Ah these are grand thoughts you have. For someone who’s leavin’ the country far behind. Forever maybe.”
