As the frenzy grew increasingly violent, Uxbridge climbed back into the cabin with me close at his heels. He drew a deep breath like a man who had reached the summit and now surveyed the view.
‘Now do you understand the secret I speak of?’ asked My Lord.
‘I do, My Lord … aye.’
For indeed I did.
DEFOE
We all must grovel
May 1724
It is a luxury that he cannot afford, to travel by water at a cost of one shilling but if he is to present himself to Lord Harley and perhaps his father too, he should embody a man who can afford to journey so. And, Defoe supposes, if he is to spend one, he may as well spend three and have a private wherry to himself, with upholstered seats and a pot of ale to warm him for the journey.
He carries his new cane. A gold owl is sculpted to its head, and bands of alabaster and onyx ring the polished elm shaft, like a ladder leading downwards to the burnished silver tip. Indeed, one of the finest objects a man can own, thinks Defoe, resting it on his shoulder like a rifle. He would prefer to tap it along on the ground as he goes – the rhythmic pattering would be like a metronome to his thoughts – but he won’t risk damaging it.
Only a few yards from where Defoe stands, there are several civil servants and gentlemen queueing for the regular, less pricey passenger boat that fits eight or ten men. He rolls the cane between his fingers and taps his left shoe impatiently. An important man on important business. But he feels their eyes on him and blood rises to his face. They are all probably richer than he is. Any fool can squander three shillings on a private vessel; any man can stand with a straight back and twirl a cane, including a man near two hundred guineas in debt!
‘Daniel!’ he hears. He closes his eyes. God help me. He continues twirling the cane in his hand, staring out to the cool rippling water.
‘Mr Daniel Defoe!’
He continues to pretend he hasn’t heard, but when his name is called once more, he is forced to turn. There is Arnott, in a black and gold coat, stepping hurriedly towards him.
‘Mr Arnott,’ Defoe says.
‘I meant to call,’ Arnott says. ‘My apologies, I’ve had a mess of a week. But it was obviously meant to be – we’ve chanced upon each other again! And after near twenty years of nothing!’
Defoe feels something inside him crumple, like a page in someone else’s hand.
‘How goes the stocks market, Mr Arnott?’
‘Thank you. Very well, indeed. To be truthful, I had a few years without sufficient demand. But now my supplier in Italy can barely keep up. Who would think that so many need doorknobs and firestokes.’
‘I’m pleased to hear of it.’
‘I take it the tobacco trade is strong,’ Arnott says, pointing to the Gentleman Passengers Only sign and the red carpet Defoe stands upon. ‘Travelling by private wherry, I see.’
Defoe winces. ‘No, no. I rather like to take the clean air alone.’
‘Where do you journey?’
‘Whitehall. The Exchequer.’
‘Auspicious!’
Defoe grumbles.
‘You know they are saying that the pollution is getting to be so high.’
‘Is that so.’
‘There are studies being undertaken on the effects of the effluvia. I mean, one need only look towards Cheapside. See? The air is visible.’
‘’Tis why I removed to Stoke Newington,’ Defoe replies. ‘To be away from the noise and dangers of traffic. For my children to breathe clean air.’
‘Do you recall,’ Arnott reminisces, ‘when, as children, we stepped from our homes into the Spitalfields to play and search for bullets and artefacts?’
‘I do.’
‘Look at it now. Is there no wish to preserve anything?’
‘I’m with you, Arnott.’
There is the sound of Defoe’s boat clattering against the stone stairs. A wash of water splashes the waterman’s boot.
‘How is next Friday, for a sup and maybe a show?’ Arnott asks, his eyebrows raised in hope for Defoe’s reciprocation. ‘There is discussion of business to be had, too. Between our connections.’
‘Of course I haven’t my calendar, but yes. Stoke Newington, if you don’t mind the distance.’
‘I enjoy a coaching. Shall we say six?’
The whole vessel rocks as he seats himself upon the bench and is handed ale by the waiting steward. All the public passengers watch.
‘Six it is!’ Defoe calls, waving from his place of unmerited luxury.
Oh but if only. The sound of the twin oars entering the water, the gentle lurching of the vessel with every heave of the oarsman, the pot of ale that has been warmed in a portable burner, the hide seats, the bracing air against his cheeks, the fog rising over the water, the distant murmur of the city bouncing over the rippled water. If only.
‘What’s a boat like this worth?’ he asks the oarsman.
‘I’m a set of arms only,’ he grunts.
‘I should think at least fifty pound,’ Defoe says. ‘Or maybe less second-hand.’
The enjoyment of the journey is being eaten by these useless conjectures. Defoe cannot help it; he must own a private wherry. If he cannot afford one all to himself, he will lease it for arbitrage.
‘And who is the owner?’ he asks.
‘You were conversing with him. Arnott. Mighty rich.’
So Arnott’s humble too, Defoe thinks.
‘Westminster Stairs,’ the oarsman announces.
The boat jiggles as Defoe alights and he stumbles with a squeal of panic. Just as one boot submerges, a strong hand grabs his elbow, saving him from a full bath.
‘Mighty slippery,’ the oarsman says. ‘Them steps.’
The Exchequer foyer swarms. There is hushed, excited muttering as Lord Carteret cuts across the room with two errand boys in tow, both clasping files of paper up to their chins, pumps clattering. Defoe climbs the polished stairs, one wet boot squelching. The mahogany door of Harley’s office is so detailed with panels and ridging, Defoe isn’t sure where he might knock without injuring his knuckles. He thinks of Arnott and his bronze doorknockers. That bastard owns a boat. Defoe taps the end of his cane against a nipple of wood, then twists the handle.
Harley is huddled over his tea table, an oversized quill in his hand, his face only a few inches from the page. The enormous room, with its inlaid ceiling and many hanging candelabra, is bright with sunshine. The walls are floor to ceiling with volumes.
‘Who on earth –’
‘Sincere compunction, My Lord. It is I, Daniel Defoe.’
‘Who?’
‘Defoe, My Lord. Daniel Defoe.’
Harley squints, grimacing. It is like he has just got a whiff of something foul but isn’t sure from where.
‘Daniel?’ he asks.
‘Yes, My Lord. Daniel Defoe.’
‘Daniel!’
A smile breaks across his face and he stands. ‘Of all the people who dare disturb my writing hour,’ he says, pointing with the elaborate feather of his quill, ‘you’re the only one I’ll countenance.’
‘I’m sorry to arrive unannounced.’
‘Enter, enter.’ His face is fat and over-powdered, his nose long and skewwhiff over a tiny oval mouth.
Defoe steps gingerly into the enormous room.
‘I’m working on a new series of sonnets,’ Harley announces, turning to the window and tickling his chin with the feather.
‘Excellent,’ Defoe responds, with a slight bow. Defoe knows no man to have composed and published so much shit poetry. Were Harley not the Earl Mortimer, not a single publisher would have printed a single word.
‘I’m stuck,’ Harley muses. ‘Unable to progress. But I know the answer is close. Surely even writers such as yourself know these impasses.’
‘Indeed, My Lord. I’m awful preoccupied with worldly matters. I’m scarce able to sit at my desk.’
Harley snorts. ‘In the midst of a civil war. Walpole after my head over
Scottish opposition.’
‘My Lord?’
‘My point is this: each of us has his challenges, great or small.’
‘Words most accurate, My Lord.’
Harley makes a lap around the tea table, folding his arms.
‘If I may be so bold,’ Defoe proffers, ‘as to hear your latest sonnet?’
Lord Harley steps over to his freshly dusted volumes, pretending that he hasn’t expected the question. He pulls out a thin volume with one finger and flips the pages.
‘It’s still very early on,’ he says, then pushes the book in its place.
‘I understand if the work is not ready.’
‘I suppose another writer’s opinion might help. Cross the impasse, so to say.’
‘I dare not presume I’ll be of assistance. It is for my own pleasure that I enquire.’
Harley turns to him, his eyes afire. Defoe wonders if he has caused offence, but then, as Harley outstretches one open hand and addresses the large panes of his office window, he realises with a curl of the toes what is about to occur. God save me, thinks Defoe.
‘A sky so beholden to its witness,’ Harley bellows.
‘O soldier of the common heart,
Wreak your obedience upon my love, lest
That sky isn’t tendered as art.’
Harley pauses, sends two quick glances in Defoe’s direction.
‘My Lord,’ Defoe says, bowing. ‘I entreat you continue.’
Again the chest is puffed and a hand is sent out to prepare the world for his words.
‘Choral strings entwine, ascend,
No war that you battle
Can absolve or mend
Her lips even if they prattle
You are more than most men
Soldier, the sky is upon you
Though it presses down with its pen
Like a mighty shoe
Take your love, your azure soldier’s heart sky
And battle it with knee and eye!’
Upon this last word, Harley’s hand begins a slow descent, like he is conducting a diminuendo.
‘My Lord,’ Defoe says, with a tone of proclamation. ‘I can’t fault such a sonnet!’
‘Don’t humour me,’ Lord Harley says. ‘What do you really think?’
‘I wouldn’t cast praise where it’s not deserved.’
Harley’s lineaments collapse in desperate gratitude. ‘Truly?’
Defoe nods, a little too fast. ‘Without hesitation.’
I’m a disgusting, grovelling ass, he thinks.
Now emboldened by the vindication, Harley marches to the table, flicks out his coat and sits. He takes up the quill and begins writing, pausing briefly to peer out the window, presumably to the soldier’s heart sky. Defoe has still not been invited to sit.
After a further few minutes, Harley pauses to look at Defoe. ‘Is your shoe wet?’
‘I came by water and –’
‘Daniel, why are you here, in fact?’
‘May I sit but a moment, My Lord?’
Harley grunts. ‘I haven’t long,’ he adds, turning back to his pages.
‘As you’re aware, there is a captain –’
‘A what?’
‘Sea captain. Godbehere.’
‘Yes?’
‘You see, he is not a man of reason. I find myself in a predicament. One whereby the pamphlets … the ones we had agreed upon … the time required to devote to them is being taken up by … by concern over the actions of this sea captain and –’
‘Gone and fucked up another deal?’ remarks Harley, his eyes on the page.
Defoe babbles, but no one complete word comes out.
‘One lifeline too many, my dear Daniel.’
‘Of course I can appreciate your reluctance.’
‘My reluctance? The Kingdom’s coffers aren’t a wishing well that I can dip my hand into when no one’s looking.’
Defoe waits. The great room seems to grow larger, and he correspondingly smaller.
‘Are you aware your allowance has been from my own pockets?’
Defoe shakes his head.
‘What’s the sum you’ve racked up then?’
‘’Tis … ’tis near two hundred.’
‘TWO HUNDRED? Hahaha.’ Harley shakes his head in commiseration.
‘My Lord, but the pamphlets –’
‘You think I can’t find another writer? Your work is excellent, admittedly, but for the purpose I could use Reverend Wagstaff. He’s always after a spare penny.’
‘My Lord …’ Defoe begins, but then trails off. ‘There is a tale to be told,’ he tries again. ‘Unlike any other. A true and controversial tale of a King’s mistress. A woman who rose from penury and hardship to great wealth and influence. If you’ll advance me, I’ll forsake one hundred per cent of my rights –’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ Harley says, holding up his hands. ‘Last time I checked I was the Lord High Treasurer and the Earl Mortimer. Oh, yes, yes, I’m not mistaken. I am the Earl Mortimer. For a moment there, I thought I was a publisher. A publisher being pitched to by a spendthrift writer.’
There is a single knock at the door and Harley’s secretary steps in.
‘My Lord, your meeting with Cartwright and Willems.’
‘They’ve arrived?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
‘Very well.’
The door is left open as Harley gathers up his papers.
‘I’m glad you came today, Defoe. Reciting it made me realise what I’ve long suspected. Rhythm can carry equal import to the content. Hmmm.’ Harley pauses, frowning, as though he’s just remembered something. ‘I like that. Import and content. They rhyme in an unexpected yet delightful way, import and content. Like!’ Harley picks up his quill to scribble the two words.
‘Are there more sonnets I might hear?’ Defoe asks desperately.
Harley glares. ‘Mr Defoe!’
As two men stride into Harley’s office, Defoe backs into the hallway. Midday sunshine gleams through a series of picture windows. He walks slowly off, one boot still wet. From the windows, the expressionless bravery of King Henry projects wine-red across Defoe, his own face grimacing in umbrage and shame.
WILD
I grow weary for my soul (but briefly)
1703
The industriousness was inhuman. In London, he summoned me at the ungodly hour of five a.m. each and every morning to join him for his morning beer, that was to be served hot and strong beyond palatability, to discuss the day ahead, the warehouse to go here, the distributor there, the naval quartermaster that was to buy our sugar (some drunken tightarse whose name sounded like puppies) or the East India Company that he bent over with thirteen per cent interest for funds spent battling mutineers at sea. The evenings were spent in ‘discussions’, always held in the privy of his manor at the Gate of Queen Anne, on my knees often enough and speaking at appropriate times the following affirmations, or variations thereof:
‘Aye, My Lord.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I’d never considered it.’
‘Don’t pause on account of me.’
‘Now is as good a time as any.’
’Twas on one such evening, a Wednesday if I recall, when our discussions touched upon different matters. We were only recently returned from business, and the fires freshly lit (by Crowley the London footman; where did Uxbridge find all these hairless men?) when he quickly had his way. One might think me lucky that the interlude was so brief, but nay, his severity only increased in proportion with his brevity. It had been a morning full of bureaucracy at The Keeper of the Rolls, and I suppose all that tedium had left poor Uxbridge full to brimming. What other way to loosen his blockage than enter me with the fire irons? Uxbridge staggered towards the fireplace, holding the poker the wrong way, the smooth bronze handle reflecting in miniature the scene again viz. his polished shoes poking out from his fallen breeches, the roaring fire, me bound ankle to wrist in manacles. Once he’d released himself
, in fatigue and gratification, he collapsed on the floor, the glistening poker rattling against the stone hearth. Through the gap of my calves I observed him upside down as he lifted his buttocks off the floor to aid in the return of his breeches.
‘There is the powder factory to consider,’ said Uxbridge, working at his buttons. ‘We needn’t wait to make our decision.’
His mind had already returned to its natural state; eagle talon, filleting knife, trained sniper. His close-knit eyes worked their calculating magic.
‘Halifax’s man – was it Gallhaugh? – he was sniffing it out.’
These were the inputs required to calculate his solution – the same solution that we sought each and every day, over and again, in every possible permutation – the solution of money.
‘Doesn’t matter if we fouled it with the lime,’ Uxbridge now said, referring to losing the royal sum of 10,000 on trialling a new process to refine gunpowder with lime. ‘We lost out first, in only three months. Halifax will spend years making the same mistake, by which time we will be manufacturing the finest shot powder in the world.’
Whilst I appreciated the optimism, I wasn’t too happy to still be fettered ankle to wrist. As you might expect, not too happy at all. He stood, began pacing back and forth, peering myopically at the term-sheet.
‘At this price,’ he continued, ‘we’ll need more than the domestic market to warrant such a deal. Can our good friend at Wright and Sons build powder barrels that will withstand the seas?’
‘I’ll call Mr Wright and make the enquiry,’ said I, attempting to unfetter myself. The heavy irons clinked like colliding billiard balls.
‘We must act with urgency,’ replied Uxbridge. A single globule hung from the tip of his hooked nose (who knows if ’twas spume or spittle, but certainly it originated from that most wretched plumbing of ours). ‘If we pause but a moment, there’ll be deal inflation. Halifax is looking it over as we speak.’
‘Aye.’
The fetters would not unlock. Mindless of me, Uxbridge continued back and forth across the Ottoman rug that wove a bloody battle, holding the paper and muttering. He paused to adjust his crotch by lifting a leg.
Wild Page 10
