‘And how much does that cost?’
‘A single journey is three shillings. As an owner, after you pay the steward and oarsman, I posit you’d make your investment back in under a year.’
‘Very interesting,’ his father says, nodding.
‘I think we may have a shot, if we act soon. I know just the type of vessel we’ll need: quality hide for the seating, a portable stove for victualling. I can handle the details.’
‘You do that,’ says his father, folding the paper and reaching it over the desk. Hope courses through Defoe as he takes it. A banknote in his father’s hand will keep him afloat. He’ll shop it around for some further credit before cashing it in. Maybe it will be enough for a deposit on a private wherry? Defoe takes the paper, thinking of the figurehead that will be carved into the bow. Hermes or Circe. He’ll name the vessel Resolution. It will be like nothing anyone has seen.
‘Now, son,’ his father says, interrupting his reverie. ‘I’m not so hardhearted as to offer no assistance.’
Defoe frowns.
‘On Elizabeth’s last voyage, a case of her most precious items were stolen. They were ducks, I believe, three from the Orient and two from Siberia. Eyes bejewelled in jade. Feet were of a rosy timber only found in the East. She has been distraught. Her current journey I quite forced her on. To lift the spirits.’
‘I’m not following.’
‘They were stolen on the road from Bristol, five miles from Bath. I’ve tried by various methods to recover them, all unsuccessful. There is a man, I’m told, who can recover anything for a fee. Though when I told him the nature of my query, he quoted me ten times the value of the things. He knows my wealth, I presume. I won’t be blackmailed on account of my success.’
Defoe unfolds the paper, and sees not a banknote, but a sheet of plain paper lined in the messy scrawl of his father’s hand. A tabulation of all his debts, with the final sum of 160 circled three times. Nothing motivates like debt is written at the bottom.
Defoe begins to shake.
‘To my mind, you’re not organised in your affairs,’ says his father. ‘If there’s anything that will teach you diligence, teach you focus, it’s that.’ His father points his stub in the direction of the paper.
‘It’s what? An inane aphorism?’
‘If I rescue you, just as I did with the civet cats, you’ll only return in another year with debts double the size. I cannot assist.’
‘He’ll send me to prison.’
‘If that’s what will teach –’
‘But Father.’ Defoe hears the voice of an eight-year-old boy. He clears his throat and tries again. ‘For the sake of a lesson, you’ll send your own son to prison?’
‘Daniel, come. You can’t accuse me of putting you in prison.’
His father leans back in his chair. Defoe folds the paper again and again, by turns making it smaller and smaller. He thinks back to his morning on the water, the barely audible grunts of the oarsman as they glided forward, the creaking of the locks, the air brisk and full of promise. But he wasn’t moving forward, he was moving most certainly in the other direction. A clear and definitive backwards.
‘I can see there’s no point in objecting,’ Defoe mutters. ‘Once the mighty Mr Foe’s mind is made.’
‘My proposition is this. Recover Elizabeth’s geese, and I shall relieve you sixty-one guineas of debt. And I’ll forgive you the original thirty, too.’
‘You intend to make me a bounty hunter? For a case of your wife’s waterfowl!’ Defoe stands, trying for one last fold in the paper, but it’s too thick. ‘I suppose,’ he adds, ‘I’ve officially hit the bottom of the barrel.’
‘A practical task will serve you well.’
‘Says the man of great wisdom,’ Defoe mutters. He throws the square of paper into the fire.
His father opens a drawer and hands him a quotation.
Office of Jonathan Wild, Thief-Taker General
Quotation for recovery of:
3 Chinese geese of wood and jade.
2 Siberian ducks of wood and jewels.
Velvet-lined valise for items 1 & 2. Lacquered dark blue.
For the recovery of the above items the following fee is payable:
130£
Subject to variance according to disbursements.
Signed
Countersigned
_________________
________________
Jonathan Wild
James Foe
‘It’s fencing. It’s extortion,’ speaks his father. ‘The blue of the case was very dark; it could be mistaken for black. Her initials are engraved on both the outer and inner. Elizabeth will be so pleased. I do admit they were particularly attractive. Personally, I don’t relate to …’
Defoe pockets the paper as his father rattles on. As it’s always been, his father is curt with matters of importance and mind-numbing on inconsequentialities. Defoe mutters under his breath and opens the study door.
From his father’s portico, he steps into the rain, the cool wetness a relief from the hellish heat of his father’s study. Bury Street is quiet in its affluence. In the distance, as he approaches Pall Mall, he sees a queue of wagons and four boys chasing a dog, sticks raised in each of their sooty hands. A crowd gathers, watching a red-faced coachman curse as he hoists the wagon, while two others change the wheel where a spoke has splintered. Two vehicles back, a driver screams and hoots his horn.
After two blocks, the rain has seeped through his coat. The vision of his father’s two blazing fireplaces presents. The fires crackling, the cloudy aroma of all the volumes he’ll never read. Comfort, warmth. Bastard. Defoe evades the crowd and presses on, uncertain of his destination, but knows it cannot be home.
WILD
Sisyphus didn’t pause mid-mountain
1704
While ’twas true I had joined the inner circle of My Lord Uxbridge’s coterie, I had also witnessed how capriciously he treated this same coterie; Samways, for example, suddenly demoted to stable boy for no apparent reason (although I suspect it had something to do with cutting off his forelock). It was only when it came to people, to human beings, that Uxbridge displayed fickleness – both ways, rage and devotion – and who knew when my turn would come.
So upon assessing the fragility of my position I began, by subterfuge, accumulating certain household items viz. sewing into my coat two silver oyster forks and several emerald-studded buttons that had burst into the air during moments of Uxbridge’s questionable candour. Above my wardrobe I stacked six or seven of handsome plate, inserting shreds of linen between to avoid them a-rattling when Nicky Lips dropped to his knees in prayer. And I snuck a gold tweezers case, too.
Once my accumulation was enough to warrant it, I wondered how I might convert these goods into ready money. I had heard it murmured that on the West Side of London, near Lisson Grove on the Edgware Road, were the very type of dealers willing to buy items of dubious origin, but I was often lacking an opportunity to go about town alone, until several months later just such an occasion did arise. It was mighty early on a Thursday when, by the mistake of his apothecary – who was swiftly dismissed, you can be sure – My Lord had taken triple the necessary dose of his monthly laxative. He was set painfully over the bedpot in his privy, unable to move. I was standing at the doorway with his morning bread.
‘Take the coach and four,’ urged Uxbridge. ‘Have Saltwell, urgggh, journey you where you please. I don’t want to be seen or heard by a living soul. Not today. Urgggh.’
‘My Lord.’
‘And call upon Gyssels. Hmppph. I don’t care.’
‘Is there nothing I can do to ease My Lord’s discomfort?’
‘Goooo!’
So I bade James Saltwell, the brute first coachman I’d initially met in Bubo’s of Wolverhampton, who now eyed me with dual suspicion and awe, take me west from My Lord’s London apartments to first visit our consultant Gyssels (rhymes with seashells), an émigré from Flanders who was an
expert in the law and also a conduit for our goods to the people of Antwerp and Brussels.
The door of Gyssels was opened by a young handsome maid.
‘Mister,’ spoke she, upon curtsying. ‘Want speak with Mr Gyssels?’
Her accent was a Dutch one, camouflaged in smiling.
‘If you’d be so kind.’
’Twas upon her second low curtsy and the sight of her sheeny yellow hair, pigtailed into two pink bows, that I realised myself too lacking in female company. Starved was the word, in fact. Though only appearing to have fifteen years, she had bosoms like two mountains, and eyes clear and alpine like a cloudless sky above them.
‘Mr Wild,’ Gyssels said, interrupting my bewilderment. ‘Are you quite well?’
Gyssels was dressed in his usual cherry-coloured business suit, and cleanly shaven. By eight in the morning he even had his face put on.
‘I have My Lord Uxbridge’s amendments here,’ spoke I. ‘He insisted them delivered personally.’
‘I will attend to it immediately,’ he said, taking the papers. ‘A morning beer, Mr Wild?’
‘I have further business to attend, so I shan’t impose upon your generous hospitality.’
Behind him, the girl continued to stand, rosy-cheeked, body still but eyes alive.
‘Prithee, no man of Uxbridge could impose upon me. I only apologise in advance for my humble rooms.’
‘These rooms are far from humble, with carpets such as these …’
And so the slavery of our politeness continued some time, until I could beg my leave.
‘Permit me one question,’ said Gyssels with caution. His voice was quiet and conspiratorial. ‘What’s it like, attending him?’
‘Uxbridge is a great man, indeed.’
‘But surely he demands of you a similar … how should I put it … remorselessness.’ His eyes made little adjustments like he was a cartographer, mapping me out for some future purpose that I didn’t understand.
‘Not a day begins later than five of the clock,’ said I.
Gyssels rubbed his jaw.
‘Are you sure my maid Tina cannot prepare you tea?’
She unclasped her hands and curtsied once more.
‘If it weren’t for other business –’
‘We are men of piddling, insignificant estates,’ interrupted Gyssels. ‘But that’s not to say we can’t build larger ones.’
‘Aye,’ replied I, not sure what else to say.
‘It is a challenge, though, where to begin. Where to put what meagre funds we have.’
‘As My Lord says. Balls in your brains. And diligence, too.’
‘I see,’ replied Gyssels, thinning his eyes. ‘Hmmm.’
‘I can tell you’re holding back,’ said I. ‘I bid you speak freely.’
Gyssels looked about the entrance hall, then over my shoulder. ‘I only say this, young Mr Wild: should you ever need a friend, I speak on behalf of myself and King Philip when I say that a future collaboration might behove our mutual benefit. I’m ready to serve you as friend and associate.’
‘I would be honoured to call upon you as such.’
Gyssels looked into me, a little too deeply, then had Tina usher me out. She turned the handle and I saw that the flecks of picked cuticle on her left thumb had been pulled dangerously far. For all her pudgy beauty, it was an imperfection I was willing to overlook. I took a final look into her blue eyes and crab-apple cheeks and set out once more.
The day was exceeding intemperate, a curtain of rain falling thickly beyond the portico. Saltwell sat glumly under the visor, one of his boots kicking the wet air. I directed him take me to the Edgware Road and then return to the Gate of Queen Anne. Saltwell assented readily, meaning the early end to a miserable day and in any case, with me now his superior, he had no choice but to do as I bade.
I donned my hat, puffed my collar and set out on the muddy Edgware Road, picturing the magnificent maid Tina in a variety of nudities, and then by turn, I wondered about her master’s suggestions of double-dealing that I didn’t have the experience or intelligence to understand. Rain pelted, coming down clear and bouncing up black. I read the hang-signs, finally stopping upon one for my purpose:
Master Henry Winterbottom Esq.,
Broker of Pawn, Haberdashery & Plate
Est. 1673
A bell tinkled upon my entry. The towering proprietor stood behind a glass cabinet, warming his hands. He had an unruly moustache reaching up into his nostrils and down over his lips, like bulrushes upon a bank.
‘Are you Master Henry Winterbottom Esquire?’ asked I to him.
‘There is no other here.’
‘I have never spoken with an esquire; the title is true?’
‘You think me a liar?’
‘I was only curious as to why a titled man would work at pawning.’
‘Boy, are you here to gibe at me, or to engage my services?’
‘I wish to enquire about the selling of some goods.’
‘My expertise is in the buying.’
‘A good match then.’
‘Indeed.’
The smells of the street, somewhat dissipated by the downpour, now baked inside the store. I looked about me, at the many shelves stocked several deep and without any categorisation. On one shelf alone there was:
A tin mug hanging from the beak of a stuffed duck
A board pinned with all manner of grooming scissor
A pile of Welsh songbooks
A glittering brass orrery
Three feather cushions patterned in fish hooks
A scale miniature of a coach and six.
‘How much for the orrery?’ asked I to the proprietor.
‘You’ve a fine eye, boy, but that item is not for sale.’
‘Not for sale?’
‘Not all that you see is for sale; some are security for loans.’
‘Are you a Jew then, loaning money?’
‘I am no Jew.’
‘I’m glad of that.’
‘As am I.’
‘What will you pay for emerald buttons, gold tweezers cases and oyster forks?’
‘That depends on what sort of emerald buttons, gold tweezers cases and oyster forks you speak of.’
‘Are our dealings confidential?’
‘Confidence is my business.’
‘Along with lending money and buying goods?’
‘Pawning is a trade requiring many skills.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Boy.’
‘One moment,’ replied I, carefully taking out an oyster fork from my boot, a tweezers case from my coat and three emerald buttons from the hem of my hat.
‘Hmm,’ said Master Winterbottom, opening and closing the tweezers case. ‘I’ll give you a half-shilling for the lot.’
‘Now it is you doing the gibing.’
‘A full shilling it is.’
‘One of these buttons alone you couldn’t buy for twenty that.’
‘I’ll increase my offer to six shillings. And that’s it.’
‘I’d be a madman.’
‘Listen boy, you think stolen goods are so easy to sell? You see this symbol here?’ said he, pointing to an engraving of Uxbridge’s coat of arms.
‘Are you accusing me of theft?’
Master Henry Winterbottom peered down upon me. Through the whiskers of his great moustache I could barely make out his eyes. They were like two wet squirrels moving in a shrub.
‘If not by thieving, how else did you acquire them, young man?’
‘I will not stand to be so insulted!’
Winterbottom giggled. ‘Six shillings is my final offer.’
He pushed the goods back towards me.
‘Master Winterbottom,’ I began, concealing the items about me. ‘There have been few who choose to insult me. I am a man of resolve and exceeding facility to remember. Sooner or later, just like the others, you shall come to regret the manner of my treatment.’
‘Boy,’ replied he, sm
ug and massive. ‘Not man. And I’ve been pawning long enough to be threatened by all manner of criminal, but I must admire and congratulate you, for I didn’t think it possible that a midget with a few buttons would attempt to menace me with … drum roll … “regret”. Hahaha. You’ll make me “regret”.’
‘I can see that you persist in insulting –’
‘Hahahaha.’
I turned in my place and stepped into the rain once more.
I ventured to four more brokers of pawn, soon discovering that Winterbottom’s offer was not so dismal. In fact, he offered me a shilling higher than the rest. At Jermyn Street I verified my hypothesis that the emerald buttons, sold new, were indeed worth twenty times what a pawnbroker might pay. Though I didn’t dwell too long on the numbers – my mind was much more gripped upon a revenge for Winterbottom and an interlude with Tina – these lessons in commerce were most formative, for I had stumbled upon a nugget of pure gold, but hadn’t yet scrubbed the muck away.
As the days thereafter progressed, I became much vexed by comparing myself to the successful young man Gyssels. Why had I ended up as I had viz. a whipping boy of Uxbridge and not a man such as Gyssels; who was conscientious and his own captain, with a pretty maid and the ear of a Flanders King? Why was I stumbling about the Edgware Road selling stolen buttons while he pranced in a cherry-coloured suit? Confusion is a confusing thing indeed, for every argument that I made in my defence was countered by another more convincing argument, asserting that I had sold my soul, that I’d known full well what I was doing when I step-by-step made myself into Uxbridge’s vile and trodden-on plaything.
Unless the problem you’re solving is comprised solely of numbers, there will never be any hope of a certain answer. So these questions that I asked of myself swirled like an insomniac’s insecurities, each query only serving to vex me further, wondering who I was and what I was doing, until a confounding series of events answered for me, of which you shall hear presently.
Wild Page 12
