‘Last of all,’ I said, reaching into the pastry-roll of her hair and pulling out the hairpin that held it together. In the candled light, it was stitched with gems while unfolding about her long, straight neck. The lavender of her perfumes lingered long after her departure and I marvelled with what exquisite ease she renewed my spirit.
Once I was alone and the prison quiet, I delicately inserted Bessie’s hairpin inside the ankle fetters that bound me to Nibblo’s wall. The tinny clatter of the tool was deafening to my ears, but evidently not loud enough to awake all those asleep around me. I was always a patient and meticulous jobber, and so too with the picking of that lock, which I worked at tirelessly, bending and moulding the hairpin (which at intervals I brought to my nose to evoke a figment of Bessie) with the side of the puncheon. Again and again, I reshaped the instrument, trying to get at the counterpin deep inside the device. To my mind, that tiny mechanism, no bigger than half a corn kernel, had the fortification of Edinburgh Castle. But after two or three hours, I heard the blessed click of it releasing.
I made explorations about the prison room, searching for where I might escape, but only discovered further and more difficult immunities, including a doubled iron gate with Nibblo himself asleep behind it, and his ankle roped to the lock. The windows were too high to get at, and in any case crisscrossed with half-inch bars that would take a scaffold and untold time to undo. I attempted to scale the walls, maybe to find a chink somewhere, but they were moist and smooth and I couldn’t get a foot or more off the floor. I guessed it now only two hours before daybreak. The stove at the centre of the floor was made from stacked stone and tapered to a tiny chimney-pipe at the ceiling, barely enough space for a mouse to escape. I returned to my place, sitting down for a bite of cake, reconciling an escape as impossible. What had Bessie meant, so we might be together, I wondered. I leaned back, locking my fingers behind my neck, resting my head upon Bessie’s shawl, looking up at the crumbling plaster of the prison ceiling. Did she mean togetherness for an hour, for a night, for a life? My yearning was not a lascivious one. I wanted to venture into the intrepid parts of her, the obscurities hinted at in her cloudy eyes. Was she similarly inclined, I wondered, running my eyes up and down the vaulted beams of the prison ceiling.
And so was my Eureka. I said a prayer and took a final dram, then climbed the slippery chimney pipe, so that I might observe closer the exact construction of the ceiling, which to my delight was nailed quite loosely and in eight-square shaftment sections, a technique that I had employed myself while jobbing for Owen Wood. If you’re to work well, first lay out your space, were the wise instructions of Master Wood, which I now abided by chiselling at some mortar and removing three field rocks from the stovepipe to insert the iron from my fetters to use as a foothold while I performed my work.
There I was, ten feet in the air, all my weight rested upon a single manacle jammed into the chimney-pipe, slowly levering out nail after nail and slipping each carefully into my pocket. The beam had been fastened from above too, and once I’d done what I could, there was no choice but to insert the small puncheon and, with all the strength and control I could combine, slowly prise it away, which I did, almost dropping the entire thing upon a drunkard beneath. I masked the final, squeaking release of the timber with a cough and made a careful descent to place the component upon the stone floor. Back up I went, doing the same with two more beams, and finally, a full ceiling square, revealing trusses supporting a gabled roof clad in clay tile. At the very least, I could now sit easily upon a joist to inspect my next challenge, which to my dismay was much more difficult than the previous, with the tiles mortared in with two peg fasteners for every small tile. There was no give in such material, and I needed to release no fewer than eight tiles to fit myself through. Furthermore, tile, pegs and clay are a much louder affair than plaster and timber. But there was no turning back now. The slender evening air was thickening by the minute; as soon as the roosters began their announcements, which was any moment now, Nibblo would have me and I’d be executed within two days.
I began a steady scratching upon the mortar courses, scoring the outline of two, then four, then six, and finally eight tiles, laying Bessie’s shawl over my lap to catch the dust. I sacrificed what was remaining of my gin as solvent to moisten the bonds, then set upon the pegs. My hands shook with the effort, but I took no pause. I was still only halfway through the job when I heard the first dreaded gurgling of a courtyard rooster. I didn’t have time, that much was clear, so stood upon the joist that was maybe two feet from the roof, and with all my might, rammed my shoulder upwards. The tiles that I’d been working on broke clear and tumbled about me with the sound of thrown flowerpots. Someone moaned beneath me.
‘You’re dreaming,’ I called. ‘Back to M-m-m-m-mother.’
Dawn was not fully alight as I hoisted myself through the jagged gap and onto the prison roof, admiring the dark-blue hue of early morning. From my vantage I looked out to the angles of dormers and slate along The Strand and in the distance the grey Thames, where the latticework of tallship masts bobbed and shifted like puppet strings. I would have rather liked a coffee up there, with some tobacco too, but I was snapped from the fleeting numinosity by the chatter of crows perched on the mouldings of St Clement Danes.
I made a long leap from the prison onto a private home, then onto another and another again, scaling down a service chimney and into the padded lawn of some rich person’s yard. Under the sideways suspicion of a speckled hen, I helped myself to the clothesline, choosing a comely azure dress and matching bonnet with a frilly laced visor. The next fence was a pleasure to climb, if somewhat difficult in my new fashion, the fleur-de-lis spikes of the iron balustrade fitting snugly in my trembling grip as I hoisted myself to freedom.
I slowed to a casual stroll, pausing to admire Kneebone’s now-replenished drapery. In the reflection of his window I watched Nibblo and his men split in two directions, hopelessly searching for a running boy.
I was rather hungry after all the taxing work, so sauntered into a French bakery and took two pastries, each covered in a treacly glaze and topped with a blue and red boiled candy that I flicked in the air like a coin and caught in my mouth in a single go.
I began heading to Jonathan Wild’s office for advice, when the stone fence of St Sepulchre’s caught my tired eye, and I sat to finish my pastries. A semicircle of merchantmen gathered around for the morning’s news. The crier was a towering man, his long black coat requiring a great length of braiding and many buttons. With a swooping arc of his straight left arm, he pierced the morning with his shiny bell.
‘Hear ye, hear ye!’ he called. Steam and spittle meshed with the grey air. ‘Four penny for exclusive and alarming developments in the case of William Field, draper. And news of a gaolbreak only moments ago, the criminal still loose among us. Four penny a piece!’
There were grumbles over the price as men dropped their coins into the crier’s box. Once payments were complete, he began on the fresh evidence released overnight, documents of the most indisputable nature, pointing to none other than Jack Sheppard of Stepney AKA Jack the Lad as the thief responsible. ‘This young fiend is charged with the ransacking of William Field’s at Lewkenors Lane and the housebreaking of Mr Dobbins at Mayfair and many more bold robberies and wicked assaults which will be recounted presently …’
I can’t say I was too surprised to learn of the betrayal. How could a man do such a thing? A man to whom I’d given my unwavering loyalty. I’d been with the crew almost two years. For the very first time, hatred brewed inside me. A coffee vendor with a tray of steaming cups appeared and attention briefly diverged.
‘’Tis ’visable for all be cautious and wary,’ the crier continued, the last syllable carried to great length, like it was a precipice, ‘of this most ruthless and heinous malefactor, who is now breaked free from the roundhouse at St Clement’s. Reward has been set to ten guineas, payable by Mr J. Wild, our great and fearsome Thief-Taker. The lawle
ss man is said to be carrying a dagger and dressed in a carpenter’s shirt.’
‘For one penny more,’ the crier pronounced, ringing his bell again. ‘The cruel and murderous methods of his associates at St Giles will be revealed …’
But the crowd was now restless. They didn’t have all day. And neither did I; the Blue Boar called. The coffee-man collected the empty cups as the merchantmen plumped their collars, took up their canes and stepped off in their various directions, absorbed by pressing matters of their own.
WILD
A final ascent
April 1724
If there’s one thing that cannot be bought ’tis blood, I was told to countless slamming doors as I began my brutal petitioning of The Right Honourable House of Lords Spiritual and Temporal, seeking a title so I might marry my dear Isobel Sacrifice Imelda Lemon, whose fondness was grown beyond a child’s fantasy, my scarred and wonky face a visage she now delighted at two or three times per week across the supper table with the whole Lemon clan or as we turned about the grounds late afternoons or once completely alone behind the scullery, where I pulled her gently towards me so that my upper thigh might meet her cleft, her whole body coming to tremors within ten seconds. She looked up to me like she’d wet herself, two hands on her crotch, terrified. We of course didn’t kiss. That would have been a most illegal consummation.
Sir Stephen, whom I now called Papa, was equally invested in my Lording. The running of the estate in Kirkwall was magnitudes cheaper than Warbleton and seeing me landed meant he could guiltlessly marry off bonny Isobel without saying beannachd leat to a thousand a year. I barely understood the fat happy man, who as it turned out was a much-loved member of the Scottish nobility, and at this most delicate time of the Alliance was able to procure conference with several influential lords, most notably the Earl Mortimer, of whom you shall hear, and Viscount St John, whose face was like a Rubens arse. The Baronet’s influence was a mystery – he owned no great estates outside of his remote isle – it was, as far as I could tell, entirely on account of his happy fatness, his mutton-chopped drunkenness. In another word, him.
We set out at least twice per week in my new Felton & Hatchett coach (‘Ach, woo, weel isnae thes a brammer!’) to speak with a variety of his associates. He insisted I continue to wear my pistols so they might know I was as much a soldier as Admiral Kinney, who was made Knight Bachelor only last year and was rumoured to be soon granted a seat at the House. If a midshipman could go so far, then why not a Thief-Taker too? After decrying London’s lawlessness and applauding my efforts to improve it, Papa, in his incomprehensible phlegmy whistle, concluded our interviews on a personal note, praising my genuine love for his daughter. ‘Loue is loue, Mah Laird,’ he always said, before topping them up.
It was Thursday and the night before, both Papa and I had imbibed of too much sherry and eaten too much of oysters with Sir Marmaduke. I was awoken dry-mouthed and one-eyed to the bad news. The Lad had escaped from St Clement’s Roundhouse.
‘Spring water,’ replied I.
‘Did you not hear me?’ spoke Bessie.
‘Ale too. My head.’
‘One thing for him to escape,’ said Bess. ‘’Tis another after you’ve charged him with all that.’
‘Bessie, what are you talking about?’
‘The Lad. He is escaped.’
‘Not from St Clement’s. That’s run by Nibblo. Nibblo can’t be bribed. Nibblo –’
‘He didn’t bribe him. He took the bloody roof off.’
‘You’re making no sense.’
‘He climbed up the chimney stack and took the ceiling apart. Escaped through the roof and made off with a gentlewoman’s dress. Or so it –’
‘Water.’
Bessie stormed off, calling for Patience Featherspoon to deliver me ale and water.
I collapsed back to the feathers, burying myself beneath a pillow to muffle the mid-morning noises of my office. I needed to return to sleep. But even the bedfluff couldn’t mask all these infuriating noises:
Carrot and his assistant at their clicking abaci.
The cook dicing pumpkin for pie-day.
Spleening of some mistreated whore.
Squeaking of Silver’s scales as he weighed last night’s plate.
Honking of a sash window as a tradesman slid one repeatedly.
Blueskin’s expert opining on the weather: ‘Fuck’n buck’ts ’gain.’
Doors. Opening with a creak and closing with a sudden vacuumed clank. Countless doors.
When it became evident I would sleep no more, I brought myself upright, but the right corner of the room folded up with me. I groaned, reached for the nearest empty vessel – my new left boot – and spewed sherried oysters up to the ankle.
Patience entered with a glass of clear water and a mug of ale, set them down beside me, then took the shoe without a word.
‘And some rolls with fruit sauce. If you will, dear Patience.’
‘Master Wild.’
She was a loyal maid, this Featherspoon. Everything would be all right, I told myself. Our camp of supporters was almost at thirty and with most from Scotland, my knighthood would now be a matter of political relevance.
As for The Lad, he would just have to be recaptured. With my expenses climbing by the day, I needed the rewards for every possible conviction. How else was I going to pay for Cramdick and Ellingsworth’s bribes? Isobel wanted all sorts of horsies.
Blueskin barged in. ‘Sir.’
‘Blueskin.’
‘Y’hear, sir. The Lad –’
‘Yes, yes. I know, miraculous. Wonderful news. Tell me, Blueskin. Where’s he likely to hole up?’
‘Lad’ll wanna dram, ’e will.’
‘And where might he have that dram, Blueskin?’
Blueskin thought a few seconds, pulling his right earlobe. ‘S’ppose enna Blue Boar, sir.’
‘I see. Help me with these shoes, will you?’
He went on a knee, giving me some resistance. ‘Cove’s ’ere fo’ ya, too. Gentry-like.’
‘Huh?’
‘Sum lord. Fatta me.’
‘Here? A lord?’
Blueskin nodded, pushing on my other shoe.
Bessie walked in, exasperated. Patience too, with some rolls and a ramekin of fruit jam. Sykes followed after.
‘A Sir Stephen Lemon, Baronet of Orkney to see you, sir,’ said Sykes.
‘Your rolls, sir. Fresh from the baker.’
‘I can’t handle these whores no longer,’ said Bessie. ‘I’m at my limit. The wage must be upped.’
‘Ya fuck’n draggle-tail!’ yelled said whore from the vestibule. ‘Conveyancers, tha lot of ya!’
‘Sir Stephen,’ I muttered. ‘Where?’
‘Ahm haur mah mukker,’ said the Baronet himself, suddenly at the door in full dress. This was the first time a Lemon had come to my place of occupation. He looked flustered. ‘We main gang tae th’ Earl Mortimer.’
‘Will apricot and fig do, Master Wild?’ Patience curtsied.
‘Me cunny,’ shouted the old whore, entering the room, ‘could fit the whole horse.’
‘Oh ho,’ said Sir Stephen, bringing a hand to his mouth.
‘See?’ said Bessie, hands on hips.
‘You could steer a ship inside me,’ said the whore. ‘And I wouldn’t feel a thing.’
‘Blueskin,’ said I. ‘Have this woman arrested.’
‘The tea is strong, as you like it.’
‘The Earl Mortimer, did you say?’ I asked the Baronet. ‘Today?’
‘Och, aye.’
‘Ya felons!’
‘Ready the coach,’ I said to Sykes. ‘Take the Baronet from here.’
‘Buck’ts. Fuck’n buck’ts,’ added Blueskin, removing the whore by her elbow.
I took up my pistols and dipped a roll crudely in the fruit (I normally smear it evenly), chewing as I powdered my best wig. Bessie remained, eyeing me.
‘The food restores me,’ said I. ‘I’ll have some meat
once my stomach settles.’
‘Jonathan,’ she embarked, slowly. ‘You’re not hearing me.’
‘I admit, you were right about The Lad. But the ship has sailed.’
‘’Tis not only The Lad. We are bringing in too much loot. Only last night there was a break at Piccadilly again. Ben Fowles.’
‘I gave no such order.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Bessie,’ demurred I. ‘You don’t understand. I’m on my way to Whitehall. Whitehall. With a wife and title, we will be indomitable. Uxbridge himself –’
‘Forget Uxbridge,’ she spat. ‘You’re fooling yourself. A knighthood won’t advance us. Our business is about management of people. Not title.’
‘People? Whores and thugs are our people. And there is no shortage of them.’
‘They cannot be recycled like timber, Jonathan. ’Tis about loyalty.’
I wigged myself and brushed my coat. I was incredibly hungry and now set my teeth into a second roll. ‘The Lad will be at the Blue Boar,’ said I, chewing. ‘Have him taken. He won’t be escaping Newgate.’
‘Are you deaf? Outside ten of your men are cheering his freedom. No one will take him.’
‘Any man who refuses,’ said I, growing vehement, ‘will be taken himself. My quotas must be filled. Either the right hand or the left, Bessie. Simple. The right hand or the left!’
I took from my breast pocket my WONK I ESOHT journal and quickly scanned the list.
‘Tallshaw. Hollows. And … Cuttlefish. Done. No, on second thought, not Cuttlefish, he’s been useful. DeStrange. Have DeStrange captured. Those three for the Fowles looting. Have Hardwicke prepare the assizes.’
Bessie looked to me in a most unusual manner. She wasn’t one inclined to such a thing: resignation.
I’d made the mistake of accompanying my rolls with three cups of mighty strong tea and now with the corrugations of my carriage I could hear bubbling. Papa, I now perceived, was also nursing discomfort from last night. Over a powdered and yellow forehead he sweated creamy beads.
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