‘I do, Miss Lemon. It is a fine cream.’
My glass was sloshingly refilled by a scullery maid.
‘Mother has begun planning,’ said she. ‘The grounds will be refashioned by a gardener from Wales. We are to look at options for napery next week. And she thinks the Vicar Ulster must be employed at the service in some way.’
‘Miss Lemon,’ said I, very quietly. ‘I dream of our consummation every night.’
Her teeth clattered against the spoon. ‘Mr Wild. Uhumm.’ Isobel coughed. ‘Confirmation of your title. Uhumm – when do – uhumm – you hear?’
At the other end of the table Astley eyed us, spinning a spoon in its place.
‘November sixth, I believe. With Sheppard captured and our camp at almost forty, we may consider it a fait accompli.’
‘Speak up, Mr Wild!’ Astley called across the table.
‘November sixth, I said!’ I darted back an equal glare.
‘What about McCubbins,’ Aylesbury was asking the new guest. ‘Do you know him? Or maybe Goold of Old Court, Cork?’
‘I can’t say I –’
‘Hee hee.’
‘The top is a vanilla milk jelly with drizzle,’ said Isobel, returning to the more relevant matter. ‘And yet the middle all soft and gooey.’
No, I hadn’t grown tired of her. Not of her small face, nor her innocence, nor her left eye angled down and the right focused on custard cream. She would be a splendid wife. She could eat as much custard cream with drizzle as she wanted. I downed my glass of sherry and it was immediately refilled. And again. Together with Astley, the pig watched my every move.
Whist was announced and Isobel lurched towards the drawing room. I will deal, four a piece. My fourteenth glass of sherry was only half drunk, but I figured it was time to stand, which I did carefully, both hands on the table. What remained of my custard cream jiggled. Other things appeared to be tremoring.
‘You must excuse me,’ I murmured. ‘Rather done for. My coach, please.’
‘Come now, Thief-Taker, one game,’ said Aylesbury.
The senior Lemons stood by the piano, singing:
‘The bonny bush aboon traquair. ’Twas there something something love her …’
I wafted a hand, to say away, away.
Sykes helped me into the Felton & Hatchett, which was soon wobbling from the gates. The sideways rocking was fine, but why was the vehicle tilting forward? I gripped the sides of my seat to steady it. I closed one eye to assist.
‘Sykes!’ I yelled. ‘Hell-and-Fury!’
He pulled me out. ‘A bit’oo much ’gain, sire? Mind. Not your boots. Not mine neiva, if ya do’mine? Vere, vere Mr Wild. Out wiff it.’
I maintained a dribbling consciousness, leaning into the door as we passed from the quiet darkness of St James’s to the bubbling stew of Covent Garden. Windows danced with a choreography of shoulders and heads. Bessie was at the portico as we pulled in.
‘Again, Jonathan.’
‘If I’m to be Lord Wild …’ I paused to belch. ‘I must be fat.’
‘A fine strategy.’ She locked her arm beneath my own and assisted me up the stairs.
‘Miss?’ Sykes called behind us.
‘Retire, Hell-and-Fury. I have him.’
In my privy, though memory is murky, Bessie tended kindly through my hiccups. ‘And so you might sleep late,’ said she, ‘pray sign these depositions now.’
I sat on the edge of my bed, swaying. ‘I’ll never get these boots off.’
‘And initial here. And here.’
‘Urgh.’
‘And one last signature, here.’
‘Bessie. My dear Bessie.’
‘Now to your boots.’
‘Urgh. Sometimes I wonder if we might have pursued our. Love. Urgh. We loved each other. Remember?’
‘Now, now. Sleep. A wife will always love her husband.’
‘Isobel will be a fine –’
‘Shh. Shh. I’ll have Patience ensure you’re not disturbed.’
‘I’m determined to make a. Urgh. Change, Bessie.’
‘Shhh.’
‘I will. Urgghh. I will be a better man. For Isobel.’
‘I’m sure you will, Jonathan. Shh. Sleep.’
She snuffed the candles and I was alone.
The bed took me mighty well, but then the room spun a full revolution. I sat up. After it was steady, I lowered myself again. Of all the songs I could have in my head! The bonny bush aboon traquair. Urgh. ’Twas there something something love her …
I hummed the tune. My eyes slowly closed. The room was on a skew angle but held fast.
The bonny bush aboon traquair. ’Twas there I first did love her …
THE LAD
I escape from Newgate prison
July 1724
It required my total nudity. I layered every part of me in stinking Foe fat; my head, my shoulders, my hips, my ribs. I put twenty shillings of coins inside my mouth. You wouldn’t believe a full-grown man would fit through those bars. Hours of pushing and squeezing, my ears almost cleaving from my head and two of my ribs shattering with an awful click. I had raw seeping wounds on my shoulders, my thighs, my head, where iron grated my flesh to the sinew. Every last piece of clothing I owned was sewed into a hodgepodge rope like what a magician pulls from his sleeve. With only a fingertip of mortar, I traversed the wall, toes likewise clinging to a brick-edge until I was able to use an opposing wall to shimmy to the street. The condemned cell of Newgate had indeed birthed a baby; naked, covered in goop, hair matted, fresh and bloodily squeezed from an impossibly tight hole. Only I didn’t cry or wail or gasp; I made no sound at all.
Bloody and broken, I crouched in the shadows of Chancery Lane. In all my time devising an escape, I hadn’t considered that I might actually succeed. My options were meagre. My ankles were still in irons and I had no tools to remove them. I had been betrayed by Jonathan Wild. All of London would hunt for me. My mother was dead and my brother moved to Essex. I had no clothes and no way to spend the few shillings I had.
I stood from my haunches and made my way naked through the night, yanked forward by the leash of survival, walking near an hour until I arrived at Fulham Green, where I hid like a native in dense brush for many days and nights. I ate from the insubstantial commons and drank fetid water from a pond. My wounds were growing sordid and my insides gravely damaged. I guessed I would soon enough die.
Collapsed in my bush one afternoon I was awoken by a stitched cricket ball. A child’s face soon appeared in the bushes and I held out one of my shilling coins. The boy looked at it, unsure. I flicked him the coin, then the ball, and lay back down.
An hour later there were two boys peering down at me, the same younger one from before and an elder one that I guessed to be fifteen. I laid a branch over my ankles so they might not see the fetters, and flicked them another of my coins.
‘Told you,’ the little one said.
‘Who are you?’ the elder asked.
I made it clear that I was disabled of speech.
‘But why are you giving us money?’ he asked. ‘You don’t even have clothes, like.’
I shrugged.
‘Can we do anything for you, sir?’
I smiled and gestured for pen and paper, which they returned with soon enough.
I have eighteen shillings and will pay you all if you will supply me with a hammer, a puncheon, some gin and a cheap suit of clothes.
‘But who are you?’ the elder boy insisted. ‘You could be The Lad, for all we know.’
I know The Lad. And he is not what you think him to be. He would give all his shillings to boys just like you.
I smiled, holding out the coins. They exchanged uncertain glances.
‘Are you The Lad?’
I shrugged.
‘I don’t want to die,’ said the youngest.
I’ve never raised my hand against anyone, let alone a child.
The elder read out my words slowly.
‘But he
is a thief,’ the little one said. ‘A robber.’
I can’t deny it. But never from one who couldn’t afford to be robbed.
The two boys whispered something and then considered the shillings.
You do what you feel to be right, boys. Regardless of your choice, these coins are yours, to do as you please.
The boys took them all, their feet pattering into the distance.
I lay back, resigned to being captured again, but only two days later those good and brave boys returned with a hessian sack full of what I’d asked.
‘We can see you’ve been wronged,’ said the eldest.
Tell your friends. Tell the whole green world.
With the blessed release of my ankle-locks, a weedy bath in the Fulham swamp, a single dram and some clean clothes, I was greatly restored. More and more boys came to witness the man rumoured to be The Lad; the bushes bloomed white with randomly appearing eyes. Each morning I awoke to parcels of food. The foul smell from my wounds began dissipating as solid islands of scab mapped my flesh. Some say I lived in those bushes for half a year but to my reckoning it was seven or eight weeks, the whole of London thrumming around me as I lay silent like a fox curled in its burrow.
Very late one evening the bush blossomed a familiar set of eyes – the little mischievous ones of my dear Sykes, Hell-and-Fury as he’s known.
‘Blow me sideways, ’tis you,’ he said. ‘Figured ya dead, or gone, Lad. Lad! Ya bastard, ya fuck’n mute, ya fuck’n game-pullet, you.’
We embraced and it hurt my insides but I didn’t let go, gripping the little man and, I admit, crying with the relief of it.
‘Gotta move ya posthaste. Got ’ccomodations. Gentry ones.’
He fished out a flask, and we drank.
‘Wild’s givin’ all ’e got ’a taykin’ ya.’
‘F-f-f-fuck Wild-d-d-d,’ I said.
DEFOE
A visitor one Wednesday evening
October 1724
One night as Defoe settles to reading on his pallet, the sentry unlocks the gate, and steps directly to him.
‘Mr Defoe, a lady to see you.’
‘Tell Mrs Defoe my position is unchanged. As desperate as I am to see –’
‘Sir, ’tis not her.’
‘Who then?’
‘She will not speak, gave me this.’
He hands Defoe a paper.
My name is Rebecca Beaubottom. I am dumb of speech. I seek brief audience with Mr Daniel Defoe to discuss matters regarding our mutual interest in the trade of jade geese.
Defoe frowns and looks past the sentry to the darkened hallway. By her broad stature and formal dress, he can see this woman is not his wife.
‘Very well,’ he says, handing the paper back to the sentry, who unlocks the gate and gestures the woman in.
She lifts her dress as she steps over two sleeping men. The candle flickers. Her dim presence is further shaded by the ellipse of a wide-brimmed hat.
‘Who are you?’ Defoe asks gruffly. He is disappointed to have broken his vow of solitude.
The woman doesn’t reply, though he deciphers a smile. She takes out a notebook and pen, dips it in a small jar and writes:
Did you not read my note? I am dumb of speech. I am Rebecca Beaubottom.
‘What do you want with me?’ Defoe asks.
She writes patiently and returns the page to him.
Do you think I’m pretty? I wore this dress just for you.
‘Get out,’ says Defoe flatly. ‘Tell whoever sent you I will be neither bribed nor riled.’
Still grinning, she writes at a steady pace.
Mr Defoe, prithee. Will you not extend the smallest of flatteries to a woman dressed up and come all this way?
Defoe waits as she writes more.
You have quite the accommodation, Mr Defoe. Last time I was in prison, I had no bed and blanket. No candle. No bedpan. Look, even a window.
Defoe stands. ‘Turnkey!’
Now she scribbles a little faster.
I have information regarding your jade geese.
‘I will no longer accept any reward in relation to these. They are to be returned to my father, James Foe.’
The turnkey appears, hitches up his trousers. ‘Mr Defoe?’
I also have information about Jack the Lad.
‘Want me to escort this lady away?’ the sentry asks through the bars.
He has been eagerly awaiting your true-to-life account.
‘Apologies. A moment more,’ Defoe says to the turnkey. ‘Who told you of that?’ he asks the woman.
She taps Defoe’s head twice like he is a well-behaved child.
How the tables have turned since our last meeting.
‘I know no Rebecca Beaubottom,’ says Defoe, avoiding her hand. ‘Make your intentions clear, or I will have you cast out.’
Feel my cheeks, and you will know the woman I am.
She reaches for his hand. Defoe is bewildered by her forwardness and finds himself allowing her to place his hand against her cheek. As he touches the prickles of a two-day beard, he recoils. The transvestite brings her lips close to Defoe’s ear.
‘Hav-v-v-ve y-y-you miss-s-s-ssed-d-d me?’
Defoe curses in disbelief. ‘Are you mad?’
Sheppard takes up the notebook.
So do you think me a pretty woman?
‘Beaubottom,’ Defoe spits, grinning. ‘You are mad.’
He lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘Half the Kingdom is looking for you.’
London is my home, I’ll not be driven from it.
Defoe continues shaking his head. ‘Let me help you,’ he whispers. ‘I have contacts in Calais. Brussels too. We can get you out. I will make the necessary introductions.’
Sheppard pokes at his previously written line, shaking his head. He dips the pen, taps the nib and writes:
I’m hopeful for a smidgeon of justice.
Sheppard pauses, then slowly circles the last word.
‘Justice isn’t allotted by men,’ grunts Defoe, handing back the page.
Is that how you make sense of being here?
‘I deserve worse.’
I’m sorry I couldn’t arrange for your jade geese.
‘I’m grateful for your attempts.’
Have you no Patron to help?
‘I have vowed not to accept assistance of any kind.’
What, you plan to reside here permanently, then?
‘My residence is with God.’
Defoe, you have a family to consider.
‘It is for my family. Here I am deprived of the opportunity to destroy their lives.’
What fugitive can flee from himself?
‘You are the first visitor I have approved. And I am glad to see you, Sheppar–’
He is slapped lightly across the mouth.
‘Beaubottom,’ Defoe corrects himself. ‘I am gladdened by your presence, Miss Beaubottom. Especially in that comely dress.’
Sheppard now takes a seat, steadying the notebook on one knee.
Have you been reading the papers?
Defoe rocks one hand side to side.
‘All I hear about is some gaolbird, The Lad. He apparently used tallow to slide out of Newgate, like a newborn from a hussy. I’m more interested in the Scottish Alliance, to be honest.’
Sheppard smirks and nudges him. He writes his reply.
If I’m to be captured, another escape is unlikely. Even for me.
‘That is why you must accept my assistance to –’
Enough. I’m no Frenchman. What I humbly ask from you, Master Defoe, is a broadcast of the truth.
‘I’m working on a variety of projects, including yours. There are considerations. There is Harley to satisfy. And Applebee too. I must time the release, so that it’s not – how shall I say it – encumbered with their agenda. In short, young Shep– Miss Beaubottom, in short, I am committed to it, just the same as you are. You can count on me.’
I’m comforted to hear it. I have more
too, more to expose.
Defoe waits as Sheppard continues to write in the notebook. In the dark prison, the scratching at the page has the pitch of an illicit, urgent whispering.
My friend, Quilt, was tortured. Had two of his fingers chopped. Wild knew he was loyal to me. Many are being arrested. He has protections, at the highest levels, from the new Lord Mayor Merttins and others.
‘Buried in the side-shed of every great man’s estate,’ says Defoe, ‘is an axe to grind. We shall find one such axe.’
You know of these things better than I. But take this, it might help find that axe.
Sheppard hands him a curious thing: a dirty, velveteen toy in the shape of a pheasant or chicken, with one pearl-studded eye. Defoe feels something solid inside it.
‘I cannot convince you to escape to France?’ Defoe asks. ‘The countryside is –’
I’d suffocate in the fresh air. I’d go deaf from the silence.
Defoe lights a new candle, and in doing so catches a glimpse of Sheppard’s face, his bright, honest eyes.
‘Defoe,’ calls the turnkey, in warning.
‘The curfew has long passed,’ Defoe explains. ‘You must go.’
Let us pray the next time, neither is encumbered by a curfew.
They take each other’s hands, squeezing. Nothing more is said. Defoe is moved to the same conflation of love and fear that he feels for his children. Sheppard releases his grip and without any further ceremony disappears through the doorway. Before snuffing his candle, Defoe unbuttons the pheasant’s stomach, and pulls out a small navy notebook. He opens to the first page, titled WONK I ESOHT.
WILD
I take up a new endeavour, but a bothersome insect goes bzzzzz
July 1724
Less Astley, we were thick as thieves. I had sought and gained the Lemons’ love and confidence: my back was blue from the Baronet’s guffawing slaps. My shoulder ached from throwing Cumquat’s favourite gnarled stick. Aylesbury’s third cousin (twice removed) had impressive archery statistics. As a matter of fact, there was a subtler softness to the Speyside butter biscuit. My ears rang from the Baronetess’s titters. Hilariously, the vicar’s kilt was a wee dishcloot. Blood cakes accompany Oloroso mighty well, yes they do!
Wild Page 27
