Wild

by Nathan Besser

  If you are yet to recognise the pattern in me, it is the newer endeavour to which I am most enlivened. And, what I’m getting at is, I really needed a new one. With Sheppard in the condemned cell, Harley’s investigation all but a formality and the Lemons so enamoured of their new clansman, I honed in on just such an endeavour: a wedding.

  There was discussion of engaging a professional planner, but I would hear nothing of it and set about the project with determined impatience. I established the prerequisites for a successful ceremony:

  Upon arrival, each guest would be handed pastry-cups the size of a sterling, stuffed with quince and topped with a glazed gooseberry.

  The wine would be pink, and it would froth.

  The napery would be striped blue and gold.

  Gazpacho from Andalucia.

  Meringue from Paris.

  Vermicelli from Sicily.

  Peacocks would roam the clipped grounds.

  The procession would rove on a carpet of crushed marble and petals.

  A magic show for the children.

  Cannons fired once our rings were fingered.

  If Wolff Jakob Lauffensteiner refused, I would get the Italian named Vivaldi.

  The invitations cornered in gold leaf and inclusive of Rochefoucauld candies.

  At least two giraffes.

  I negotiated with the Baronet and his Lady for infuriating hours to accommodate their absurd, provincial requirements (I must wear one of Papa’s shoes, Isobel must sew an Orkney ensign to her tail &c.) but they were relieved by my taking up of the expense. Aylesbury was of course in charge of the guest list, with a few of my own additions – Uxbridge, Gyssels, Millicent Andrews née Dampier, Makepeace Sterling and Mr Bubo. The King, too, I hoped would pop in. And my parents, I’m sure, would be looking up from the cauldrons. With the accounts only half paid, I quickly flushed a third of my ready wealth. But money – there would always be more of that.

  If you’re asleep and a mosquito skirts the ear, you begin with just rolling to the other side but soon will act in extreme self-violence, striking yourself near-deaf to kill the persistent bug. An ale was halfway to my mouth and my fingers were spread over a brochure when I heard the bzzz. Hamilton Carrot stormed into my office, holding his eyeglasses like a flag.

  ‘Again, again,’ he was shouting. ‘How, how, I ask?’

  The Lad had apparently escaped from Newgate. Newgate!

  To my extreme dissatisfaction I had no other choice but to cancel that day’s gazpacho tasting. With confirmation of my Lording now in its final stages and my wedding set for December the tenth, this news of The Lad was quite meddlesome. I strapped on my pistols and went to interrogate the Newgate keeper, Harrison Henry, from whom I learned that The Lad hadn’t bribed his way out, but actually escaped. The bars he pushed himself through were stained with blood. A rope of tied clothes hung from the high window. Nobody knew his whereabouts and I would scissor off many fingers to verify it.

  Within a week I received a letter from Lord Mayor Merttins; Sheppard must be captured or support for my confirmation would be reconsidered. Rumours swirled. Harley and his secretary, Cumberbatch, requested a private parley to discuss the matter of Jack Sheppard. The men in my office had difficulty concealing their glee. The story was shifting. Words like great and defiant and handsome were prefixed to his name. I paid criers and pamphleteers to spread the other side, but his fame jumped like the Great Fire, from building to building.

  Isobel was enlivened. Her posture at tea was alert like a frightened deer, and her one active eye hungry for particulars.

  ‘Mr Wild, Mr Wild,’ said she, both hands clasped at her breast. ‘What ever shall you do?’

  ‘What?’ retorted I. ‘Have you walked out of a Dryden poem?’

  ‘Hoo can we ahssist?’ asked Lady Lemon. ‘Teel us.’

  ‘’Tis not a family matter,’ responded I. ‘And will be handled in its turn.’

  For once the Baronet wasn’t laughing. He sat, nodding.

  ‘Seems to me,’ said Astley, biting his biscuit, ‘that you saddled the wrong horse.’

  ‘Ach, Astley,’ said Lady Lemon. ‘Dorn’t make –’

  ‘’Tis only been a short time,’ mollified Isobel. ‘If anyone can capture The Lad –’

  ‘Enough! Enough of your –’ I waved my napkin at them ‘– of your silly opinions … of this silly tartan!’

  I threw down the napkin, then added, ‘I am the Thief-Taker General!’

  The family reeled. I stood, wiping at my mouth. Bertie Beamish-Fitzhugh bit the tip of her forefinger. Lady Lemon raised her eyebrows in disapproval. Astley grinned.

  ‘Och, aye,’ nodded the Baronet, forgiving the eruption. ‘Lae th’ puir lad.’

  ‘Now, Isobel,’ said I, bringing my feet together. ‘Let us inspect the progress of the Lemon grounds, that has come at my expense.’

  I placed one hand behind my back and held out the other. She looked at it. Everyone looked at her looking at it. I flushed as she stepped off, leaving my hand suspended.

  We made circles of the repaired fountain and I pointed out improvements to the topiary corridors. Isobel was a half-step behind me, a silent rebuke. Her well-intentioned parents were not to be mocked.

  ‘Isobel,’ said I. ‘Accept my apology.’

  ‘You haven’t offered one.’

  ‘I confess being gallied by the Sheppard business. I spoke out of turn.’

  ‘Until we’re married, I remain a Lemon. And a loyal one at that.’

  ‘Must you …’ I paused, took a breath, bowed. ‘And for saying so, I am only further convinced of my fiancée’s fine character.’

  She thinned her eyes and I bowed deeply again.

  We stepped off. She laid a hand lightly on my forearm. I admit to being enfeebled; it is the only explanation for what I then said.

  ‘My dear,’ embarked I, pressing a thumb and forefinger into my eyes. ‘Once Sheppard is dangling and my confirmation realised, I’m thinking I shall quit this Thief-Taking business.’

  ‘Mr Wild?’

  ‘I will own a country seat with ready money to last us many years in a grand habit. The contract alone is worth thousands. But most of all, Isobel, I will have a wife and soon enough, God willing, children too. A chance to set matters straight. I can’t remember a time I wasn’t running as fast as my legs could carry me.’

  Isobel slowly lidded her eyes to the horizon. ‘To what matters do you refer?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You said you wish to set matters straight.’

  ‘I can’t be certain why I said that. Maybe in relation to sugar. There are opportunities and I should like to make an advantage of them.’

  ‘Sugar opportunities?’

  ‘Aye. Sugar.’

  ‘You will have my support, Mr Wild, in whichever opportunities you choose.’

  I tapped Isobel’s hand, careful not to leave it long for decency’s sake (our chaperone, Marmaduke, wasn’t far behind).

  ‘But you mustn’t lose your mind to fancies,’ added she. ‘Until it’s all quite settled.’

  ‘You’re quite right, Miss Lemon. I shall see to it myself that The Lad is brought to a brutal justice.’

  She nodded and pursed her lips in support.

  ‘And in the meantime,’ continued I, ‘we must decide which gazpacho.’

  ‘It will be the finest wedding in the Kingdom,’ said Isobel.

  ‘I’ve been thinking that we shall mark the tables by suits,’ offered I. ‘Each shall have a display of their own. One for Hearts, Clubs, Spades, Aces.’

  She frowned. ‘Aces?’

  ‘Diamonds. Forgive me.’

  ‘Mr Wild, you do know how to make me laugh.’

  ‘Waterman Sackville,’ called I to his master, upon alighting the vessel and stabbing a finger towards the oarsman. ‘He should sooner be committed to an asylum than oar a boat.’

  I implanted many new men into my offices. I trusted no one except Bessie, who was inconveniently gone to an au
nt in Farnborough. There were three Irish, two Welshmen and several returned from fighting in Sicily under Admiral Byng. Together, the new team traipsed the streets, pistols cocked and me ready to use mine for the very first time. I never thought I’d see anything other than simpleness in Blueskin’s eyes, but now there was something scheming as he went about his duties.

  People cowered at the approach of this new entourage as they flipped tables in alehouses, gripped jawbones of mothers and flushed terraced houses like a deluge. My new Irish were torturing one or two a day, but despite these cruelties, which yielded a sea of red herrings, Sheppard was nowhere to be found.

  DEFOE

  Resurrected

  November 1724

  Sunrise on the private wherry. Through the dense fog the morning sun is like a distant glowing coal. A spray of orange spreads outwards but illuminates nothing. Waterman Sackville pulls at the fog bell and the sound is carried by the impenetrable shroud beyond their boat. Similar bells are being rung on all sides, of various volumes and timbres, from various distances. Sackville mutters, one hand on the rudder.

  ‘Apologies, M’Lord,’ he says. ‘Will take longer than usual in such weather.’

  ‘Not a worry, Waterman. At your pace,’ replies the passenger, distracted by a dossier in his lap. A lantern knocks against the mast, the flame dancing.

  ‘Another coffee perhaps, M’Lord?’

  ‘No, no, quite content,’ the man answers, bringing a page close to his monocle.

  As Defoe rows, the loosely tied bandage bunches uncomfortably. Small adjustments to his grip only make matters worse. He yearns to remove the bandage entirely and place the sore wound directly onto the smooth oaken oar. The pain of the blister quickly grows into a maddening itch. At the very least, it’s a distraction from the aching in his back and shoulders.

  ‘Ten firm, Daniel,’ calls Sackville.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replies Defoe, increasing pace. The squeaking of the oarlock intensifies and within a few moments, crimson is leaking into the calico bandage. He is nothing but the hand. Thank God, only to Temple. He guesses thirty more strokes and begins counting down to the metronome of his grunts. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven …

  With the blessed clatter of the bow against Temple Stairs, Defoe stands, stretches his back once and grabs the wet ropes. He lassoes the barnacled post and pulls them in.

  ‘Your bags, sir,’ Defoe says, handing the passenger his suitcase.

  ‘Thank you. Good day.’

  ‘Good day, sir.’

  Waterman Sackville cleans the coffee stove in preparation for the next passenger.

  ‘Daniel,’ he says in a kind tone. ‘That must be tended to.’

  Defoe unpeels the bandage.

  ‘Cor,’ says Sackville, looking at the wound.

  The band of raw flesh is now seeping a clear discharge. Defoe holds the hand with his other.

  ‘Arnott will understand,’ adds Sackville. ‘A man your age shouldn’t –’

  ‘The callus ripped off,’ says Defoe, retying the bandage, ‘is all.’

  ‘You’ll lose the whole hand if it spoils.’

  ‘When we return to The Bridge,’ says he, sighing, ‘I will see about a physician.’

  Sackville nods, climbs the stairs, calls his singsong into the fog. ‘Get a private wherry! Fastest way about. Travel in luxury! Private wherry! Four shillings only! Stopping at Westminster, Blackfriars, Somerset, Tower Bridge. Ale or coffee included! Get your private wherry!’

  An hour later he returns with a passenger. Defoe cannot register his face through the fog. He is large and thickly built with a long green overcoat. He steps onto the boat without any hesitation, slumping into the bench and leaning back. A moment later he stands to readjust a pair of pistols and shake out his coat.

  ‘Coffee or ale, Mr Wild?’ Sackville asks.

  ‘Ale. Hot as you can make it.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Sackville lights the stove, sets a jug upon it. ‘To St Magnus Stairs, Daniel.’

  ‘St Magnus,’ replies Defoe, squeezing the oar into his wound.

  Typical, his wife Mary Tuffley is saying, her head shaking. Typical.

  They are sitting at the kitchen table, the house empty of children. It is the first time they have seen each other since Defoe’s release.

  ‘I am determined,’ Defoe concludes, of his plans.

  ‘Yes, you are. To be a fool.’

  Mary is enraged. She stands and clatters dishes into the washbucket.

  ‘Will you hold your anger for a single moment? Please. Listen first.’

  She pulls out a plate, runs her fingers around the rim, then sticks it into the drying rack. The suds roll downwards.

  ‘Speak,’ she says, continuing at the dishes.

  ‘Pray sit with me, Mary. Finish your tea.’

  She groans, wipes her hands on her apron.

  ‘Very well.’

  Defoe reaches out and places a hand on both of hers. Her knuckles are wet and smooth; the skin glances over the ligature. We are here, Defoe thinks, finally old. She pulls her hand away.

  ‘There are two reasons why I must see this through.’

  ‘But you have –’

  ‘Mary, you said you’d listen.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘God Almighty!’

  ‘Fine, continue.’

  Defoe sighs, then begins again. ‘There are two reasons. The first is straightforward. If I live in the house, Godbehere and his bailiffs will claim I have title and have cause to sue for it. He is a stubborn fellow and won’t quit. Second, what Arnott has only done for me … I wouldn’t have secured bail without his assistance. I must make efforts to repay him. If only for my self-respect.’

  Mary leans back and folds her arms. ‘May I answer now? Are you finished?’

  ‘Prithee.’

  ‘But to live in that hovel and row a boat?’ she exclaims, throwing up her hands. ‘Must you always take everything to such an unnecessary extreme? You could have bought a single roll of tobacco. But no, no, you had to import seventy. Same with the civet cats. Same with that absurd agreement with Harley. If you’re trying to eradicate something, eradicate that. Your determination.’ Her eyes are wide.

  ‘Mary, I was in prison not one week ago. Let us be thankful I am sitting here.’

  ‘So you’re going to live in a penny-lodging in Billingsgate?’

  ‘It is cheap and all I require.’

  ‘Want to pay off your debts? Fine. Get yourself a real job. Clerking. Or at your father’s factory. Or at Walpole’s office. You could be getting ten times the salary of a bloody oarsman.’

  ‘I can appreciate why –’

  ‘And if you can’t live in this house, live somewhere cheap in Stoke Newington. At least be close to your family.’

  Mary finally lets out a sob. She buries her face in reddened hands. Defoe moves to embrace her but she backhands the air. With this, pressure builds in his chest and a single tear drops to the table.

  ‘Dear Mary,’ he says, his own voice breaking. ‘I want nothing more than to be returned to this house. With you and the children. Nothing more.’

  ‘But why then, why …’

  ‘The time will come, Mary. I won’t risk the children seeing me arrested again. When I’m not at the oars, I’m working well. Many, many stories, all of which will bring money. But no more credit. I must have the money before I spend it.’

  ‘And what about the children? They talk about your letters every day. What am I to tell them?’

  ‘They enjoyed the letters?’

  ‘They were wonderful. They are haunted by the tale of the storm. They laugh about the man who carries about a duck named Dick. You’re their hero.’

  He cries freely. Tears stream down his face and fall to the table, moistening the crumbs stuck between the boards. She now lets him hold both her hands.

  ‘We must keep it this way until the debt arrangement is concluded,’ he says. ‘It will be easier for all
. I will not live like a felon in my own house.’

  She nods. He lifts her hands, kisses her soapy knuckles. He then stands and draws her in, squeezing her body tight. She returns the embrace. Over her shoulder, he looks at the benchtop with its apples, carrots, cucumbers and potatoes. A knife waits next to them. Something brown and thick bubbles on the stove. That Mary does all this without assistance … Defoe breathes back his shame.

  ‘I will get us through this,’ he says. ‘Whatever is required –’

  ‘Shhh,’ Mary replies. ‘No more talking.’

  Her pelvis is against his groin, her cheek warms his chest. He finds himself stirring. She presses in.

  ‘You’ve been gone so long,’ she says, stepping away, looking into his eyes. ‘Now go upstairs and wait there for me. We don’t have long until the children return.’

  He lets out a brief sob and rubs his eyes.

  ‘Oh, don’t do that,’ she scolds. ‘Or I’ll not be inclined.’

  Defoe tilts his head, unbelieving.

  ‘What? You think I don’t have blood running through me?’

  He continues to stare.

  ‘Upstairs before I change my mind,’ she chides and slaps his bottom. ‘Go on!’

  The fog lifts once the wherry passes Blackfriars. The Thief-Taker looks to Southwark, occasionally bringing ale to his mouth. Manufactories on the shoreline spew smoke. He grunts to himself, approving his thoughts. A raised and crisscrossed scar stretches from eye to chin, like a red rope half knitted into his puffy face. Twice he turns his eyes to Defoe, who watches him directly.

  ‘You’re paid to row, not stare.’ Wild pulls the tail of his coat over his knees, then takes another draught. His hands are large and knuckly.