A great and tremendous pity, the whole business.
With Regards,
Sir Stephen Lemon, Baronet of Orkney
I chugged back a mouthful of Dr Hugging’s foul tincture. I took some gin too, because Dr Hugging was an idiot. Within only a few minutes I was fine. I took another mouthful of the solution and decided I would need a lot more of the stuff. I now possessed – together with the whole room – a delightful weightlessness. The thickness of my troubles thinned. Things weren’t so bad, were they?
I was calm and polite to these men who were entering my room with a charge sheet. What a beautiful livery the government has! I love those colours, I tried telling them. Ruby reds and boot-polish blacks. Rifles of clean grey steel. I ordered Featherspoon make them ale. My throat started whistling again but I was able to nudge the cork back in. It was rather funny, wasn’t it? Hovering. How could I get more of this medicine, I wondered.
I rang my bedside bell, repeatedly, but not even Patience Featherspoon would come. Considering the present state of affairs, the throat-cork was my only friend. My offices, emptied of their usual crew, echoed with foreign sounds. I expected that Bessie would have been pleased with how things were turning out. I wondered if Doctor Hugging had ordered solitude, as I received none of my usual interruptions from those pedants Hamilton Carrot and Langton Silver. Armed men whom I hadn’t appointed stood outside my door.
By a single candle, I reviewed my accounts, squinting at the bribes I’d never recover, at the deposit Vivaldi wouldn’t return, at the remaining works required for my house at Mayfair &c. A charge sheet sat on my bedside. Of the hundreds I’d seen, for every conceivable crime, this was the first with my own name at the top. To be heard by some Justice named Bullingdon in the County Cork. I can’t say I was given up, but I was no fool; the change in jurisdiction augured quite shitly, quite shitly indeed.
The candle sizzled out. This extinguishing sound seemed to simmer and perpetuate. The room hummed. Blackness pushed against the perimeters. Beyond my door I heard the toing and froing of new men. The door of my loot-chute was still a-swinging (the head of the operation had been severed but the limbs still flailed). And then, beyond the window, I listened to the nocturnalities; a night-coach rattling by, mud being tunnelled by a single line of piss.
I gripped the doctor’s phial. The glass was so smooth. I summoned my indignation but it burst and scattered like confetti. I unstopped the phial, and downed the whole of what remained. Maybe my gullet was leaking, for moisture was trickling around my neck. I was almost certainly dying so I picked up my ledger to count my money once again.
DEFOE
To some useful research
November 1724
‘I’ll take no chances,’ mutters the gaoler, Harrison Henry, as he searches Defoe. The gaoler unlocks two new bolted doors with a key tied to his belt. The ‘undisclosed’ location is the very same condemned cell The Lad escaped from, now with new irons crisscrossing the small window.
‘Dear God,’ says Defoe.
Sheppard lies directly on the stones in a puddle of piss and excrement, manacled with no give. His face is beaten in. Each of his fingers is bent and coloured purple. His feet are similarly bruised and set at impossible angles. He lies still, moaning.
‘What has been done?’
The boy’s eyes roll briefly open. ‘Wild-d-d-d.’
Before Henry can lock the second door, Defoe calls him to return.
‘Keeper Henry. He is to be hanged tomorrow. Release, or at lease loosen those chains. Bring fresh water, victuals and some gin. And a physician too.’
‘He’ll have what’s given him.’
‘Listen to me, Mister Henry, listen very carefully,’ says Defoe. He is shaking with an exhilarating rage. ‘You’d better arrange what I’ve just requested. And you’d better arrange it quickly. If I do not see these requests swiftly accommodated, I will march directly from here to Lord Mayor Marttins and then to the offices of Applebee Publishing.’
Henry folds his arms.
‘Very well,’ says Defoe, taking up his coat. ‘Say goodbye to your contract.’
‘Wait a moment, I’ll arrange some water.’
‘This isn’t a negotiation. Release those chains. Bring water and gin. Call for a physician. Now. A blanket, and new trousers too. Some fresh linen to clean him. Victuals.’
‘I’m not payin’ –’
Defoe widens his eyes, and moves to march past him. Henry takes his arm.
‘Very well,’ he assents. ‘Bloody writers.’
Defoe kneels beside the boy, lifts his head to place a folded coat underneath. When the water arrives, Defoe brings a cup to Sheppard’s dry lips. The boy raises his limp useless hands in the air as he drinks. After a few swallows, Defoe lowers his head and he falls unconscious. The smell is unbearable. Defoe sets to unbuttoning his trousers. He tries to gently pull them over his broken ankles but Sheppard yelps in pain, so he rips the linen, then the stockings too, until Sheppard is nude. Shit is encrusted through his groin and thighs. Defoe pauses to retch, then soaks a rag in water and washes him.
‘Shh,’ says Defoe as Sheppard protests.
‘N-n-n-no …’
‘Save your energy. New clothes will be sent. Along with a doctor. Now drink. I’m sorry, only water for the moment.’
When the doctor arrives, he is indifferent to Sheppard’s suffering. Considering the execution is set for the following morning, he advises that setting his bones would be useless. Palliation is agreed as the best course of action. Defoe is given a tincture of opium and a flask of gin. Sheppard’s wounds are cleaned and the physician leaves.
Later that evening, while Defoe writes in his journal by candlelight, Sheppard murmurs awake, disoriented. He is wrapped loosely in a sheet. He eyes the clean suit of clothes laid in the corner.
‘Mr Writer?’ he asks.
‘Jack. I’m here. Rest.’
‘I can talk. I find myself rather drunk.’
‘You’ve had quite some opium too.’
He tries to roll to his side and takes a sharp intake of air from the pain, then gives up and settles back. Defoe wipes his brow with a wet cloth and strokes his hair.
‘Rest. As best as you’re able.’
‘Mr Writer,’ he replies, closing his eyes in gratitude. Defoe continues stroking his greasy hair. ‘Mr Writer.’
‘I had hoped,’ Defoe says softly, ‘that you would be granted clemency. I tried my very hardest. But the King is the only authority high enough to pardon you. And, my boy, there are limits to what I can do.’
‘The King can drink my pubes.’
‘I’ll see to that.’
Defoe uncorks the flask and gives Sheppard another dram.
‘Some bread?’
‘No, no. Gin. It’s good.’
He takes a gulp. Defoe dabs where it runs down his chin.
‘My fingers,’ says Sheppard, holding up his gnarled hands. ‘They’re all fucked.’
‘I know. Shh. Quiet now.’
The boy closes his eyes, and is asleep again in his lap.
Later, as dawn approaches, Defoe is woken by Sheppard’s whimpering. Defoe tries calming him by patting his chest, but he is sweating and fitful. He makes Sheppard another mixture of gin and opium and slowly lowers it to his mouth, releasing small amounts that the boy takes without fully waking.
Two hours later, sun gleams through the window and Sheppard’s eyes are open. He appears to be lucid and much improved from the last dose.
‘Thank you,’ he says, staring up at the ceiling.
Defoe closes his journal and looks to the boy. ‘Do you remember what happens this morning?’
‘It’s today?’ he confirms.
‘It is. The priest will be here soon.’
‘More gin, please.’
Defoe helps him sit, then administers a dram.
‘Ahh, fuck,’ says Sheppard, considering himself. ‘Better shit now, so it doesn’t come out then.’
He tri
es to shimmy, but with both his ankles broken, can barely move. Defoe drags him towards the sewer, removes the sheet and helps position him over the drain. Leaning to one side, Sheppard pulls his left cheek open with the butt of his hand.
‘I’m sorry you have to witness this.’
‘You do your business. It won’t offend me.’
‘Grist for the mill, Mr Writer.’ Sheppard grunts and releases himself into the sewer.
‘I shan’t be writing too much on this particular moment, my boy.’
‘I shit roses, Mr Writer. Roses.’
Defoe picks up the bucket and washes the sewer, then wipes Sheppard with soaked linen.
‘Now, let’s dress you.’
Pulling trousers over his broken ankles aggravates the pain, so Defoe administers another large dose of opium when the job is done. Soon Sheppard is lying back, smiling, insensate.
‘I have some good news for you, Lad,’ offers Defoe. ‘Regarding your nemesis.’
‘Ah, my good friend Jonathan Wild.’
‘Seems like the last rung of his ladder is about to snap.’
‘Do tell.’
‘The fool was attempting to marry a Baronet’s daughter. Mustering favour among the Scottish. He must have known the Alliance was shaky.’
‘I don’t know much of these things.’
‘Suffice to say, his plan was a shrewd one. However, thanks to the journal you gave me, and my connection to Harley, you can expect him to follow you at Tyburn soon enough.’
Sheppard’s face breaks into a wide smile. ‘Wild. Hanged?’
‘Aye.’
‘Are you only soothing my last hours?’
‘My boy. As God is my witness. Your friend Blueskin attacked him during Sessions at the Old Bailey, slit his throat. He survived, but lies under arrest.’
‘Blueskin! The fearless brute. I love him.’
‘And there is more.’
‘If I could rub my hands together, I would.’
‘I am to be granted exclusive access to him. His story is mine.’
Sheppard considers this, blinking. ‘Nothing should be written of him,’ he says after a pause. ‘His name should be expunged.’
‘I agree with you, Jack. I do. Though, it will be written. And better in my hands than another’s.’
The boy nods. ‘And what will your story say on the subject of our Thief-Taker General?’
Defoe opens his journal and dips his pen, tapping twice on the little inkpot. ‘Well, Jack, I had rather hoped we would decide on that together.’
Sheppard frowns.
‘Consider this your parting gift to Mr Wild,’ says Defoe.
The boy grins. ‘Do you mean to say, we can just make it up?’
‘There must be truth through it. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have him rolling in his grave.’
Sheppard laughs. ‘Mr Writer, I shouldn’t sin so close to the time of my reckoning.’
‘The sin will be all mine.’
They eye each other and smile.
‘So,’ says Defoe. ‘Tell me about this Thief-Taker. Tell me about all the things he prides himself on.’
‘For one, he’ll never miss church. Goes every day. To him, foul language is worse than murder. Oh, and those pistols. Boy, was I sick of his endless bragging. To be fair, he was an excellent marksman …’
‘Continue, my boy,’ Defoe says, scribbling. ‘Here is my grist.’
Defoe is drunk now, too. Absentmindedly, he strokes Sheppard’s hair. They have been speaking for many hours, jointly consumed in the joys of confabulation. Sheppard’s words are running smoother than Defoe has ever witnessed. The morning is chilly and the sky visible through the window is pale blue. As their discussions on the Thief-Taker conclude, the space is filled with anticipation. Defoe considers diverting the matter away, but instead allows the silence.
‘You are devout, Mr Writer,’ says Sheppard, eventually. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘I do what I can.’
‘I can’t say my belief in Christ is whole.’
‘It is never too late to embrace Him.’
‘I expect it will be His evil twin who I’m to embrace.’
‘You’re a good man,’ says Defoe. ‘With a pure soul.’
‘I have done much against His word.’
‘We cannot surmise His judgement. There are those who attend church every day, like our subject Mr Wild, who do evil at every turn. In my opinion, given your circumstances, you have chosen His path when you could. And I believe you will be rewarded for it.’
‘I am glad to hear my chronicler so opinioned.’
‘And you can count on all of London being similarly opinioned when I’m done.’
Tears build in Sheppard’s eyes. ‘I am sad to see it go. London.’
Defoe dabs at the boy’s face. ‘You have stuffed ten lives into the space of one. Burning bright is better than slow and insipid.’
‘I suppose.’
‘All around you are bags of walking, breathing meat. We search listlessly for direction; from criers, from our fathers, from our books, from the pursuit of measly possessions. We see reflections, like from Plato’s cave. You aren’t like this, Jack, you are imbued with life.’
‘Gin,’ says Sheppard. ‘You’re getting poetic.’
Defoe takes up the flask and they drink.
‘The truth is, I don’t wish to leave these bags of meat, as you call them. I wish to live among them. I love them.’
‘You will be reunited with them all eventually, in a world less compromised.’
Sheppard sighs, nods. ‘I hope so. Sincerely I do. Now, Mr Writer, I have one last request.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Bessie. I don’t know if she will escape the purge. But if she does, please visit her. Tell her I would write if I could.’ Sheppard holds up his hands. ‘Tell her I take with me the purest of our love. I forgive any of her deceptions. That God shall know nothing but the gladness she gave me.’
‘I shall,’ assents Defoe. ‘You have my word.’
There is a rattle of the outer cell door and Sheppard lets out a whimper of fear. His face turns white. Defoe lays a hand on his chest, feeling his heart race. There are several voices in the vestibule outside his cell and the lock is rattled again.
‘I have never died before,’ he says. ‘But I’m determined to do it well. Some more gin, please.’
Harrison Henry and a city official enter, followed by two sentries who lift Sheppard onto a stretcher.
‘Now easy with my legs,’ says Sheppard to the men. ‘Or I shall dob you in to Daddy. I’m seeing him soon.’
Defoe lays the flask of gin on Sheppard’s chest, before leaning down to embrace him. ‘Go well, my boy. God bless.’
The Lad smiles and winks to Defoe. ‘And off we go!’ Sheppard calls to the men. ‘Hup two three four!’
Coda
May 1725
‘You wished to speak, Mr Defoe,’ she says.
‘I’m grateful for your consent.’
She nods and lifts coffee beneath her widow’s veil. Defoe, likewise, drinks. The tables at Stern’s are full and his voice is subsumed into other conversation. She is the only woman in the room and appears unbothered by it.
‘May I ask why the location?’ asks Defoe.
‘I am partial to public spaces. When I’m to meet a man I don’t know.’
‘I see.’
Her hands sit calmly in her lap. She waits. There are little pearls sewn onto the wrists of her gloves.
‘I come on behalf of Jack Sheppard,’ he says, finally.
Her head makes a small sideways motion, like a twitch. Behind her black lace veil he cannot decipher her expression. Her posture is erect and still.
‘In what capacity do you represent a dead man?’
‘As a friend.’
‘I had presumed you wished to discuss my late husband’s affairs.’
Defoe smiles. ‘It came as a surprise to learn our Thief-Taker was married. And only so rec
ently.’
‘My late husband, as it’s now widely known, was not a man to be trusted.’
‘A mighty difficult thing,’ offers Defoe. ‘For a devoted wife.’
She nods.
‘I would hope,’ says Defoe, carefully, ‘that the late Thief-Taker bequeathed you an ample estate?’
An auction begins in the corner of the room.
‘The sum and total of Garfield’s Wheelbarrows!’ a pock-faced auctioneer is calling. ‘By order of the joint creditors. I direct all wishing to participate …’
They both turn briefly to watch the crowd mill, then return to their coffee.
‘If you’re a creditor of my late husband or his concern,’ she says, dusting her left knee, ‘I must direct you to our attorney at law, Langton Silver.’
‘I am no creditor,’ he replies. ‘I shall be making a chronicle of his story for the publisher, Applebee.’
She stands. ‘I have no interest in speaking with Grub Street, Mr Defoe. Good day.’
‘Wait. Prithee, Mrs Wild. Miss Lyon.’
She continues to step away.
‘Bessie!’
She turns. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I made a promise to Jack.’
She returns to the table but remains standing.
‘I swore to him, the day he was hanged, to pass a message.’
She holds the back of her chair.
‘… Twenty-three wheelbarrows, many replacement wheels, a leasing concern generating four guineas a week, administrative effects including chains, rivet-pins, ledgers …’
‘Very well, what is it?’
‘Sit, prithee.’
‘I am beginning to suspect your intention is more than the passing of a message.’ Still, she takes her seat and folds her arms.
‘Though my time with him was limited, Jack was very dear to me. He was a unique boy. And he confided in me all of his story. I know just about all he did, Miss Lyon.’
She picks up a spoon and stirs her coffee.
‘… Do I hear seventeen guineas? Seventeen for a fine and ready-made concern? Which astute bidder will be taking advantage of this unique opportunity? Do I hear seventeen? Seventeen to Mr Cheesewright. Eighteen? Generating four guineas a week in revenues. Do I hear eighteen? Eighteen?’
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