by Mark Keating
Both sets of feet with him now, and still the voice, from his right, the one with the pipe, rasping from wood chip in his tobacco rotting him since childhood.
‘Didn’t you hear me! You dropped your coin!’ The last word breathless as a knife drew back to pierce the twill coat and a hand reached for the collar.
The coat spun before the strike and the sailor’s fist exploded with pistol and partridge shot into the bare chest of the footpad’s partner. The footpad watched his mate fly back, red across his chest, and fall to the cobbles, dropping his small steel. The sound of shot still echoed around the passage as his mate choked on his lungs.
The footpad switched back to the sailor, his knife stayed by the grin that came with the sailor’s voice as he holstered his smoking giant of a pistol.
‘You dropped your friend.’ His hanger glinted free, sweeping away the last of the pistol smoke as a beckoning hand invited the footpad closer. ‘Come on. Show me my coin, then.’
The man stepped back, held his small gully blade loyally if not courageously. His wide eyes were wedded to the wave of the sword. The sailor came on slowly, grinned wider. Then the shadows of others loomed from the mouth of the alley. His shot had brought curious eyes. No matter, this was by far his right. Still, he had hoped for a more innocuous entrance.
The footpad called out, his neck straining high, his voice higher.
‘Jon! Jon! He’s killed Arthur!’
The sailor did not look behind him but moved his free hand to the back of his belt where his dagger waited. He carried on but his ears pricked at the clump of wooden soles behind him.
The footpad aimed an accusing finger, lowered his knife. ‘Him, Jon,’ then pointed the finger to his dying accomplice. ‘Shot up Arthur he has!’
A bulk appeared beside the sailor, a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Put up now, sir. Let’s hear the tale of it.’
The sailor looked at the hand, then the body it belonged to. As tall as him, just over six feet. A gentleman, trying to be, but a farmer’s quizzical scowl designated him a man doing better than he should by birth. He wore dirty lace and linen and a filigree sword more for ceremony than filleting. Only the heavy cudgel in his right hand signified that he worked at something – and that something distasteful.
The sailor looked at the crowd gathering and put away his sword. ‘I defended myself, constable, if constable you be?’
‘My name is Jonathan Wild, sir, if you do not know. I will be addressed by you in the next moment as Thief-Taker General, if you please. What be you called now, sir, so as I might settle this matter?’
The sailor checked once to the crowd, which seemed satisfied, and once to the footpad who had now put away his knife. It seemed that London had found some justice in his absence.
Patrick Devlin’s name however was surely yellowing on the walls of the Bailey or on a magistrate’s desk somewhere. Devlin tipped his hat to Jonathan Wild.
‘My name is Captain John Coxon and—’ His address was cut dead by the blow of the cudgel’s oak head under his chin.
He flew to the cobbles, his head cracking on the stones, his pistol jumping free from his belt.
He rolled up and whipped out his ebony hilted dagger to the wavering form before him, shaking the shock from his head. He’d been hit before and he would be back to the fight when others howled or lay down. But Wild had been there before as well. He had already brought back his staff double-handed and the full back-swing of the oak across the sailor’s temple could have taken a child’s head off. Devlin stumbled with the impact and his blood painted the wall behind him like a brush thrown against it. He went down with his hand still gripping the dagger.
Jonathan Wild waved down the laughter of the crowd. ‘Now, now, folks. Nothing here now. Go about your good business. Just an assault on two of my good men. Read all about it tomorrow, folks. Make a path, now, make a path.’
The crowd dispersed, persuaded by Wild’s cudgel, whilst his fellow thief-taker rifled through Devlin’s pockets and helped himself to the left-locked pistol which he stuffed into his string-cord belt. Wild returned to the prone body and looked down at the crumpled sleeping form of the pirate Devlin.
‘We’ll take him to Newgate for now. Before he gets his sense back.’ He glanced up at the mouth of the alley, now empty. ‘What’s his tally, George?’
‘He has a king’s purse on him, Jon! Weighs more than me baby boy!’
Wild spied the pistol. ‘I’ll takes that snap, George. Help for his trial. What did he say his name was?’
George shrugged. ‘Cap’n John Coxon or other. Sailor I reckons.’
‘Aye? You don’t say?’ Wild mocked and stomped on the sleeping back. ‘Welcome to London, Captain John.’
The two left the alley shouldering the dead-weight between them and dove into the quarrelsome fray of Wapping, leaving the bloodied body of their fellow dying alone against the cold stone.
He weakly raised his fingers to their backs, grasping forlornly as his friends walked away.
London had after all changed very little.
Chapter Two
Three days earlier, before dawn, the Shadow had sailed up the Thames and settled at Deptford, the East Country dock near the Dog and Duck plying stairs. Most of the stairs were named after the mariners’ public houses that lined the river, but the Shadow’s crew preferred dipping into the Plough alongside the dock itself for its darker air and less visited signage.
She had not come in under her own escutcheon. The peace of February had made friends of many nations but pirate ships were still unwelcome at any port that claimed to be civilised.
Instead she was warped in by her crew as the Dutch ship, Ter Meer, although a scrimption of consultation at the Navy Board in Whitehall would have revealed that the Ter Meer had been a fluyt and not a 24-gun frigate: the crew had spent a time boarding over her gunports and stowing her cannon to clip their bird’s wings for prying eyes.
As a Dutch ship would make no claim to the Victualler or the West or East India Houses she was paid scant attention. Indeed, such was the mass of trade conducted that any vessel which did not shout for its wares was welcome to be ignored. Let her rest awhile. Let her men fill their boots as long as they stayed out of the city and demanded no attention of her officers and statutes.
The planned moonless night of her arrival saw two men row the narrow distance to the Dog and Duck stairs, without lamp, without voice and avoiding the welcoming glow from the inn. They walked north, safe in a pair from the nightwalkers and gangs that prowled north and south of the river after dark, and where only lame and aged watchmen and drunken Charleys patrolled the snaking alleys that made up the veins of the metropolis.
One of the pair, the one in the yellow coat and hat, eventually shook hands and departed, leaving his companion to find lodgings at Limehouse while he made his way to the City to announce their arrival and find his own bed.
The ship arrived in the dark and in disguise; the mooring lay far from the churn of commerce. The midnight walk and the splitting of partnership all revealed aspects of suspicion and distrust. Distrust that perhaps a trap was being sprung despite the royal seal that had brought them to England under promise and protection.
But pirates lived longer by caution than trust. The black corpse swaying in the gibbet at Graves Point as they had entered the Thames attested quietly enough to this.
Two days on, Monday now, and the gentleman in yellow had spent the morning at Shudall’s, the tailor’s, a short stroll from where he had chosen to lay his head at the White Lion in Wych Street.
He had paid Mr Shudall in gold for a new dandelion-yellow silk justacorps, to be collected Friday, and although Mr Shudall had at first frowned at the weary and dissolute look of the young man, yet he had beamed like the sun at the fat bag of coin and gladly proffered directions to Mrs White’s Chocolate House as requested. For Dandon was of the colonies; he had never known London.
Only a few hours before Dandon, still in his old fray
ed coat, had taken a seat at White’s and a handful of cards at Lanterloo, the pirate Devlin’s head had been stoved in by Mr Jonathan Wild and he dragged off to spend the day in Newgate gaol. He had thus missed his appointment with the Prince of Wales.
The afternoon went on. The game of Loo also. Dandon won a little, lost a little, enjoyed steaming coffee and gave a private smirk at the porcelain gleaming on every table and at the ignorance of the gentlemen sipping from the bone-white cups.
At six Dandon checked his watch against the long-case Harrison in White’s rooms and ventured a concerned glance out to the street.
‘Does something trouble you, sir?’ asked one of his erudite partners at the game, friendly enough despite the reddening face and bulging eyes that hinted at some manner of madness boiling within.
Dandon smiled, his dull gold front teeth drawing curious looks. ‘I am expecting a friend. He is a trifle late that is all.’
A bilious snort came back at him. ‘We are all here expecting friends, sir! At least as far as our wives are concerned, eh, Gentlemen?’ He slapped the arm of his chair and the table responded with knowing raps of knuckles and blue clouds of tobacco.
‘Quite.’ Dandon lay down his cards, went and watched the street from the bay window. He looked out onto Chesterfield.
Devlin was to join him here after his mysterious meeting with the prince. The audience was for two o’clock at Leicester House and yesterday, Sunday, Dandon had paid a trip there to confirm with a red-coated valet that the captain would indeed attend as ordered. He had left the address of the White Lion with the valet should any further matter require the captain’s attention. That same night, Dandon was back at his inn, having agreed with Devlin to meet at White’s after four. Two hours should suffice for whatever business the Prince of Wales sought with a pirate.
Dandon and Devlin had parted with a handshake at Limehouse, neither to know where the other slept in case of some snare being set. Their course for Monday was to meet at White’s if all was well. Now Devlin was overdue and despite the carriages, the horses and the bustle and hawks of street vendors, Dandon’s eyes cut straight to a man in black striding purposefully up Chesterfield. Dogged intent – or vengeance – was on his face. Always a man in black, Dandon thought, the colour of them their only similarity to holy orders.
He did not worry for his captain. He had seen Devlin perform and often enough had seen the usually merry face darken into something hard immediately preceding someone’s death. It was more that for most of the few years he had known him, ever since Providence where Devlin had rescued him from that devil Blackbeard, Dandon had been with him, felt himself his lucky charm. Separation was bad for them both.
‘Are you still in play, sir!’ a stout beef-and-mustard voice warbled from behind him.
Dandon kept his eyes on the figure, growing larger, aiming directly for him, now puffing and holding onto his hat and wig, his pace increasing.
‘I am always in play, sir,’ he did not turn. ‘In more than one game.’
The bell above the door rang, the man in black pushed past the fellow holding out his hand for his hat and made directly for Dandon at the window. Dandon held his breath. He did not know the man but his face had anxiety burning in it. He seemed to know Dandon, however, even unto some great familiarity judging by his brusqueness.
‘Your man did not attend His Highness this afternoon, sir!’ And at the word ‘highness’ the room shared raised looks and shoulder-to-shoulder murmurs. ‘An explanation is most required!’
Dandon put his hand to the messenger’s and brought him closer. ‘Your discretion, my good man, is required more, would you not suppose?’
The messenger looked around him, lowering his voice, while the chime of cups and conversation resumed. He turned to the window. ‘Quite,’ his voice began to hiss. ‘Where is the man? His Highness is most irate which bodes not well for you, sir, or for anyone within his sight!’
Dandon stroked the moustache he had been meaning to remove for some weeks but which served well for such conversations. ‘I do not know where the captain is. Part of our personal conspiracy was to keep such matters hidden from each. And of such I take it that the landlord of the White Lion sent you hither, Mister . . . ?’
‘Secretary Timms. The landlord sent me to Shudall’s. They directed me here. Where is he, Dandon? My office must find him for all our sakes!’
Dandon had not removed his hand and stroked Timms’s affectionately. ‘The captain is resolute, Mister Timms. If he did not attend, he has good reason.’ Dandon squeezed the hand and bit out his words. ‘Perhaps he caught some wind of a trap? What is that option, Mister Timms?’ Dandon’s eyes searched the face, Timms close enough to taste the coffee on his breath. He looked at the hand pinching into his. To the room two men were speaking as close friends in front of the window, and Dandon’s implied threat was invisible.
‘There is no need for your master to fear, Dandon. The prince, and his country I assure you, need his assistance immediately. If he wishes to test our intentions, however, it will not go well for any of you. I can perfectly assure you of that, sir.’
Dandon released his grip, resumed the smoothing of his beard. ‘Assume we are not talking against each other, Mister Timms, and that you know nothing of my captain. That I know nothing of my captain. Why does a man disappear in London?’ Dandon’s friendlier face reappeared, the one that dropped petticoats and opened locked doors. Timms relaxed.
‘I suppose he may be drunk?’ Timms suggested. Dandon carefully shook his head. ‘Lost then?’ Dandon choked a little. Devlin had a compass in his head. ‘Dead?’ Dandon hooked Timms’s arm and began to leave, snapping for his hat and his winnings. He whispered into Timms’s attentive ear.
‘Mister Timms, would His Highness spend the time and a substantial sum of the South Sea Company’s money to find a man who might turn up drunk, lost or dead? Would you suppose that might be the prince’s best reasoning?’
Timms rubbed his nose and thought on. ‘Perhaps not. But what am I to say on my return?’
Dandon took his hat and weighed his change in his fist and handed over a shilling. Outside the August evening was drawing in, the lamplighters in stately progress along Chesterfield.
‘If my captain is absent it is not of his own designing I assure you, and it is certainly not with intention to displease the prince.’ He led Timms outside and pulled on a pair of yellow gloves. ‘Tell me Timms, do you have any power within this town?’
Timms tapped an inner pocket as he spoke. ‘I have a royal seal and warrant to enter any place within the city. More than you I suspect, Mister Dandon.’
Dandon concentrated on his gloves and cuffs, thinking about the hundred pirates and twenty-four guns at Deptford. ‘I doubt that but never mind. It would however be wise to find the captain – if London would wish to avoid another fire, that is.’
He joined Timms on the street and plucked his sleeve. ‘Oh, and to your earlier allusion, Mister Timms, the pirate Devlin is not my “master”. He is my friend. And as such I will scour this city with a devotion beyond your loyalty to your prince.’ He sniffed and meandered into Mayfair Row, without intelligence of where he might be heading. ‘We should spy on the gaols of your town. That would be my first observance.’
Timms hurriedly matched Dandon’s pace. ‘The gaols?’
‘Of course, Mister Timms. He is a pirate after all, and if he did not meet me, and he did not meet your prince, it is from no will of his own. Take me to them. Your gaols. Before he starts killing his way out of your city.’
Timms’s voice wavered. ‘Is that a genuine concern?’ But Dandon did not hear, his attention snared by the white, white bosom and glowing youth of the orange-girl daintily blocking his path. He parted with two pennies and a golden smile for a paper pottle cone of cherries and received a coy backwards glance for his trade as she glided away, her basket swinging off her hip. Timms stepped into Dandon’s lingering gaze as the first of the cherries popped in his mouth
.
‘We should try Marshalsea first. That is the seafarers’ gaol.’
Dandon nodded as he chewed and resumed his walk. ‘I would think that should be the place to start indeed. Is it far?’ he offered the pottle to Timms, who declined.
‘Not far enough. Filthy degenerate place. It is over the bridge I am afraid. Three miles by carriage it will have to be.’
‘And there are other gaols?’
Timms gave a laughing snort. ‘That is most certainly the case. Most certainly and most notably Fleet and Newgate which are close to each other. At a good stride it would take us half an hour or more.’
Dandon raised his voice as he began to weave through the increasing bustle and traffic of pedestrians and pedlars, and as they approached more nearly the city wards. London was coming out for the night.
‘Then perhaps we should cover those first, Mister Timms, rather than crossing the river only to come back on ourselves again.’
‘Quite so. I would concur,’ Timms gasped at a trot just as Dandon came disgustedly to the bundle of paper wedged into the bottom of his cone where the rest of the cherries should have been. He tossed it away. ‘And they say I’m a pirate?’ But the street was not listening and he dashed now, Timms struggling to keep up while trying to avoid being cut down by the flying rush of coaches and people.
East. At half a run. East into the city. To the very proscenium of cruelty.
Chapter Three
‘The Hellish noise, the roaring, swelling and clamour,
the stench and nastiness, an emblem of Hell itself.’
From Moll Flanders. Daniel Defoe.
Jonathan Wild had his office, which was also his lodgings, at the Cooper’s Arms on Old Bailey itself, almost opposite the sessions house. This gave weight to his authority and some confirmation to those victims of theft and robbery in need of his services that Wild, so literally close to justice, was the man for them. Jon Wild was now a paragon of enterprise and fortune. Long gone the pimp, house-breaker and debtor he had once been.
