by Mark Keating
Here were no horses, the roads too narrow and dark for gentlemen after the broad thoroughfares and smooth, elegant stonework of St James’s. These passages had been cut through London’s veins for speed, for those unwilling to travel down to Holborn and civility to hail a cab.
The city had been rebuilt but had learnt little, as wooden and clay houses still towered high above, overshadowing the passageways. Some of the alleyways even now held shanties with little more than sheets for walls and timber frames like army billets where naked fires burnt within and hollow-eyed children stared as you passed.
Dandon, accustomed to the pastel freshness of the American colonial towns and the wide, sparse Caribbean hamlets, hurried through the city’s smothering closeness like a man drowning, clawing for air.
And then at last he broke the surface as the wide expanse of Giltspur street, Newgate, Bailey, St Sepulchre, the taverns and shops, burst him back into civilisation.
He leant against a wall, gasping for breath. He and Timms had run and walked for two miles without a care for Dandon’s thirst, and he wiped his face with his cuff. His lungs were bursting, his head aching.
He pushed himself away from the wall, looking up at it, its grim façade declaring that it could be nothing but a gaol.
‘We are here, Mister Timms?’
Timms took his arm impatiently. ‘This is the Giltspur compter. For gentlemen who have not caused grievous harm and owe very little, and for clergymen who disrobe where they should not. Hell is this way.’ He pulled at Dandon, who gathered his wits and staggered on.
‘Is there a hurry, Mister Timms? Do prisons close?’
‘The hurry, sir, is in the concern that your pirate may have given word and used His Highness’s name. The concern is that your captain is a notorious brigand that is overdue to hang, but, most of all, it is the concern that he may not be in there at all and but that you and I will be in there for breakfast tomorrow!’
They had crossed the street. The gatehouse of the old prison still stood across Newgate street, the last of the gates into the old city. Dandon took in the face of the gaol that stretched down Old Bailey.
Rebuilt after The Fire and Restoration it was now plain Tuscan in style. Four great arched windows rose either side of the ‘keep’, barred and glassless, and high enough for Dandon to presume their light covered the unfortunates’ wards.
The keep made up the entrance of the prison, the glazed windows above it and the circular window in the roof’s pediment surely the chapel. Dandon looked around the street at the proliferation of blooms, now crushed and scattered, littering the road and pavement.
‘The flowers!’ His surprise halted Timms.
‘It is Monday. Executions this morning. The crowds like to toss flowers at the felons. It is good luck to give a nosegay to the condemned.’
Dandon stooped to pluck up a bloom and explained himself to Timms’s raised eyebrow.
‘I may have need of luck.’
Left and right of the keep were the lodges and the residences of the principal turnkeys. Shallow steps led up to a simple alcoved door. Timms took the right one, whispering as he did so that the left-hand side was where the condemned came out for their free coach.
‘Would be a bad omen I’m sure to walk up such which so many only ever come down.’ He rapped on the door with his fist, regretting that he had no cane with him.
They stood awkwardly together in the cramped space waiting for answer and looked at the door or the street rather than each other, in case nerves betrayed their fears or their press-ganged partnership fell apart and one killed the other.
Timms rapped again, harder this time. He called through the wood, ‘I hope someone will let us in at least!’
Dandon smirked. ‘Not a sentiment one expects to hear outside a prison door. Its peculiarity I’m sure will bring someone. If only to direct us to Bethlem instead.’
Timms ceased in his reproach as a panel unlocked and the face of Thomas Langley peered at them, bored already. He looked up and down Timms’s coachman-black perfection and then at Dandon’s shabby coat and wilting hat.
‘Dropping off?’ he asked Timms.
‘I need to see a list of prisoners you may have brought in perhaps today or Sunday, my man. Immediately and on royal warrant.’
Thomas audibly sucked out a sliver of pork from a back tooth and swallowed it. ‘No principal in at the moment. Can’t see any list without one.’
‘I demand to see that list, Turnkey! My warrant grants me entry to any manor in this city! Now open up immediately!’
Langley shook his head, his eyes almost closing. ‘No entry to the list without a principal’s say. Come back tomorrow.’
Timms flashed his winning hand in Langley’s face. The smudge of red seal and royal ribbon upon the paper. ‘This, sir, dismisses any power that you may suppose your principal supposes he may have in this foul place and I insist that you allow me entry!’
Langley gave a limp eye to the paper and then back to its bearer. He knew that the man in front of him was only one month’s bad gambling away from being welcomed within his domain. He had seen enough viscounts and courtiers shitting in front of him to be unimpressed by fancy pieces of paper.
‘Come back tomorrow,’ he repeated and made to shut the gap.
Dandon touched Timms’s arm before the king’s man exploded.
His turn now.
Dandon carried no weapons. No papers. No titles. But he knew how the world turned.
‘We should spend our gold at the Fleet instead, Mister Timms. Rules are rules after all. I believe we have been rightly told that their list is accessible day and night. Their turnkey shall warrant the reward instead.’
For the second time that evening, Langley stayed his hand. ‘What reward?’
Dandon looked surprised at the question, believing the matter closed. ‘No matter. We shall pay the Fleet the fee and reward the prize should his information be valuable and worth two guineas.’ He took one step down with a baffled Timms and glanced up the street for a sedan or a cab.
‘Hold!’ Langley closed the smaller door and the sounds of locks and hasps rang out.
‘I feel I should have just dropped you off, Dandon,’ Timms murmured, quietly joyed.
‘What prize?’ Langley enquired from an open door.
Dandon turned back. ‘You would be unaware that a dangerous Jacobite has coerced himself into one of the city’s gaols in order to conspire with some fellows of his already so withheld. Secretary Timms and myself have been charged with weeding out the scoundrel.’ Dandon produced his red silk purse like a lamb’s heart lying in his palm.
‘I can make it three guineas if you save me the walk to Fleet and supply a quartern of refreshment. What say you, Turnkey?’
Chapter Four
Peter Sam stood at the larboard quarter of the Shadow. The sun was gone now, the lights and chimneys of the Surrey side of the river giving life to this remoter part of the city, still holding on to being a countryside with hamlets and farmland. But the docks and the encroachment of industry over smallholdings were getting larger, an indolent bully slowly elbowing the rustic world aside.
Uneasy, he paced to the light by the mizzen and lit a pipe to calm him some. He was the Shadow’s quartermaster, second of a hundred men only to Devlin, and this was his third year with the Irishman as his captain.
This country had cooler air than he was used to, despite the month, so a long French coachman’s coat hung down to his ankles and covered his normal goat-leather jerkin and breeches. Still no shirt beneath the coat; lace and cuffs were wasted on the big man. One cannot put hosiery on a bear, even a bald bear with a rough red beard.
His only formalities were leather bracers on his wrists and a sewing palm on his right hand. Less to protect him from the burn of rope and more to cover the scars that came from a chain that had choked the life out of one Hib Gow two years past. But that was indeed past.
Now the man, his captain, who had come to find hi
m that day, saved him that day, was overdue to return. Much about Devlin he still disfavoured. His rise to captaincy had ended the lives of some of those closest to Peter Sam. Devlin had been nothing when he had come to them. An Irish steward, a servant, to an English naval captain. His meagre lot in life was settled, and in an ill-fitting suit with a flat belly. His only use to them when they took him from his ship was his knowledge of the ‘art’, the skill to navigate learned from his master. So Devlin had found his place amongst them.
Peter Sam would call it luck, Devlin, fortitude and ability, but occasion and fate had made the Irishman their captain. Now they were richer than they had ever been under Seth Toombs, the unlucky patroon who had commanded before Devlin. Dead now. Dead twice – the second time by Devlin’s shot to his face. And that had been one tale ended. Aye, richer than they had ever been, and the cost to be weighed by a better judge than Peter Sam.
Then there was his preference for the frigate which kept them out of the shallows and on the open sea. And that damned grin when he was right. Time for Peter Sam to leave perhaps. Settle with an inn on Jamaica. Six years from Newfoundland cod-man to pirate. Long odds for a pirate. A longer life than most. Then, to remind, the tide lapped up the Shadow’s freeboard.
Not old. Not yet. Always one more horizon.
Aye, a short life, and a merry one.
He chewed on his pipe and looked back into the city as if Devlin would any moment raise a flag to show him where he hid. He drew on the Brazilian tobacco like a bellows and Black Bill Vernon, named for his hair not his skin, emerged from the Great Cabin and stood close to the big man.
‘Are you not to eat tonight, Peter Sam?’ he asked, and watched the scowl come back at him.
‘It’s getting late. Cap’n should be back by now.’
Bill set about his own meerschaum. ‘Aye. It’s later than it was,’ his sleepy Highland wit observed. ‘The captain can handle himself. Would you not suppose that, Peter Sam?’
Bill was the Shadow’s sailing master, less violent than most of the crew, unless sheets were in the wind, and Peter Sam and he were the old standers. They had been on the Cricket and the Lucy with Seth Toombs, and other than old Will Magnes they were the last of the original crew. They were the corners of the ship.
Peter Sam looked back to the city again. ‘He can handle himself. But it don’t sit well – none of this.’ He flashed a look at Bill. ‘What if it be a trap? Likes I been saying all along?’ Still he spoke with the Bristol burr despite all the world he had seen and bled over.
Bill joined him at the rail. ‘The captain’s no fool.’ He patted the rail affectionately. ‘And he has her behind him.’
‘Even so. I says some of us should go in. Scout around. Sniff out if anything be up.’
‘And what would be up, Peter Sam? And what would we do about finding it?’
‘It couldn’t hurt none.’ Peter straightened up.
‘It could hurt some; could hurt plenty. And the order was to stay south of the river. If anything were awry Dandon would be back.’
‘Aye, and maybe they’ve done for him too.’
Bill thought on this, his placid dark face never changing its expression. Peter, and all the others, Devlin included, always looked to Bill for calm. If his fury leapt free then the world was surely on fire. He pulled on his pipe and ruminated. ‘Order is to wait. The captain’s mind is right. Why would these Germanium bloods go to all the trouble of finding him in such secret ways if all they wanted to do was kill the captain when half the bloody world is trying to do such anyways? Besides, as far as them who may do us harm are concerned we ain’t even here. We came in at Falmouth and the captain took a coach to London. He’ll keep us in his pocket for if he needs us. Stay your feet at least a day, Peter Sam. The captain’s fine.’
Peter grunted and tapped out his tobacco over the gunwale. ‘I’m waiting ’til midnight, Bill. Then I’m taking Hugh Harris across that bridge with me. Orders or no.’ He started for the Great Cabin.
‘I can’t stop you, Peter Sam if that’s what you aims to do,’ his words to Peter’s back.
‘That’s a damned fact!’ The cabin door slammed behind him. A bottle or two was calling him to help raise his fire. Peter Sam had never been to London. He was thinking two bottles and two pistols each for himself and Hugh Harris, the bloodiest of them.
Aye, that should be enough for an English town.
Chapter Five
The small candle on the floor did nothing to illuminate the face that appeared at the hatch in the cell door. The voice however set Devlin on his feet.
‘Good evening, Captain,’ Dandon’s voice echoed around the room. ‘I trust you are well?’
Devlin sprang to the door. ‘Dandon! You have me found! Get me out of here!’
‘In good time.’ Dandon stood back and left Thomas Langley to his work, the three locks taking an age to unhasp while the shadows jumped across the walls from the lanterns now set for the evening. Timms and Dandon tried not to take in the moans and sobs all around, bewailing another night in the wards of Newgate.
At last the door gasped open. Devlin’s chain rattled taut as he reached the limit of his freedom and Langley smirked and gripped his bull’s leather.
Dandon and Timms tipped their hats to him and entered the gloom. Langley made to follow but Dandon placed a soft palm to his chest.
‘Alone, if you please. Close the door behind and busy yourself at the taproom with my gold.’ Langley sniffed and meandered away like an October bee.
Devlin stepped back, ashamed of his chain and surroundings and perhaps humiliated that he had grounded in the place he deserved; and there stood a fine courtier in Timms, judging him rightfully as such.
The two pirates embraced unashamedly, but just as a ruse: Dandon to check that Devlin still had his guineas sewed into his waistcoat and Devlin disappointedly to feel for hidden weapons about his friend.
‘Captain Devlin,’ Timms acknowledged as politely as he could.
‘Or should we say, “John Coxon”?’ Dandon chimed. ‘Lucky I am humorous enough to spot such jest.’ Dandon checked Devlin for injury. Sometimes, and certainly for friends, he took his position as ship’s physician seriously.
‘I figured my real name would not be welcome.’
Dandon raised his brows as he inspected the lump on Devlin’s skull. ‘I imagine that in here it would be most welcome, Patrick.’
Timms coughed. ‘But it is most appropriate that you maintained your discretion. Well played, sir.’
Devlin turned to the man in black. The officious cut of him represented the sharp edge of everything Devlin despised. ‘And, you are?’
Timms touched his hat. ‘Secretary Timms. Attached to His Highness at Leicester House. Where you should have been at two o’clock this afternoon.’
‘Tell His Highness that I have been delayed.’ Devlin brushed Dandon aside. ‘Now get me out of here and I’ll see your poxy prince.’
Timms began to walk the room, watching his feet amid the straw, hands clasped behind. ‘Nothing would be finer to me, Captain. But you have created an unfortunate chain of events that has clouded my position.’
Devlin’s eyes did not follow the wandering Timms; his sight was locked on the door in front of him. ‘I am sorry to have made matters “cloudy” for you.’
Timms stopped pacing. ‘I do not think you appreciate the delicacy of your situation, Captain.’
Devlin faced him. ‘I do not think you will appreciate the delicacy of your situation if I am not released.’
Timms threw a frustrated glance at Dandon.
‘He always talks like that,’ Dandon offered consolingly. Timms continued.
‘You have killed a man this afternoon. Although this might seem a commonplace factor in your life, Captain, we take such matters quite seriously in London.’
Dandon agreed. ‘It is true, Patrick. I have seen dozens of gibbets hanging above the very streets on my passage here.’
‘I know,’ Dev
lin said. ‘I survived these streets once.’
Timms put a handkerchief to his mouth, remembering the gaols reputation for typhus – the ‘gaol fever’. ‘In my capacity I have the power of warrant to extract prisoners from gaol, but not felons held up for murder! And most certainly not ones who have killed one of the Thief-Taker General’s assistants!’
‘I was attacked. I defended myself and was robbed and placed here. It was no will of mine.’
‘But doubtless another soul would have found an alternative to violence? Perhaps you could have run away? Your legs seem sound. That would have been a more prudent action for one whose main imperative today was to bloody well meet the Prince of Wales!’
Devlin said nothing but his teeth grated. He was not a boy, to explain himself to fops, but he knew Timms was right, and his anger abated. Dandon could understand his captain’s annoyance but if they were not both to wind up in Newgate he assessed that Timms was a man to have on their side.
‘What do you suggest, Mister Timms, to alleviate our situation and assist you?’
Timms sniffed and resumed his contemplative pacing. ‘It is not as simple as it once was. I can return to the prince and inform him what has occurred.’ He began to reel off notions as if no longer addressing either of them but instead picturing the days ahead.
‘You will appear in the sessions house by ten tomorrow. Naturally not as the pirate Devlin but by this rather fortunate name you at least had the presence of mind to conjure. The Justice will set a trial, for this week, after which your punishment will be execution. Which gives us until Monday, by which time we can conduct our meeting with the prince. Thus there is no problem other than a lost week.’
‘Save the problem of me being at Tyburn on Monday,’ Devlin reminded him.
‘Never mind that.’
