Smuggler's Moon

by Bruce Alexander

  “Nice country, that.” He hesitated. Then, with a wave: ”Well, on your way, lad.”

  Waving back, I started up the stairs two at a time, but a thought held me, and I descended to call out to him: ”Has Constable Bailey come in yet?”

  “No, not yet, but he should be by soon.”

  “I’ve something to tell him. Would you ask him to wait for me? I shouldn’t be long.”

  “As you will, Jeremy.”

  I thanked him, made my way up the stairs, and began my preparations for my meeting with the Lord Chief Justice. Indeed it did not take me long, though I washed and dressed more carefully than was my usual. When I had done brushing my coat and buffing my shoes, I went to Sir John’s bedroom and studied my image in Lady Fielding’s tall looking glass. Most satisfied was I at what I saw. Clarissa was right: a clean shirt and hose did indeed make all the difference.

  As I descended the stairs, I heard the voices of constables Baker and Bailey raised in high hilarity. Mr. Bailey, it seemed, was giving forth with the voice and manner of a drunk in Bedford Street who had that night sought to prove himself sober by reciting the first chapter of the Book of Genesis. ”He were never able to get to the end of it,” said Mr. Bailey, ”but I sent the poor fellow on his way since he made such a considerable effort.”

  Mr. Baker caught sight of me and pointed, and Mr. Bailey, still chuckling, did turn to me and nod.

  “You’ve something for me?” he asked.

  ”Nothing much, but something,” said I. ”I thought to give you notice, though it cannot be done officially until Lord Mansfield gives unto Sir John certain powers.”

  “Well then, give it me unofficially.”

  And that I did, explaining that Sir John sought temporarily to serve as magistrate of Deal, taking over the duties of the late magistrate of the town.

  “Late magistrate? How did he die?”

  “Murdered.”

  “Murdered, is it? Well, if Sir John’s in that sort of danger, then I’ll be there, never mind what Lord Mansfield says—and you can count on that.”

  “And bring Will Patley with you?”

  “If Sir John wants Patley, then he wants some proper shooting done. You want Patley to bring that rifled musket of his along?”

  “That will all be in the letter, I suppose, but I must handle this as Sir John said and wait for Lord Mansfield’s authorization. But I did want to give you some notice.”

  “You did right, Jeremy. It will take a bit of changing about to make this work proper. And I’ll have to appoint someone to take my place—Baker probably.”

  Just as I had thought.

  I took my leave of Mr. Bailey, went out into the street, and headed in the direction of Bloomsbury Square, where dwelt William Murray, Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice. There had I a long acrimonious history with Lord Mansfield’s butler. ”Acrimonious” might be too strong a term for our relationship. Nevertheless, there was no love lost between us—and precious little good feeling. I quite disliked everything about the man. His cold, aloof manner, and his secretive ways, were such that I never relaxed in his presence. Yet most of all I disliked his studied attitude of superiority. It was as if he were looking down at me from some great height and saw only the ragged boy who had first come to London, orphaned and alone, dirty-faced and desperate. I was no longer that boy. It was not just that I was four years older. I had in that time learned much of life. I was reading the law with Sir John Fielding, the Magistrate of the Bow Street Court. There was naught could be said against me, so far as I knew. Oh, not that I was perfect. (At this point, reader, I was reminded of that embarrassing matter of the coachman, Henry Curtin.) I had my faults, as I was most painfully aware. Nevertheless (I protested within) they were not such that I should be looked down upon by a butler—not even the butler to the household of the Lord Chief Justice.

  Somehow I took courage in this lengthy conversation with myself—one no doubt much lengthier than what I have remembered here. In any case, whether because of it or because of the intrinsic importance of my mission to Bloomsbury Square, I felt a considerable surge of power as I knocked upon the door of Lord Mansfield’s residence. This time, I swore, I would not be shamed, not even bested, by the butler. The door opened. That familiar cadaverous face appeared, distant and unamused, near a foot above me. (He was indeed a tall man.)

  The face spoke: ”Ah, it is you. What will you today, boy?”

  “What I always will,” said I, ”an audience with your master.”

  “Ah, my master? Well, this day, as so often happens, you have come too late.”

  “But it is early,” I protested. ”It could not yet be eight o’clock.”

  “Nevertheless, Lord Mansfield has left for the day. I take it you have a letter from the blind fellow. You may either leave it with me or come back at the end of the day. I’ll not have you hanging about the door all through the day like some beggar. So—what is it? Which will you?”

  “Neither.”

  He stepped back. I could see that he was about to shut the door. I tried vainly to jam my shoe in that I might block it, keep it from closing.

  “Where has he gone?” I shouted. ”Where is he?”

  “Where do you suppose? Now go away!” The latter part of this rude response was shouted through the door.

  I stood there upon the steps, listening to myself sputter with indignation as I fantasized some wild scheme of revenge. Yet gradually my temper cooled, and I realized the foolishness of such efforts. I put my mind on the far more important matter of finding Lord Mansfield. What was it that the hateful butler had said? I had asked him where his master had gone, and he responded, ”Where do you suppose?” Well, I had not to think long upon that to realize that, of course, he had gone to court. He was, after all, a judge, was he not? The Old Bailey was, so to speak, his place of business. Though the hour was an early one at which to begin, it could well be that his docket for the day was so crowded that an early start was demanded of him. I turned about and hastened off in the direction of Old Bailey.

  Perhaps the most objectionable thing about the Old Bailey was—and is—its nearness to Newgate Gaol. Only a street separates them, and there is a smell which emanates from Newgate, about equal parts sewer odors and the stink of human misery, which seems to penetrate the walls of the courts, as well. Once in Old Bailey, one could not forget that Newgate was near, nor that Tyburn Hill was not too far distant.

  Indeed I was correct in supposing that the press of cases to be tried was such that Lord Mansfield had been forced to begin early. When I at last was admitted to the main courtroom where he presided, I heard from my seat companion, a richly dressed woman of near forty years, that three had already been tried that morning.

  “With what result?” I asked.

  ”You dare joke with me, do you?”

  “No, no, I assure you that—”

  “—me, who’s come for one last glimpse of my son, Billy, before they hang him?” She spoke over me, interrupting, ignoring my attempts to apologize, determined to have her say: ”There’s none who comes as far as this can escape the rope—or so I’m told. The least I could do was come down and bring all my girls to see the darling boy off. An’t that so?”

  “I…I suppose so,” said I, a bit uncertainly.

  Her reference to ”her girls” intrigued me. I leaned forward a bit and saw, to my surprise, that our pew was crowded with a bevy of gaudily dressed and generously berouged young women of uncertain virtue; there must have been seven or eight of them visible to my eye; two of them returned my gaze rather boldly, and one of them winked.

  “Are all these young ladies truly your daughters?” I asked the older woman next me (somewhat disingenuously, I confess).

  “La, young sir, they might as well be, but they an’t. My womb an’t near so generous. Billy’s my only.” She was, in her own way, a proper mother come to mourn, though her child still breathed.

  Needless to say, our conversation took place ”betwe
en cases,” as one might say, whilst Lord Mansfield sat resplendent in his scarlet robes, conversing idly with his clerk, awaiting the next defendant to be called. That next defendant, as it happened, was William Neely. Thus I found that the woman beside me was the notorious brothelkeeper, Mother Neely. He was summoned loudly and appeared but a moment later in the dock. He was in chains, though otherwise quite presentable; his coat was of velvet, and his shirt was apparently of silk and newly washed. At a sign from Mother Neely, our entire row burst into a great fit of sobs and boo-hoos; kerchiefs were waved; a few of the boldest of ”her girls” called out to him. This demonstration, which caused quite a commotion in the courtroom, brought an immediate call to order, complete with threats of expulsion, et cetera. For my own part, I sought to dissociate myself from my pewfellows by shrinking down and away from them. And as for the prisoner, he seemed to take great pleasure in all the noise made in his honor; he smiled broadly and nodded two or three times; and had his hands not been manacled, I feel sure he would have waved in response.

  The indictment, when read out in court by the prosecution, did shock me—and I, working for years with Sir John, was not easily shocked. It told of how William Neely had bound and tortured the members of a diamond merchant’s family, that he might learn where gemstones were hid about the house. When he was satisfied he had them all, he murdered the entire family—or thought he had. One, a daughter, survived her stab wounds and was able to identify Neely as thief and killer from the witness box. Asked if he could say anything in his own defense, the accused shrugged and said that if they’d been a bit more helpful, it wouldn’t have been necessary to be so nasty.

  “Then you admit the crime?” asked the Lord Chief Justice.

  “Might as well,” said Neely, with another shrug.

  “Answer yes or no.”

  “Awright then, yes—yass, yass, yass!”

  “Then,” said Lord Mansfield, ”it will not be necessary for the jury to adjourn, confer, and vote guilty or not guilty.”

  So saying, the judge donned the black cap and pronounced the death sentence. Then did he add with no more than routine piety his wish that God might have mercy upon the soul of William Neely. And having said it, he banged thrice with his gavel and called a recess to the court session. When the prisoner was led away, I expected a repetition of the earlier performance of the ladies, complete with crocodile tears, yet there was no such. Mrs. Neely stood, and her companions with her as I, too, made ready to leave the courtroom. I knew not what to say, and so I simply held my tongue, bowing silently and politely as they left.

  “He weren’t really so bad,” said Madame Neely to me. ”It was just that he was tryin’ to prove he could make his own way. Boys is like that. They got to prove that they’re grown up—when they really an’t.”

  And saying no more, she led her bevy out and up the aisle. She who had winked at me winked at me again and said, ”Come see us sometime. We’re in Tavistock Street. So easy to find.” Then she, like the rest, followed their leader out the door.

  I, too, hastened to go, yet I left by a side exit, one which I knew would bring me nearer to the judges’ chambers. Yet there I found my way barred by a court guard.

  “Where you goin’, young sir?”

  “I have a letter for Lord Mansfield from Sir John Fielding which must be delivered. It is a most urgent matter.”

  “Give me the letter, and I shall present it to him.”

  “Much as I should like to do so, sir, I cannot. Sir John forbade me to let the letter out of my keeping, except it be to Lord Mansfield.”

  “Hmmm,” said the court guard who, bless him, did truly seem concerned. ”Well, I must say you look like a responsible lad.”

  “I am Sir John’s assistant.”

  “Ah, indeed? You don’t say! Well then, I shall take a risk with you. If you take my place at this door and turn away all who seek exit through here, I shall go to the chambers of the Lord Chief Justice and ask him if he wishes your visit.” He gave me a sharp look. ”Do you accept this offer? It is the best I can do.”

  “I accept it gladly.”

  ”Well and good.” And with that he departed, leaving me in charge.

  I took my assignment seriously and turned back two or three during the few minutes he was absent. When he returned with a smile upon his face, I took heart that all was well with regard to my visit—as indeed it was.

  “The Lord Chief Justice will see you,” said the fellow, ”for he assumes you would not trouble him were it not an urgent and important matter. You’ll find him third door on your left.”

  I thanked him and ran to the door he had designated, beat upon it, and threw it open the moment I heard the invitation to enter.

  “Ah, you, is it?” said Lord Mansfield, wearing his scarlet and regarding me in his usual skeptical way. ”I thought it would be. What have you for me?”

  “A letter explaining the situation in Deal, my lord.”

  “Well then, let’s have it.”

  He took it from me, broke the seal, and read. As he did so, his expression changed from mild displeasure (which was his usual) to sudden concern, and on to absolute outrage. By the time he finished Sir John’s letter, he was breathing fire and snorting smoke (I mean that figuratively, of course). He then asked me a number of questions to learn more of events which were no more than mentioned in the letter. Then did he conclude by sitting down at his desk and writing out the document of temporary appointment which Sir John had requested. In addition, he wrote a letter of his own to the Commanding Officer of the Tower, another old chum of his, said he to me with a wink—”actually a cousin.”

  “You must take this to Colonel Murray forthwith,” Lord Mansfield continued, ”and he will provide Sir John with a small contingent of mounted troops. Sir John may use them as he sees fit. That should help even things up a bit, eh?”

  “Oh yes,” said I, ”that will help considerably.”

  The rest of the day was taken up with the delivery of the remaining letters, which entailed a good deal of racing about from one destination to the next. Colonel Murray provided no problem. He simply read through Lord Mansfield’s missive, smiled, and assured me that the requested troops would be provided and should arrive in Deal sometime during the day after tomorrow—or upon that night.

  “And where should they report to your fellow, Sir John?”

  “To Number Eighteen Middle Street, sir. And if I might make a suggestion?”

  “By all means.”

  “A daylight arrival and a ride down High Street might be best. A show of force would be in order.”

  “Very well, you shall have it.”

  Thus I left the Tower in a state of high elation—only to begin what proved to be the most taxing of the errands, which was the delivery of Sir John’s letter to Mr. John Bilbo.

  First, I set off for his residence in St. James Street. It was yet early in the day, and so I had every hope of catching him there before he left for his gaming club in Mayfair. Nevertheless, by the time I arrived, he had gone. Nor was Bunkins present to advise me on any change in plans his ”cove,” Mr. Bilbo, might have made for that day. All that could be said was told me by Mr. Burnham, Bunkins’s tutor. According to him, both Mr. Bilbo and Jimmie Bunkins had left together for the club.

  And so I went on to Mayfair to find them. By that time, it was into the afternoon. Upon my arrival, I found the crew of cleaners busy at work, preparing the place for its evening opening at seven. A dealer of cards sat in the main gaming room, performing feats of sleight of hand with the deck for his own amusement. I waited respectfully for his attention. When he withheld it, I could do naught but shout for it.

  “Where’s Black Jack?”

  He stopped and looked me up and down. ”You know him well enough to call him so?”

  “I know him well enough—and Bunkins even better.”

  “Then you should know where the two of them spend most of their time these days.”

  “In Wapping
at the dry-dock.”

  “Ah, then you do know a little something, don’t you?” He gave me a smirk he may have meant for a smile. ”Well, they’ve just left for Wapping, but the sloop is no longer in dry-dock. It’s in the slip next on.”

  “Thank you,” said I as I turned and headed for the door.

  “Better see them today, if that’s your intention. They’ll not be about for long.” He called it to my back. Turning, I saw that he had gone back to his amusements. I nodded and stepped outside.

  I did not like the fellow. He acted entirely too pleased with himself. I wondered how long he had been in the employ of Mr. Bilbo—and how long he would remain so. He did not seem the right sort.

  The prospect of walking to Wapping had little appeal. Footsore and bone-tired from my journey from Deal, I thought it right to travel to my next destination in style: I would take a hackney—one from that line there at the end of the street. Time also was a consideration. Having missed Mr. Bilbo and Bunkins twice afoot, I could not afford to miss them again. Thus, bolstered by logic, I rode.

  It was, by any measure, a considerable journey. We hugged the river except near Tower Hill, where it was not possible. Peeking out at the crowded streets, seeing the waves of people pouring this way and that over the kerbs and sidewalks, I wondered how I might find my place among them. As I grew older, I found myself thinking more and more (and not always optimistically) about how I might make my way in the world. It would not be long, after all, until such conjecture must be replaced by action. Jimmie Bunkins and I often talked of this; he was as much perplexed about the possible direction of his own life as I was about my own situation.

  In this way do such heavy thoughts often catch us unawares.

  The last part of my ride, which was taken along Wapping Dock, led past ships loading and unloading, fitting and refitting. I looked sharp at the docks and slips along the way that I might not be conveyed past the one which sheltered the Indian Princess. Then, of a sudden, I spied the Bilbo coach-and-four waiting next a dry-dock and supposed beside it was the right slip. I beat loud upon the ceiling of the hackney that the driver might stop where it was proper. He guided the horses over to one side and halted. Paying off the driver, I ran cross the street and up to the slip.