by A. A. Glynn
Though it was still winter and Cremorne was not going at full pelt, the gardens still displayed their bawdy vulgarity and Septimus Dacers felt its power the minute he paid his money and entered at the ‘Water Entrance’, opposite the river. He had been here before, professionally, in the company of the police and Cremorne’s joviality and lighthearted sense, tainted though it was, never failed to touch him.
In truth he had little enough to be light-hearted about for, when his cab reached the Water Entrance, he was already late for the scheduled LUB meeting. A cart had overturned on Cheney Row, blocking the way to the entrance to the gardens and the usual altercation between cabbie and carter began. A policeman arrived and more or less settled their quarrel then took his time questioning the pair and writing up the facts of the case in his notebook after which Dacers helped all three to right the cart.
He hastened towards the Big Tea Room at the further end of the gardens. He hurried by paths lit by Chinese lanterns in the bare trees above them. He ignored the smirks and winks of the dollimops who strolled the paths at a snail’s pace and he turned a deaf ear to a man at a red hot brazier hoarsely announcing baked potatoes.
He passed an open pavilion where mulled ale was on sale and a group of young men with top hats askew swung pint pots and sang in uncertain harmony a raucous gem from the music halls:
‘I’m a chickaleery bloke
Hackney is the town
That I was born in.
And, if you wants to
Catch me out, you’ve
Got to get up early
In the mornin’
He kept a steady pace onward, hearing the thumping drum and brassy blare of a German band, somewhere ahead, keeping fresh the memory of the long departed summer when it thumped and blared through hot and lazy days. He passed one of the features of the gardens that still brought outraged cluckings from elderly puritans who remembered when the waltz was considered immoral, Cremorne’s Dancing Platform, a spacious, raised floor, was closed up now for winter. When brighter weather returned, it would provide a colourful and lively spectacle of whirling crinolines and flying coattails as the younger generations revived both the waltz and the polka.
He came in sight of the Big Tea Room which advertised itself as a great splash of bright light on the landscape. It was a glass structure, influenced by the vogue in glass buildings after the creation of the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park for the Great Exhibition of 1851. The interior was brightly lit and the glass panes which made up the walls permitted him to see a busy scene of numerous parties seated at long tables. There were a great many of these long tables and it was the custom for various private parties to be in progress at them nightly. Wedding parties; engagement parties; birthday parties; parties for those leaving for the colonies and for those just returned went on amid large, steaming tea urns and plates piled high with cakes, tarts and muffins.
It was a remarkable fact that, although so many partygoers from various social classes roistered within one space and plenty of strong drink was consumed, there was no clashing of parties. Each remained a self-contained entity and, although a shared heartiness reigned in the great room, one party never interfered with another. Much criticised Cremorne, it seemed, had the ability to level the classes and promote harmony, despite all the critics’ cries that the pleasure gardens were a blot on the fair face of Chelsea.
As Dacers entered the premises, he felt himself immediately wrapped around by its warmth and the welcoming aroma of hot food. The various parties were in full swing at their tables which were interspersed by cast-iron standards, moulded and painted to represent heavily foliaged trees. From a distance, he quickly spotted a table surrounded by a group of males some of whom had subtle touches to their clothing—a broad-brimmed hat here; a string tie instead of a full British style cravat there, which marked them as Americans. Others were obviously British men of affairs: quite likely businessmen, manufacturers, speculators and capitalists in a great or small way of business.
Such a collection of men struck a familiar chord in Dacers’ memory and brought back uneasy recollections of the previous day’s assassination attempt, He felt sure the hand of the defeated Dixie Ghosts was in that attempt. And now he felt sure the LUB also had something to do with the Ghosts. This audience had the look of those whom the Ghosts’ hoped to fleece of their money. Some were exiles from America who had supported the South; others were agents of arms companies and suppliers of other essential goods who supported the warring Southerners through the blockade—breaking system of smuggling. Surely, a revived set of Ghosts were not trying the same trick of rook the old blockade breakers of funds with the tale of a revitalised South needing money to start hostilities all over again!
As he drew nearer, he saw that the gathering was listening raptly to a tall man standing before them. He, too, had the unmistakable appearance of an American in his long dark topcoat and his wide hat. His lean frame and hollow cheeks, reminded Dacers of pictures of Confederate soldiers he had seen. Dacers gave a grunt of annoyance, realising that, while he had set off in time, the mishap with the cart in the road had caused him to miss the opening of the meeting.
The orator was too far away for him to hear what he was saying so he put on an unsteady wobble and pushed his tall hat over his eyes, becoming a Cremorne type: the lonely drinker who usually finished his evening by being discovered sound asleep in a chair in some remote region of the gardens.
He edged his way towards of the fringe of the body being addressed by the rangy man of Southern rebel appearance. In doing so, he noticed a second man, slender, loose-limbed and costumed in similar style to the orator, sitting at the front of the audience, none of whom noticed Dacers take up an empty chair, position it at the back of the gathering and sit down. He continued his pose as a tipsy idler, hat tipped over his eyes and seemingly asleep. He watched the speaker through half closed eyes.
The man’s strong voice betrayed his place of origin with a slow drawl, what he was saying with a considerable depth of emotion, sounded very strange to Dacers.
‘…It might come as news to many of you English folks that, back in those days, when the colonies were gathering around George Washington and increasingly of a mind to break with the Crown, Georgia showed reluctance to get involved and took a long time about it.
‘When it did join the rebel colonies, it did not disregard the numerous Englishmen who helped create Georgia and brought benefits to it. They cast the mould in which we who call ourselves Georgia Crackers—descendants of the first colonists—are cast. Soon after we became a State we honoured many of these men for they supported our bid for liberty in spite of their king and Parliament and a vast number of their fellow citizens.’
Dacers was immediately startled by what the man was saying. Among his first words was the name of Georgia which at once brought the recollection of the Remington revolver dropped by the man who attempted to kill him and the faintly scratched lettering on its butt, recording the name of a Georgia infantry regiment. Surely there must be a connection between the man who fired on him and these visitors who identified themselves as Georgians. He listened with acute interest as the man seemed to be developing a history of Georgia and its relationship with Great Britain.
‘One of our earliest acts was to name a number of our counties after those inspiring men,’ he was saying. ‘First, the British soldier, General James Oglethorpe, the founder of Georgia, which he created as a colony to give British convicts and debtors a fresh chance in life. He was humane man, which is more than can be said for those calling the tune in Georgia today. There was Chatham county, for the Earl of Chatham, a champion of American Liberty and Burke County for Edmund Burke, Irish born, a noble light of the British Parliament and one of Europe’s great political thinkers.
‘We created Wilkes County to honour John Wilkes, Member of Parliament and fearless agitator for liberty and Glynn County for John Glynn, Member
of Parliament, friend of Wilkes and the lawyer who defended Wilkes when he was hauled before the courts. There were others, ladies and gentlemen. We might have fought British soldiers in our War of Independence and that of 1812 but we would never cast from our gratitude, respect and affection those from across the Atlantic who, like you, were our friends. As the poem says, our banner must be furled but those sentiments of gallantry and love of our native soil which it embodies and which we share with our spiritual kinsman the British will never pass away.
‘There are plenty of people in Georgia who are rightly proud of their British background. Why, our own leader, the General, comes from an old established family which came into England from France with William the Conqueror. And while mentioning the General, I know that you folks are from several parts of this country but most are from London. I wonder if any of you know of a certain Mr. O who resides somewhere in London. He has something the General wishes to acquire, something of importance to our objective. If anyone knows where this Mr. O can be found, kindly let Sergeant Major Dobbs or myself—’
Dacers made another mental note. The speaker had given a military rank to his companion and he had the mien of a war-hardened old soldier himself. Again, the memory of the legend with its military connotation scratched on the butt of the pistol came to his mind. It named a Georgia militia and this man harped so much on Georgia that he must surely come from that State.
The speaker’s oration had suddenly ceased because of a loud creaking sound behind him. He whirled and saw one of the cast iron ‘trees’ rocking back and forth on its stand, as if about to fall at any moment. Those sitting nearest began to rise and hurry out of the way and Dacers saw that the movement revealed a startled young man standing behind the tree. He was slender in a long overcoat and a tall hat that seemed too big for him. He must have bumped or nudged the tree by accident, caused it to shift and reveal his presence. He clutched it, trying to keep it upright but to no avail.
The cast-iron tree teetered forward then back again, hitting the flustered young man’s hat and knocking it back on his head. This fully revealed an oval face; a young woman’s face—that of Roberta Van Trask!
Septimus Dacers almost jumped out of his skin and stood up quickly just as the iron tree swung forward again, completely off balance, hitting the tiled floor and shattering to bits.
Somebody shouted: ‘It’s a young fellow, spying on us!’
‘No!’ shouted someone else. ‘It’s a girl!’
Dacers saw Roberta turn and run just as a knot of men from the meeting rose quickly and started after her. From her hiding place, she reached the pathway between several long tables laden with cakes, buns and huge tea urns. She was dressed in an outlandish collection of clothing which did little to disguise her femininity: the long overcoat, what seemed to be some form of trousers and the oversized tall hat which she held on to grimly as she ran.
She had a good lead on the men following her and Dacers put a spurt on, coming up behind the group chasing her. He came into their midst and they took him to be one of themselves. He shoved a couple out of his way by brute force, tripped another and was then clear of them, He came alongside one of the long tables which had a large, steaming tea urn at its end. He paused momentarily, grabbed the porcelain handle of the urn’s tap and hauled the large brass vessel off the table just as the pursuers were almost on him.
A great surge of hot tea splashed up as it hit the floor and the pursuers found themselves floundering through a tide of it. They halted in confusion for a short time, howling and swearing at Dacers’ back as he continued running after the girl.
She was keeping up a good pace and she was nearing the wide door of the Big Tea Room. Dacers knew that Cremorne Gardens were unknown territory to her and she would not know where to go once she was outside the refreshment room. There was very little doubt that her energy would soon give out and Dacers was beginning to feel twinges of pain in the side that was once injured by the knife of Dandy Jem the Swell Mobsman. He could hear the irate runners coming hard, having gathered themselves together again.
He closed on Roberta just as she reached the door. Panting, he called to her:
‘Keep running out of the—door. You’ll see a—big hedge straight ahead—make for it.’
She was startled to find he was running beside her and she half-turned her head.
‘Where did—you come – from?’ she panted.
‘Never mind. Just run.’
They were outside now in in the sharp air of the night which was dark, moonless and with a touch of winter mist coming up from the river. They were running along one of Cremorne’s many paths, the pursuers were not far behind and both were beginning to feel they would soon be sapped of energy.
The large hedge loomed ahead of them. It was neatly trimmed and obviously enclosed a spacious area. There was a wide opening and a path giving access to the dark, mysterious area behind the hedge. Dacers could see that Roberta was slackening speed and labouring for breath as heavily as himself. He put his hand on her back and pushed her forward towards the gap in the hedge.
‘In there—quick!’ he gasped with what felt like the last of his breath.
The girl almost stumbled along the pathway and vaguely realised that the path ran between two privet hedges and, so far as she could see anything, she had the impression that there were more such hedges around them and before them.
‘Where—are we?’ she gulped.
The pounding boots of the pursuers sounded ominously near their place of refuge.
‘At the entrance to—the maze’, gasped Dacers, putting his hands on her shoulders to stop her running then pushing her down to the path.
‘Quick—get down there—take your hat off—’ he instructed breathlessly, ‘Lie at the bottom of the hedge and off the path—if there’s any clearance under the hedge, roll under it—keep still down in the dark.’
She grasped his meaning at once as the hubbub of the running men grew nearer. She snatched off her tall hat, held it close to her body and dropped down, found a strip of earth between the hard path and the hedge and flattened out on it.
Frighteningly near, the sound of pursuing feet mounted and a gruff voice shouted: ‘They’ve gone into the maze! They’ve sunk themselves—they’ll never get out of there! They’ll get lost!’
Roberta felt around the bottom of the hedge, discovered that there was a good measure of clearance between the bottom of the trimmed privet and the ground and she rolled under the hedge where there was a winter-damp smell of earthiness. No sooner had she secured a place there than the path began to shudder to the thumping of heavy boots and she and Dacers, who was similarly sprawled out under the opposite hedge, were aware of boots rushing past them, their owners all unknowing that the two were within inches of their feet.
She saw, now, the cunning of Dacers’ strategy. Cremorne, was obviously equipped with a maze, a plot of tantalizingly laid-out, neatly trimmed hedges in which visitors enjoyed getting lost until a man towering over them in a high chair pointed the way out when they became frustrated. Not functioning for the winter, its entrance was unsecured. Dacers had spotted it and caused the pursuing party to run into the heart of the puzzle.
She heard him stir from the hedge opposite and call her urgently: ‘Come on, let’s get out of here the way we came in. That crew are just about to discover they’re the ones who’ve sunk themselves.’
The brief break gave the two a chance to recover their breath. They scrambled up and walked back towards the beginning of the path. Just as they reached it, an agonised yell came out of the depth of the maze behind them.
‘Hey, Harry, Will—where are you? I took a wrong turning. I’m lost!’
An Americanised, equally agonised answer came: ‘This is Will. I don’t know where I am. I can’t find Harry and the others and that blamed couple have plumb disappeared.’
Another voice wa
iled; ‘I’m lost too, and I can’t see a thing. Light a lucifer, somebody.’
Dacers and Roberta were now out in the open with the Big Tea Room shining like a beacon in the distance and startling them by showing them the long distance they had covered with their run. From the maze came an increased clamour from the lost men, now growing frustrated and profane. All was quiet in the gardens now and there was no sign of anyone from the disrupted meeting looking for satisfaction for the disturbance of their business. Dacers was sure he saw the man who had been addressing the meeting and the one similarly garbed in the group of runners who chased Roberta and himself so the meeting must have come to a total halt.
He led Roberta down a side path at the end of which a high wall could be dimly discerned.
‘I hope you can climb that wall, Miss Van Trask,’ said Dacers. ‘It’s our quickest way out. The Kings Road, Chelsea, lies on the other side. I hope you’ll forgive me for remarking that your costume makes you look like an advertisement for a Christmas pantomime.’
She sniffed, ‘Well, I think it turned me into quite a respectable young man. I came by cab and I did not seem to cause a sensation by appearing in public.’
‘Then there must be more near-sightedness in London than I ever imagined,’ he said wickedly. ‘And that hat you’re almost managing to keep on your head must be one of your father’s I suppose.’
‘It is and it’s too big. I packed it with newspaper and all was well until I bumped into that iron tree thing I was hiding behind, I almost knocked my hat off, caused the tree to crash and gave everyone a chance to see I wasn’t a male.’
