Wild Intentions (The Legend of the Thief Taker)

by Chris Hales

  “Oh, no, it had a purpose, Jonathan,” Hitchin appeared smug and all knowing, proud of the plan he had constructed.

  “I know,” he smiled. “I know a lot more than you think.” He was desperate to show Hitchin he wasn't nearly as clever as he believed. He deserved to win their despicable game.

  “Really?” he questioned.

  “I'm just trying to work out whether her death was his, or your idea,” memories of the kind and pretty Anne filled his mind. He knew both were capable of dreaming up such awful death.

  “Do you honestly think we're so sinister?” he defended.

  “I do,” implied Jonathan hatefully. “I know you're that manipulative. You see, Charles, I know everything,” he finally admitted. “It was a good plan, well-conceived, but ultimately flawed.” The compliment adeptly merged with his criticism.

  “How was it flawed, Jonathan?” he begged. “You can't be so arrogant that you're blind to the fact I've won.” He was sure of it. It was all so perfect.

  “Have you?” he posed. “I don't see it like that at all.”

  “I've been winning for quite some time now.” He was pleased with the things he'd done. “So much so, that I forced you out of the country. I watched as you made all of those mistakes and tarnished your good name.” This was when he'd thought he'd won an early victory. “As you attacked those closest to you. You're a mess, Jonathan. All of us can see it.”

  “I'll admit I made errors,” he confessed, “but I came back stronger. I returned with one intention. To ruin you.” He would succeed. Charles had crossed the line far too many times. It had to end. Now.

  “And again you failed,” he stated coldly.

  “Where are your thieves, Charles?” he asked. “I only saw a small few walking down here.” He had waited by the corner of the warehouse. An inquisitive child hoping for action. He had assessed them carefully. “The rest of them are hired muscle, designed specifically for the fight. They're not thieves.” They couldn't conceive how hard a thief would truly fight. How dangerous they would be.

  “They'll do their job,” he assured.

  “You're nothing and not as nearly clever as you think.” He had to admire his tenacity. He never gave in, always fighting for the smallest of victories.

  “I'm clever enough Jonathan,” he said. “While you were busy with your business and the shipments which came in, I infiltrated it.” This was how he had turned the tides of power. “My spies have been deep within your organisation for quite a while now, reporting back to me, each and every day.”

  He had chosen a number of thieves who he knew would easily blend into Jonathan's gang. He offered to pay these men a higher rate, but always knew they would do as he asked out of fear. He had waited every day for his thieves to tell him what they had learned.

  “You lie,” guarded Jonathan. “If that had happened, I'd know about it.”

  “Would you?” argued Hitchin. “They were well hidden. They reported all of your business back to me,” he smiled evilly. “I know every detail of it, Jonathan.” He stood, arms crossed, in a ridiculously pompous manner.

  “If that were the case, not only would I have heard about it,” he defended, “but you'd have copied it. Just like you have with everything else.”

  He had always relied on Jonathan and his actions. If Hitchin had known the details of his organisation he would have bought his own ship and started running his own stolen goods across the sea. He had been very careful not to make those aspects of his business well known. The only reason Charles couldn't have run a similar business was that he had very few thieves with which to make it work.

  “My spies told me everything;” Hitchin continued to boast. “One in particular received a beating from Roger Johnson. He then reported it to the city marshals. Johnson was arrested yesterday and the marshals will be arriving here shortly. He gave you up.” Of course Jonathan knew this. “You dug your own grave, Jonathan. I've simply made it deeper,” he started to chuckle once again, his belly wobbling and shaking. “When they arrive, they’ll find you with your gang and in possession of all these stolen goods and you'll be arrested.” It was a dangerous situation. He would have been worried if he didn't already know exactly what was going to happen.

  “And what will they do when they find you here, with your gang?” he asked.

  “Me? A city marshal, with my own deputies?” he was still so sure he could get away with everything. It made Jonathan sick. Hoping the legislature and the courts would believe his gang were official deputies could well be his undoing.

  “That's very good,” he complimented. “Well thought out. You see, when I first met you in Woodgate, I knew very little. You taught me a great deal, and I, in turn, showed you how best to operate.” It was true Hitchin had served as his introduction to this world, but, Jonathan had shown him much as well. He was the brains, Hitchin the brawn. “You've obviously used all of that to your advantage, but there is something you haven't taken into account,” he happily specified.

  “And what is that?” he asked.

  “You have your spies...,” Jonathan grinned, “and I have mine. I know how much you've suffered. Your gang is virtually non-existent, your thieves are poor and badly structured, and the young thief who received a beating from Roger…, his name was Philip.” He watched as a wave of confusion washed over Hitchin’s face.

  “How...?” he stuttered in a bemused manner.

  157

  It was many months before when Jonathan had Matthew bring Philip before him. He had heard tales of this young thief who had been snooping around the warehouses, asking questions and attempting friendship with the other thieves. He was hardly as good as he thought.

  Matthew dragged him into Jonathan's study, sweating and trembling. He knew he’d been found out. Forcing him into a chair he held him forcefully in place, his hands on his shoulders.

  “Philip, isn't it?” The young thief nodded the affirmative. “When did he ask you to start sniffing around?” It was a simple question.

  “I... I...,” stuttered Philip, only answering when Matthew applied great pressure to his neck. “A couple of months back.”

  “And what exactly did he ask you to do?”

  He twitched anxiously. “Charlie asked me to take a beating,” Matthew shot Jonathan a concerned look of bafflement. “He told me to steal from Roger's shipment and then to let him beat me when he found out.”

  Jonathan cocked a single eyebrow curiously. “Why would he ask you to do that?”

  “So I'd go and find Tom Edwards,” he replied, “and then tell him all about your business. Me being beaten would only make it more believable.” He tensed in preparation for the attack which may yet descend.

  Jonathan laughed, lightening the mood somewhat. “Clever bugger,” he said, looking to Matthew. “This might just work.” He leaned on the desk, peering at Philip with purpose. “This is what you'll do,” he instructed. “You'll continue to work for Charles. You'll tell him whatever he wants to know and you will take this beating. You’ll let him think he’s winning,” he continued to chuckle, “but you will keep quiet about this conversation. And I'll pay you for it, handsomely.”

  A new deal was struck. Jonathan wanted this to happen. He could turn it against Charles.

  158

  “I knew he was your spy. I was counting on it,” Jonathan explained as they stood apart from each other in the warehouse. “That's the thing with thieves. They're greedy, but I don't need to tell you that. I was paying him. You were paying him. A good deal for Philip.” He found himself chuckling more as he thought of his meeting with the young man. “He told me of your plan and I agreed. I told him to do as you said.” He slowly inched forwards. “Roger spilled his guts to Tom Edwards, but how do you think Tom found him?”

  “You,” he stated with disappointment.

  “Me,” he confirmed.

  “But why?” he asked, desperate for the meaning behind Jonathan's words.

  “Not feeling so clever now,
are you?” he laughed. “I needed Tom to catch me, so I can help him apprehend you.” It was a bold plan. Dangerous for them equally. “He'll be here sooner than you think, trust me, and when he arrives he'll find our two gangs in a full out war.” This was when the incriminations would start to flow freely.

  “That's ridiculous,” he exclaimed.

  “It's genius,” bragged Jonathan. “The only way to end this game is for both of us to go down for it.” He would, indeed, have to sacrifice himself.

  “Are you really saying what I think you are?” he asked, still in his state of confusion. He doubted Jonathan would sacrifice himself.

  “I am,” he said, “and you're asking all the wrong questions.” He peered at Hitchin, attempting to push him in the right direction.

  “What questions should I be asking?”

  “You haven't asked me what's in the box.” Jonathan pointed to the long wooden crate where his staff lay.

  “What is in the box?” he asked, deciding to play along.

  “Take a look, it's not sealed shut,” he suggested.

  Hitchin approached the crate and pushed the lid onto the floor. Inside the still face of Jacob looked up at him. His face was bruised and scratched, long blue bruises surrounded his neck. The slit throat was certainly the most recognisable feature. His clothes were soaked through and his skin pale and bleached by the water of the Thames.

  “What the hell is this?” he exclaimed in shock and surprise.

  “My lads found him floating in the river this morning,” he explained. “What happened? Maybe your deal went sour. Maybe you wanted a larger cut.” It was a bold lie, but Hitchin didn't deserve to know the truth.

  “I didn't kill him, Jonathan,” he defended. “This is not my doing.”

  “You expect me to believe such a claim?” he asked in an incredulous manner. “In a funny, morose, way I can understand why you both killed Anne.” He would never have taken such action himself, but for them it was their only way to attack him personally.

  “Jonathan, believe me, you know nothing,” he exclaimed again.

  “I know exactly what you were planning,” he said knowingly, “You brought my family here for one reason. To steal my money, but you needed me to die, by your own hand or the gallows, it didn't really matter which.” He had proven he wasn't so easy to kill or incriminate. “With me dead my family would inherit my immense fortune. That's why you killed Anne. Hoping to implicate me as her murderer and the riverside killer.” He almost found it all hilarious, “but you didn't know I'd already left the country. With me dead Joseph would become the sole inheritor to my fortune and my father would become his guardian.” He did feel for the boy. After arriving in London he had only experienced pain and loss. He was sorry to have to add to it. “You and he would then split my money, but I kept on living. What happened, Charles? Did you argue over the amount you would both take?” he asked, accusing him again for his father's death.

  “I didn't kill him, but I won't deny you’re right about the rest,” he admitted. “It's no longer about the money, Jonathan. Now I just want you dead and out of my hair.” It was a lot of trouble to go to, all to rid himself of Jonathan Wild.

  “You forget the one thing I told you when we first met,” he joked. “In games of chance…, I cheat.” Charles didn't understand, but he would soon learn. “I did respect you back then and I'd have gladly left you alone if you'd never interfered with me and my life.”

  “I only wanted you to understand I was still the man in charge.” Unlike him he wasn't sorry for the current state of affairs. “You say I wanted to steal your money, but you stole from me long ago. You took everything I had and made it your own.” He had lost much. Too much and he blamed Jonathan for it all.

  “So what do we do now?” he asked as he felt the fight coming to the boil.

  “You may want your gang to be a little bigger.” Hitchin commented.

  He smiled and whistled loudly. From the rear of the large warehouse most of his best thieves came up to his rear. All were armed with crude weapons. Leading them Matthew flexed his muscles, feeling his pocket for the pistol which Jonathan had handed him earlier.

  He took a step back and grinned at his adversary. “I do, however, have something else to add to all of this.” He threw a hand, pointing across the warehouse to one corner which was hidden behind another pile of large boxes. Slowly Tom revealed himself.

  Hitchin took a wary step away as Tom joined Jonathan before the malevolent marshal. “Good morning,” he beamed. “I do believe you’re under arrest…, again.”

  Jonathan laughed as he slung an arm over Tom’s shoulders. “Our entire conversation could be considered as an admission of guilt.” Tom joined him in his chortle. He never expected it to be this much fun.

  “We knew we’d have to arrive early if we had any hope of stopping this battle,” Hitchin only drew his sword and held it out before himself. “I now realise we’ll never be able to stop it. We’ll have to fight equally as hard as the both of you.”

  He paced back until he hit the door through which he had entered. “That’s good,” he growled. “I’m more than able of killing you both.” He opened the door carefully and stepped through.

  This was it. The time had come.

  159

  Tom had managed to gain the support of forty experienced marshals and constables. They were all excited for the fight which was brewing. Arriving at the warehouse early that morning they found the ship moored at the dock and made their way into the warehouse.

  There they found Jonathan with his thieves. Rather than arrest him Tom had allowed him to explain what he thought they should do. No battle would be done before Hitchin arrived. In fact, Jonathan instructed his thieves not to attack any marshal or constable, but to concentrate on Hitchin’s gang. He assured him he would get a confession from Charles. Tom would become the most remarkable marshal in the history of London.

  Tom’s forces were hidden at the back of the warehouse and an additional shrill whistle signalled for them to race to the front where their battle would begin. Jonathan’s thieves sprinted out of the warehouse and charged at the other gang.

  The three forces of large and unsightly men ran at each other, doing battle as if they were an ancient army. The thieves all brandished crude weapons. Clubs with long nails hammered in, painful, homemade devices and an assortment of knives. The marshals soon joined the fight, determined to apprehend their enemies. Jonathan and Hitchin made their way out of the warehouse, battling with their swords drawn.

  Matthew and his close associates took aim with their pistols and let off a series of loud shots. A number of bodies slumped and fell on the ground to lie motionless.

  Tom had given instructions that the most important thing was to restrain and arrest both the Thief Taker and Hitchin. They didn't realise how hard it would be.

  They ran in, brandishing their swords and attacking wildly. It was a hectic mess of violence and men died with horrific regularity. As Tom fought he realised the gravity of the situation. Men were falling on all sides, stabbed, beaten and crushed under foot. Matthew and Ian were relentless in their fury, forcing men easily to the ground and stabbing efficiently with their daggers. Across the way Mad Dog fought literally single handed with an enormous club, always fighting to get closer to Matthew.

  Charles backed away from Jonathan and they both fought with their swords. A large thief stepped between then and pushed Jonathan to the ground, leaning over to place his large hands around his neck. The Thief Taker didn’t struggle, he simply reached into a pocket and drew his pistol, jamming the barrel underneath his enemies’ chin. Pulling the trigger he turned his head away at the sound and the blood which sprayed across the ground. Jumping quickly to his feet he almost jogged to the fat man.

  In his attempt to gain on Jonathan and his nemesis Tom found many thieves halting his progress. As a good Christian man, he dealt more death and damage than even he thought possible. At every turn he was halted with efficien
cy. It seemed the thieves were determined to let Jonathan and Hitchin settle their differences alone.

  The Thief Taker had underestimated Charles’s ability with a sword. It appeared the only other time he had seen Charles in a sword fight was in the tavern across London in Ludgate on a cold dark night and he had been holding back, lulling him into a false sense of security. Jonathan’s ability with his blade was noticeably inferior.

  Charles blocked his every thrust, preventing him from making any threatening approach.

  “You’ll never win this fight, Jonathan,” he fought, calm and contented.

  He found himself desperate to cause injury, but Hitchin threw every attempt aside. “You’ve always underestimated me, Charles,” he continued to parry. “I’ll admit you’re better in a fight, but that won’t stop me trying.” It was obvious he’d never win this battle. This was why he had arranged for Tom to be present, but the esteemed marshal was still having difficulty in his approach.

  Hitchin brushed his sword aside, whipping the blade upwards to slice into his arm. “That is only the start of the pain I’ll cause you, boy.” He relished in the injury he was inflicting, giggling at the sight of blood flowing along Jonathan’s arm. He still tried to fight, persistently throwing his blade at him. Slowly he began to smile. He paused warily. “I’m glad you find your imminent death amusing.”

  Jonathan continued to push. “There’s nothing amusing about my death,” Hitchin backed away, only to stumble into another man. Iron Fist felt a great swell of pride as his own short dagger pushed into Charles’s side. Hitchin screamed in pain and swung his arm around to find the dirty thief, but he had already run off to join other battles. It was unfortunate Ian’s stab had missed all vital organs.

  Jonathan took the opportunity and drove his sword into Hitchin’s shoulder, forcing him up against the railings which held the drop to the Thames at bay. The pain caused Hitchin to release his sword, but still he laughed. “You think I need that to kill you?”