Searcher

by T J Alexander

  ‘Mary Brown! Mary Brown! Which of you is Mary Brown?’ yells the uniformed giant, and when no-one responds, the wards-woman pushes poor shaking Mary towards him, to be grabbed and held by two men while they shackle her hands and feet.

  ‘Catherine Wells! Catherine Wells! You’re next.’

  As the jewel thief is seized by both arms she gives a shriek that echoes round the courtyard.

  ‘Tom!’ she shouts. ‘What about my boy Tom?’

  ‘Never you mind that. We’ll take care of him,’ replies a voice, and the little boy, whose screams are now adding to the general chaos, is seized by strong arms and disappears into the swirling crowd in the courtyard.

  Sarah sinks to her knees in her corner of the ward, covering her ears in a forlorn attempt to block out the sounds around her and whispering over and over again, ‘Forget; forget; forget.’

  She hears the clanking of the chains as the women are hoisted up onto the carts, and the sound of hooves as the first cart moves forward. The gaolers are still shouting out the names of the women. ‘Martha Gallagher! Come out, Martha Gallagher! Edith Parsons! Where are you, Edith?’

  Sarah waits and waits for the sound of her own name. But what she hears instead is the slamming of the ward door, the turn of the key in the lock, the creak of the carts outside in the courtyard and the shouting and cursing of the women.

  ‘May you burn in hell, the lot of you!’ shouts a voice. It sounds like Catherine Wells.

  ‘Ha!’ retorts one of the men. ‘You lot’ll get to hell long before we do!’

  And then another sound, more terrifying than any that has come before. The roar of the crowd outside the prison walls. They have been waiting for this, waiting to watch and jeer as the cartloads of chained women – the evildoers, the dregs of society – rumble out through the streets of London on the journey to Deptford and the ship that lies at anchor there.

  Sarah turns away from the wall and looks around the suddenly silent ward. Uneaten crusts of bread and overturned tankards are lying scattered across the empty floor, amidst the abandoned rags and odd shoes and other detritus of the women’s departure. Esther the wards-woman is sitting slumped on the floor near the door, staring down at her hands. Leah Swift, her rosy face calm and smiling as ever, stands by the window watching the last cart disappear through the prison gate, and brushing invisible specks of dirt from her dress. Apart from these two and Sarah herself, the only other prisoner left in the ward is Eliza Dee. Eliza is whistling softly and tunelessly though her teeth and, after a while, speaks into the silence.

  ‘Well, dears. At least there’s a bit more room for the rest of us now.’

  Sarah tries to stand but finds that her legs are shaking violently.

  ‘Why?’ she whispers, to no-one in particular. ‘Why didn’t they take me? I was ready to go.’

  Eliza gives a little laugh. ‘Why?’ she echoes. ‘You’re still asking why? Why do they do anything, these gentlefolk? They do what they want, and that’s an end to it. Be thankful you’ve been spared. Perhaps they’ve got grand things in mind for you.’ She chuckles aloud at the thought, and goes back to whistling, picking up the tune of ‘My Bonny Lies over the Ocean’ in an uncertain and quavering tone.

  June 1816

  Henry Addingon,Viscount Sidmouth

  Lord Sidmouth’s hand is poised over the paper to add his signature. The nib of his quill, he notices, needs sharpening, but he doesn’t have time to bother with that. And now there is another problem. He has just touched the quill to the paper when he realizes that the clerk has forgotten to add the names of women to the document.

  ‘Murgeson!’ he shouts. ‘Murgeson, why in heaven’s name is this memorandum incomplete?’

  There is a rustling and shuffling of papers in the next room, and Murgeson waddles in through the open doorway with exasperating slowness. There are times when Sidmouth could almost swear the fellow is doing it on purpose.

  It is already close to noon, and the glorious June sunshine is slanting in through the tall windows of his office. Sidmouth has promised to meet his youngest daughter Henrietta and his sister Charlotte at half past the hour on the far side of St. James’s Park. He is going to be late, and he hates unpunctuality, whether his own or anyone else’s.

  ‘I beg pardon, your Lordship,’ says Murgeson unctuously, peering at the offending document.

  ‘The women’s names, Murgeson. There’s supposed to be a list of the women’s names on this.’

  ‘A thousand pardons, your Lordship. It must be on a separate sheet of paper. I will find it for you without delay.’

  ‘Please do, Murgeson. I have an important appointment and I am already late.’

  As the clerk shuffles away ponderously into the adjoining room, Sidmouth glances up at the ormolu clock on the marble mantle-shelf. It is five to noon already.

  In an effort to calm his impatience, he picks up a report on the unrest in Cambridgeshire which he has skimmed through already, and starts to read the first page more attentively. The indigestion is beginning to bother him again: that sharp ache that has been plaguing him for more than a month. It troubled him so much this morning that he was unable to eat any breakfast, but hunger just seems to make matters worse.

  The year that started so gloriously – with the sweet taste of victory over Napoleon still on everybody’s lips – seems to have turned strangely sour. The reports from the counties are becoming more and more alarming: houses plundered, bakers’ shops smashed open by the mob. It is as though the coming of peace has loosened some madness in the minds of masses. First Newcastle and Nottingham, now Cambridgeshire. The violence of the mob seems to be seeping up through cracks in the earth in a dark and threatening tide. Heaven forfend that London should be next.

  Murgeson is still audibly rummaging among his papers and muttering to the deputy clerk. The clock strikes noon. How absurd, thinks Sidmouth, that with all the weight of the safety of the realm on my shoulders, the thing that I am worrying about most at this moment is Henrietta and her impending season in Bath. If only he could understand his own children better. Why is Henrietta not like other young women that he knows, excited at the prospect of the coming season, and eager to attract the attentions of some eligible young man? But no, nothing seems to rouse her from her perpetual langour, or tempt her to raise her nose from the books in which it is always buried. Poetry seems to be her main interest in life. Not even Virgil or Pope or Dryden, but some recent romantic nonsense. It is bad enough that her sister Frances should have set her heart on marrying that totally unsuitable clergyman. Surely, thinks Sidmouth, I have not climbed to these perilous social heights only to have my offspring marry second-rate clergymen and poets.

  ‘Please forgive me for the delay, your Lordship,’ murmurs Murgeson, as he bustles in, as fast as his portly form will allow him, clutching a crumpled piece of paper bearing the list of women’s names, ‘young Forsyth had placed it in the wrong pile.’

  ‘Good heavens, Murgeson. What is this? Look, the corner’s torn, and just look at the smudges on these names. We cannot attach this to an official document. You’ll have to copy them out afresh. Hurry, man. Hurry. Fetch a fresh sheet of paper.’

  The pain between his ribs is growing worse.

  He glances again through the document he is about to sign. This at least is one achievement, one bright spot in the year, one plate in the shining armour that will protect England from the rising tides of disorder and darkness: Millbank.

  The rather mundane name, he feels, is at odds with the grandeur of the new penitentiary which, seen from a distance and on a foggy day looks for all the world like a great medieval castle, perched on the banks of the Thames to guard the city from its enemies. Which indeed it will do. Sidmouth is struck by the image of Millbank as a fortress towering over the city, holding at bay the waves of barbarism that threaten to assail the capital from every side. But inside, how far from medieval! How full of order, rationality and Christian charity! Designed by the very best minds i
n the nation and run by its finest philanthropists, to redeem and cure, not to punish. For some lucky few at least, the squalor and depravity of the convict ships will be replaced by moral improvement and practical education within the walls of this great edifice. He reads through the final sentences of the document he is about to sign again:

  H. R. H. the Prince Regent having been pleased in the Name and on the Behalf of His Majesty, to give Directions that the Female Convicts specified herein, now under Sentence of Transportation in the Gaol of Newgate should be removed from there to the said Penitentiary and committed to the Charge of the Governor thereof, I am Commanded to signify to you His Royal Highness’s Pleasure, that you do advise the said Convicts, if upon being examined by an experienced Surgeon or Apothecary, they shall be found free from any Putrid or Infectious Distemper, and fit to be removed from the said Gaol, that they shall be removed to the said Penitentiary, and there delivered to the Governor thereof, where they are to remain and continue until they shall be discharged by due course of Law.

  Let us hope, he thinks, with a small and slightly wry smile, that some of these females at least feel due gratitude to His Royal Highness.

  ‘Murgeson! I have no time to waste. Just copy the names in the margin and let’s have done with it.’

  He scrawls an addendum at the bottom of the final page, For list of Names, vide margin of the forgoing letter, signs his name below and hands the document back to the clerk, who begins to write with agonizing slowness in the margin: Jane Dockerill, Esther Horton, Eliza Day (alias Dee), Sarah Stone…

  ‘Forsyth, check to see whether His Lordship’s carriage is at the door,’ shouts Murgeson as he writes.

  Lord Sidmouth glances again at the ormolu clock, which now says nearly ten past the hour. Charlotte, of course, will be impatient and scold him for tardiness, but Henrietta will have her head in the clouds as usual. Perhaps, he thinks, I am partly at fault after all. Since her mother’s death, poor Henrietta has lacked a woman’s guiding hand, and in these past tumultuous few years, I have had so little time to spend on domestic concerns …

  Sidmouth hurries down the curved staircase towards the double door, already held open in preparation for his departure. Beyond, the sunlit street is patterned with the dappled shadows of the elm trees. Halfway down the staircase, a new thought strikes him. He will suggest a ball for Henrietta at the White Lodge. Charlotte will surely be willing to help with the organization. It will give the guests a chance to glimpse his latest improvements to Richmond Park. It is a pleasing idea, and as Lord Sidmouth steps out into the warmth of the summer’s day, his heart lifts. Even his indigestion is feeling a little better. Perhaps he might manage a light collation a little later in the day. One of Brook’s pasties would be just the thing. But first the meeting with Charlotte and Henrietta.

  The Citadel

  Millbank. The name means nothing to Sarah Stone, except for a faint memory of the smell of river mud from some occasion long ago when her brother took her there to buy a bucket of periwinkles. In those days, as far as she can remember, Millbank was nothing but a few tumbledown cottages surrounded by trackless marshland, tangles of tall reeds and thickets of willow.

  So she is completely unprepared for the apparition which rises before her eyes as their cart creaks slowly down the Horse Ferry Road in the rain, amid the howls and jeers of passers-by. At first it seems less like a building than some marvel of nature rearing up by magic out of the very heart of the city: a mass of dark cloud on the skyline; a jagged, gloomy mountain range; or perhaps a vast living beast, crouched on the horizon, waiting.

  The swirling fog parts for a moment to reveal turrets of brownish brick and slate soaring far above the roofs of the surrounding buildings. Turret upon turret, some nearer, some further away. Then the haze closes in again, and there is nothing to be seen but obscure patches of deeper shadow in the murk of the London sky.

  Sarah sits in the third of a line of swaying carts, her shoulders bumping against those of Eliza Dee and Esther Horton who are seated on either side of her, as the rickety wooden cartwheels creak along the rutted street. The chains around her ankles are chafing her skin, and her clothes are damp from the misty drizzle. Uniformed guards occupy the padded seats at the front of the cart, and three more ride on horseback behind them. A well-dressed man with a broad-brimmed hat on his head and a cane in his hand pauses on the side of the road, staring at the passing line of carts and their bedraggled women occupants for a while before directing a string of profanities at them. A moment later a projectile skims past Sarah’s ear and lands harmlessly in the dirt on the far side of the cart. But Sarah neither turns her head nor flinches from the shouts and missiles of passers-by. She cannot tear her gaze away from the vision that lies ahead of her.

  As they draw nearer, the houses close in around them, momentarily blocking out their view of the penitentiary; but then their convoy turns into the wide open space of Grosvenor Wharf, and the enormity of Millbank is upon them. Soaring round towers with slits for windows and roofs like witches’ hats rise from many corners of what seems to be a vast maze of buildings, their walls lined with rows of blank square windows, dark as staring eyes. Surrounding it all is a waterlogged ditch beyond which lies a massive wall built of brick, yellow-brown like the London fog itself. Under the shadow of this outer wall, the carts grind their way towards the arched gateway of the penitentiary, which opens directly towards the river.

  Outside the huge wooden portal of the prison, the convoy of carts comes to a halt while the guards engage in discussion through a grating in the wall with the officials within the compound of the penitentiary. Although it is summer, the chill damp of the day is seeping into Sarah’s bones, and she feels the rain soak through the coarse cotton of her gown and trickle down her spine. She inhales the breeze that blows from the river, laden with smells of mud and tar, but still seeming fresh after the fetid air of Newgate. Out on the ruffled brown waters of the Thames, a barge lowers its sails as it heads towards the wharf, and a couple of fishermen cast their net into the waters from a boat that looks so tiny and ancient that you might expect it to sink at any moment. Above their heads, the seagulls swoop and circle, mewing plaintively. A shaft of pale light appears unexpectedly through the haze, making the water behind the boat glitter, and as Sarah gazes at it, three seagulls descend through this faint ray of illumination to hover above the fishing net, wings beating frantically, clawed legs stretched out towards some morsel of fish below.

  ‘Get down! Get down!’ yells one of the guards. The women begin to clamber stiffly down from the cart, their legs and hands still shackled. Sarah hears the sound of a bell clanging somewhere deep within the walls of the prison compound, and then, very slowly, the gates of Millbank swing open to receive them.

  She expects the gateway to lead into an inner courtyard, but instead they find themselves entering a gatehouse built into the thick outer wall itself – a strange, narrow, high ceilinged room across which stretches a long narrow table. At the table sits a very thin man with a high collar around his scrawny neck and a pince-nez balanced precariously on his beak-like nose. A large, leather-bound volume lies on the table in front of him, open at the first page, which is, at first, entirely blank.

  ‘Name and age,’ he barks to each of the women as they enter the gatehouse, proceeding to inscribe each answer in the book with a black and gold quill pen which looks as new and unused as the book itself. The outer portal has closed behind them, leaving them in semi-darkness, illuminated only by the dim light from two narrow windows and from candles that stand at either end of the table. As each woman speaks her name, an officer steps forward and removes the shackles from her hands and feet.

  Sarah is so intent on watching the scribe as he writes her name and age with an artistic flourish that she fails to notice the other figure who stands in the shadows at the far corner of the room, observing them in silence with his arms folded across his chest. It is only when the recording of names is complete that this figu
re steps forward and begins to speak to them. His voice is soft and curiously high pitched, almost like a woman’s. His face, too, is soft, round and rosy-cheeked, and surmounted by a halo of thick white curls.

  ‘My name is Shearman, and I am governor of this penitentiary …’ he begins.

  For some reason, Sarah finds that her body is shaking uncontrollably. Her head is swimming, and she hears the governor’s speech only as disconnected words, which seem to loosen themselves from his lips and fly around the room like insects: ‘discipline’, ‘prayer’, ‘labour’, ‘mercy’, ‘obedience’. Only the final two sentences penetrate her brain.

  ‘In this building you will not speak, neither to officials nor to one another, without express permission. I wish you well.’

  Beyond the gatehouse they cross an area which looks for all the world like a deserted builders’ yard, its soggy ground littered with piles of sand, untidy stacks of timber, and abandoned picks and wheelbarrows. The women are herded up the wide stairs that lead to the oaken inner doors of the prison, and into a long narrow corridor with a vaulted ceiling, like the ceiling of an old church. As they enter the inner precinct, Eliza Dee, who is walking immediately in front of Sarah, turns back towards her and places a finger to her lips, a comical grimace on her face.

  ‘Follow me,’ orders their guard, and they file down the corridor to the far end where, with much fumbling and clanking, he produces a large key from the bundle on his key chain and unlocks a door that leads to a dimly-lit spiral staircase. Mounting the staircase in silence, Sarah is seized with a deepening sense of dread whose origin she cannot immediately identify. Her heart is hammering so hard in her chest that she cannot breathe. She reaches out her hand to the central stone pillar to steady herself, and her fingers leave faint damp marks on its freshly-hewn surface.

  Part of the way up the staircase, the guard unlocks another door and leads them into a corridor exactly like the one they have just walked along. And at this moment, Sarah recognizes the source of her terror. She has been listening for the sounds of the other occupants of this building – the clatter of footsteps, the clanging of doors, the clamour of voices from the cells. But there is nothing. No sound enters from outside. No sound comes from within. Nothing but the soft shuffling of their own footsteps along this endless corridor, down another spiral staircase, along another corridor, and the sound of the blood pounding in her own ears.