by Edward Cline
Hugh remembered a time long ago—remembered the music, the fireworks, the city revealed by flashes of light—and he was prepared to do splendid things. This was a proper place for him. He was moved by some wordless anthem that had no melody, an anthem that only he could hear.
This was a fever that strikes most men in their youth, but which they are cured of when they encounter the world and the demands of others. Hugh developed immunity to the cure, because he preferred the fever to what he saw passed for healthy men. Benjamin Worley was not the worst instance. To Hugh, the cure left most men sickly, weak, and robbed of their vitality and power to live. They reminded him neither of Drury Trantham, nor of himself.
Chapter 13: The Cosmopolitan
TO HIS FRIEND ROGER TALLMADGE, HE WROTE: “I SHALL NOT KNOW WHAT to do with myself when I come home for school recess. I have been somehow electrified by the school, by my responsibilities at Mr. Worley’s business, and by the city itself. I will be afraid to shake your hand, next I see you, lest I cause you harm of some sort.”
Reverdy Brune kept her promise, and sent Hugh a locket containing her miniature portrait. It showed a haughty profile of her, imperiously self-assured, her black hair tied back with a green ribbon, her black eyes turned to the viewer with a touch of condescension. Hugh sent her a locket miniature of himself with his next letter, a self-portrait in crayon. “I have bought a chain and attached it to your locket, and now you hang on the wall above my cluttered desk, to remind me of my future with you.”
When he reread the last line, it occurred to him that it should have read, “to remind me of our future together.” But he decided to leave the clause as he had written it. His marriage to Reverdy was, after all, tentative, a mere understanding, a verbal pledge, as remote in his coming life as his majority. She was a thing to prize, a joy to anticipate. He did not fully understand why he preferred to leave the clause unchanged, except that it seemed to reflect his own terms.
Hugh absorbed the details of Benjamin Worley’s business without judgment, hesitation, or reservation. There was a curious aspect to it that gnawed at his sense of right, but he did not know enough about the enterprise to identify it. It was his introduction to commerce, to industry, to trade. Through Lion Key, No. 66 Thames Street, and Worley’s office, he could touch the rest of the world. This made him happy.
The city was an insistent distraction. In his free time, Hugh roamed it, sometimes with his valet, Hulton, sometimes by himself, to Hulton’s consternation. He had asked the valet to purchase him some ordinary city clothes, so that he could walk the less prosperous streets and neighborhoods without attracting the attention of criminals or prompting tradesmen to raise the prices of their wares. “A brownish ensemble,” he said to Hulton, “tattered or repaired, threadbare though not transparent, wooden buttons on a commodious frock, ripped hose, square-toed shoes, evil-looking shirt with no frills, and a hat that looks as though it had been fetched up from the Fleet Ditch. And a frayed pigtail bow. All washed and rid of vermin, of course. I wish to move freely among the populace, not feel their afflictions moving freely about me.”
Hulton looked scandalized by the assignment—and worried. “Milord, may I point out that your father the Baron has charged me with your safety and comfort, and should anything wicked or untoward happen to you, he has assured me of the direst consequences for me.” He paused. “I might also add that my colleague, Mr. Runcorn, has also promised me bodily harm should you encounter a misfortune that can be ascribed to my oversight or negligence.”
Hugh laughed, and then and there composed a document that exonerated and absolved the valet of all responsibility in the event that Hugh met with harm. He signed the note, dated it, then folded it neatly and sealed it with wax. He rose from his desk and handed it to Hulton. “There you are, Hulton. It may not stand up in a court of law, but it will count for much in the court of my father’s justice—should it ever be needed.” He paused to grin. “Mr. Runcorn must be satisfied with the same.”
“Thank you, milord.” Hulton fingered the rectangle of paper as though it were a purse of gold, and bowed slightly.
Hugh studied the valet for a moment, then resumed his seat. “Hulton, I know that you have been perusing my books when I am away at school or Mr. Worley’s. The composition and grammar books here on my desk and on the shelves were left askew, that is, not as I left them. Do you confess?”
Hulton blushed. “Yes, milord,” he answered, almost in a whisper.
“Feel guilt no more, Hulton,” chuckled Hugh. “Such curiosity is not to be punished or discouraged. Your speech and expression have improved much over these months. I shall write my father and recommend that he raise you to butler. You have managed the house here admirably. Where did you learn to read?”
“In a charity school, milord, in Wapping. Then I was bound over to a parish apprenticeship. Dreadful experience, that. I was taught to fashion shoe buttons, but my master was indifferent to my skills, and sold my apprenticeship to a gentleman, for whom I worked as a cook and server. Your father some years ago had supper with this gentleman, and hired me away from him. I have been here at Windridge Court ever since.”
“Do you wish to remain a servant always?”
The valet frowned. “I do not know what else there is to be, milord.”
Hugh did not pursue the subject, for the valet’s answer was too incredible and deserved further examination. He dismissed the man so that he could go on his unusual shopping errand, giving him some crowns for the purchases.
Together they went on outings to see and study things that interested Hugh: to printing and bookbinding shops, to naileries and silversmiths, to the engine house of the Chelsea Waterworks, to gunsmiths, to the Battersea enamel works and factory in York House, far upriver, and far downriver, to the Deptford and the East India shipyards at Blackwall. “Truly magnificent,” he remarked to Hulton, gesturing with his disreputable hat to the forests of masts and docks as a ferryman rowed them across the Thames. “The sight of it makes one want to be a part of it all!” He paused. “I am a part of it, now.” Hugh slapped Hulton on the back with his hat with exuberance.
Hulton did not understand his master’s enthusiasm. “Yes, milord,” he replied. The ferryman, pipe in mouth and pulling doggedly on his oars, regarded his fares with amused curiosity. Hulton felt uncomfortable with Hugh’s familiarity. In a sense, he resented it. In another sense, it pleased him; he had been treated like a man, almost as an equal. He could not grasp why. Then he felt so severe and sharp an emotion well up in him that he could not contain it. His hands shot up to cover his face and he sobbed.
Hugh turned to him in surprise. “Hulton, is something the matter?”
The valet turned away and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. “Nothing, milord. It is being on such rough waters. They make me dizzy.” When he thought it was safe, he faced his master again. Hugh Kenrick was studying him with a puzzled frown that grew less and less puzzled. The green eyes seemed to see through him. Hugh smiled. It was the most benevolent, welcoming smile Hulton had ever seen on a man’s face. It was a smile of congratulation. “You are not a thing,” it seemed to say, “a thing that I and my father can order about. You are a man on hire, in service, and a great many wonderful things are possible to you still.”
Hulton glanced away, then reached into the leather bag he toted. He took out a large bottle and a metal cup. “Would you like some ale, milord? The salt air here makes one thirsty.” Hugh nodded and the valet poured a cup.
Hugh took the cup. Hulton knew that they would never speak of the moment.
Hugh said, “Hulton, do you recall, when we toured the farms beyond Westminster, that the wagons we met taking fruit and vegetables into the city were the same wagons we met bringing night soil and manure from the city, to be sold to the farmers as fertilizer? It is an efficient way of doing trade, I am sure, and it is done on a vast scale. But—but I doubt that those wagons are ever cleaned and scoured.”
“Yes,
milord. I recall.”
“It accounts for the odd smell of our vegetables and fruit. Washing the produce ought to diminish the odor borne by it, and whatever else lingers on the outside. Ought to rid it of the sea coal odor, too. See that the scullery boy washes all edibles brought into our house henceforth. Meat, poultry, and fish, too.”
“Yes, milord.”
At day’s end, both Hugh and Hulton retired early to their separate quarters, for it had been a long, tiring excursion. Church bells rang eleven o’clock, muffling the sounds of carriages crossing Westminster Bridge on their way to the Saturday night concert at Vauxhall Gardens.
The valet lay in his bed, but was afraid to go to sleep; he might forget the glimpse of what he had not even known was nearly snuffed out of him so many years ago. All it had taken was a boy’s impromptu joy; not a great speech or a soul-riveting sermon. Merely a slap on the back. A tear rolled down Hulton’s cheek. He thought: It is a terrible thing, joy…the joy of being alive. And dangerous. But I want it. His fists clenched beneath the covers. I want to feel as Master Hugh felt; I want to be what he thought I was. And I can be that, for I have seen it inside myself… I am not a thing, I am a man…
Hugh Kenrick lay in his bed, happy that he had jarred something loose in the valet, happy that he had seen it revived. He had not planned the incident; he was as much surprised by the incident as had been the valet. But what made him even happier was that the incident had proven the power of something, the efficacy of a notion which he could not yet name.
Some weeks after the event, at the end of a letter to his parents, he made these observations:
“I attended a concert at Montagu House on Great Russell Street the evening last. The house is owned by the widow of the Duke of Montagu, the Duchess of Marlborough, a near neighbor. I met some acquaintances of our family and had a pleasant exchange with them. It was mostly Italian music that was played—Torelli, Scarlatti, and Vivaldi, and one piece by an Austrian, Leopold Mozart (this latter artist’s work was played during the buffet intermission, so I could not hear it well). I believe that Italian music is so popular here because it expresses emotions and feelings that Englishmen would not otherwise permit themselves to express or contemplate. We are capable of stirring music, and pretty music, but very little that evokes care about something close and personal and grand…
“Thank you for raising Hulton to the rung of butler. He is quite happy with his new livery and recompense, though I believe he will grow out of these things in the future, for I have encouraged him to peruse our library when he is not engaged in his duties. You know—and this is probably not an original descant—that people hate those who make them feel their own inferiority. Without any conscious ruse on my part, I have that effect on many of my fellow pupils at the school, and on Mr. Worley’s sons, who seem to go out of their way to make things dull and miserable for me at the warehouse (though they daren’t go too far; I have not spoken to their father yet about the matter, for that would be on a level of their pettiness).
“At supper at Mr. Worley’s one evening, I told the company what books I had purchased on Duck Lane that day, viz., Moleworth’s Account of Denmark, Montesquieu’s Works, Harrington’s Oceana, Sidney’s Discourses, and both Locke’s and Hume’s Essays, but no one evinced interest. Instead, Mrs. Worley merely blinked, and asked me with the same eagerness I had shown if I had seen any good books on tarot cards and ghosts (she patronizes a multitude of fortune-tellers, and believes her house is haunted)!
“I believe it is because I somehow—and I know not how—make them see how shallow, or hollow, or tinseled are the things that animate their lives or command their devotion. I believe that my rank in society has very little to do with their hatred of me; that is, they would behave in the same manner were I a commoner but similarly disposed in character. However, I am glad to say, Hulton is an exception to this rule, as he is very much like Mr. Runcorn (please, give him my fondest regards!) and other men of mahogany or oaken character.”
Chapter 14: The Mohocks
EARLY IN NOVEMBER, ON GUY FAWKES NIGHT, TWO MISFORTUNES OCCURRED. The sign of the Three Quills tavern on Burleigh Street, near Covent Garden, gave a warning groan, then fell to the street, taking with it the entire front of the four-story brick building. It was a large sign, its four oak frames encasing a lead signboard on which had been painted in white three writing quills, crossed at the nibs. Like many London business signs, it had hung from a horizontal timber pole over the tavern entrance, supported by thick ropes anchored to moorings on both sides of the roof above. Neither the ropes nor the sign gave way; the building could no longer tolerate the weight of the sign and the impossible stress it caused, and it shed its burden. Four tenants whose beds were on that side of the building fell with the wall; three perished, as did a passing horse and wagon and their owner, who were buried under the rubble. Fifty tavern patrons, who had been noisily engrossed by a cockfight, were trapped in the basement.
There were lampposts on Burleigh Street, and these soon lit scores of people drawn out by the thunder of the collapse. They rushed from dwellings, shops, coffeehouses, and other taverns. Burleigh connected the Strand with Exeter Street, and the rubble blocked it from the Exeter end. The street came alive with screams, shouts, oaths, and the usual commotion of confusion.
Hugh Kenrick the day before had noted an advertisement in a newspaper for a staging this night of Henry Fielding’s Jonathan Wild at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden, and decided to attend. But the dramatization of the life of the notorious criminal mastermind bored him, and, giving up hope of seeing some redeeming aspect in the production, he rose during the third act and left. He had anticipated some insight into the motivation of such a man, but the play was a mere anecdotal chronology, highlighted by grisly murder scenes and pious moralizing by the characters in long, windy speeches. This was the second misfortune.
There were no hackneys outside when Hugh emerged from the theater, so he drew his plain cape around himself against the chill evening air and braved a walk back to Whitehall. He wore his sword and carried a pocket pistol. He made his way across Covent Garden past its empty vendors’ stalls to Tavistock Street, then through an alley to Exeter, and then another to Burleigh, which led to the Strand. This was the route taken by his hackneys in the past. The Strand would lead to Charing Cross and finally to the Banqueting House and Whitehall Courtyard. It was a mere fifteen-minute walk.
But when he turned into Burleigh, he found chaos. Under lamplight and flambeaux, scores of men were toiling atop a mound of rubble to reach people trapped beneath it and inside the building. Some tenants holding candles stood on the edges of their exposed rooms, watching the turmoil below.
Hugh continued down Exeter and left the commotion behind. He came upon Rooker Alley, which had but one lamppost, but the alley led to the Strand and he was eager to get home. There seemed to be some well-dressed men near the single lamppost, and he did not see any vagrants or idlers lurking in the doorways. He turned into the alley and walked quickly. All his senses were alert. One of his hands rested on the pommel of his sword, the other gripped the tiny pistol in his cape pocket.
“Evenin’, luv,” said a soft woman’s voice from one of the dark doorways. “What say we burn Mr. Fawkes together, in me own room? Only a shillin’, luv.”
Hugh glanced at the woman who stepped into the faint light. She wore a battered straw hat and a dress of some faded color. The neckline revealed too much of her bosom and the sores on it. The face was heavily rouged, the eyes black holes of feral intelligence. She raised her skirt to show her bruised and discolored thighs.
Hugh shivered once, shook his head, and went on, ignoring the prostitute’s shrill curse.
The men beneath the lamppost ahead had moved beyond its light, but Hugh could see them moving about strangely. Voices rose in drunken altercation. “Shine my boots, and pay me a pound for the privilege!” demanded one voice.
“And if you lack a pound, your wardrobe will do!�
�� said another with a laugh.
“My nails need trimmin’,” said a third voice. “Your choppers look sharp enough. If I’m not satisfied, we’ll knock out your present teeth and let you grow new ones, and hang you by your feet from yonder lamppost until you do.”
The fourth man said nothing. Swords slithered out of their scabbards.
One of the menacing figures struck the fourth man with a fist. The victim fell to his knees. “Don’t speak unless spoken to!” said one of the voices. “That’s manners!”
Hugh’s steps had slowed until he found he had stopped to watch the drama with fascination. Mohocks! Macaronis! Idlers from the aristocracy who roamed the city’s streets terrorizing neighborhoods.
“Cut ’im!” yelled one of the voices. “Show ’im we mean to have our boots cleaned!” A figure moved, and Hugh heard the fourth man yelp in pain.
Hugh’s eyes narrowed in anger and his face tightened for action. He knew what it was like to be the subject of viciousness. What would Drury Trantham do? He would quietly draw his sword and attack the criminals without warning!
But a split-second of doubt about the bravery or foolhardiness of his contemplated action stayed Hugh’s hand. He thought: These are real, dangerous, and possibly murderous men, not villains who can be disposed of in a story, on paper, and I may regret interfering in this crime.
But this thought was pursued by two more: That the man who created Drury Trantham was some extraordinary kind of criminal who had paid with his life for what undoubtedly was his honor; and that it was his spirit and sense of right that propelled Trantham into a fray. Could he, Hugh Kenrick, do no less?
The three Mohocks were beating the fourth man with the flats of their swords now, laughing, jeering, and cursing. Their victim lay on his side, helpless, unable to rise.
