Smuggler's Moon sjf-8

by Bruce Alexander

  EIGHT

  In which I journey to London and voyage back by ship

  Upon returning to Sir John, I gave my report and offered to notify the mortician that the bodies on the beach might be collected and prepared for burial. Yet he declined, saying that the surgeon, who had been to the house in Middle Street and gone, had volunteered to attend to it. Sir John ordered me to bed in the guestroom above. Never did I obey an order of his with greater pleasure. So great was my pleasure, indeed, that I came near to sleeping the clock round-and perhaps I would have done just that, had I not been wakened early in the morning by Clarissa, who informed me that I must arise and catch the first coach to London.

  “To London?” said I, all surprised. ”Are we to leave with so much unresolved?”

  “Not we,” said she, ”but you. You are to carry and deliver a number of letters there.”

  ”What sort of letters? To whom?”

  “Sir John will explain all as soon as he wakes.”

  “Wakes? Where did he sleep?”

  “Why, with you, part of the night. Have you no memory of it? Just now he is dozing at the desk in that little room by the front door.”

  I grunted in response, rubbing my eyes, seeking full wakefulness.

  “Come, Jeremy, you must get up,” said she. ”Mrs. Sarton is fixing a fine breakfast for you.”

  That was all the encouragement that I required. I ordered Clarissa from my room and leapt into my clothes. Indeed I was hungry, and who would not be after so long a sleep? Now that I was awake, my empty stomach sent up urgent messages that might only be satisfied by a considerable meal.

  And that, reader, was what was given me. Mrs. Sarton was clearly determined to carry on, making herself useful, in spite of her evident sadness. To see her thus, so unlike the Molly Sarton we had come to know, was indeed disappointing; nevertheless, though it was true she did not smile, it was also true that except for those first minutes when she wept inconsolably over her fallen husband, I did not see her shed another tear all the time we were in Deal. And in that time she saw to her husband’s burial, buried him, attended to certain matters for Sir John, and cooked for a small army. She was equal to all that was asked of her.

  I shall not specify all that she put before me at that noble breakfast, for truth to tell, I do not remember. Let it suffice to say that I ate well and hearty enough to last me through a day of hard traveling. At the end of it, whilst I was lingering over my cup of tea, Clarissa came down the long hall to the kitchen and summoned me to a meeting with Sir John.

  “Is it so near time to go?” I asked her.

  ”Soon,” said she, ”but Sir John would have a word with you first.”

  I nodded, rose, and followed her back down the hall. I noted-for the first time, I believe-that Clarissa’s hips had grown (how shall I put it?) more substantial, more shapely, since last I looked. I thought that odd. Was this gawky girl becoming a woman?

  As I entered the room, I expected Clarissa to accompany me. But no, she hung back at the door that she might call to Sir John to send me off in a few minutes’ time.

  Sir John pushed three letters cross the desk to me.

  “Jeremy,” said he, ”these letters are important, among the most important I’ve ever asked you to deliver.” He hesitated. ”Are you armed?”

  “Well … yes sir, I kept one of the pistols issued to me. It’s tucked away in the pocket of my coat.”

  “Loaded?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “It goes without saying that you’re certainly not to use it, or even brandish it, except in the most extreme situation. What that should be, I leave to you.”

  “I understand, Sir John.”

  “Since these letters were dictated last night to Clarissa and are now sealed, I’ll give you some idea of their contents. The first is to Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice. In it, I have asked him for temporary powers here in Deal. I shall be, in effect, the magistrate of Deal for a period not to exceed a month. This should be delivered direct into his hands, and the proper document should be given you to carry away. Find him, no matter where he may be. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Very well. The other two letters are no less important, but they depend upon the powers to be granted me by Lord Mansfield, and so they are to be delivered after you have the document of appointment in your pocket. They are, in effect, invitations to Mr. John Bilbo and to constables Bailey and Patley to join us in Gravesend.”

  “Ah well, that should be pleasant,” said I, not knowing quite what else to say-though why we should be going to Gravesend I could not surmise. ”Seeing them all again, that is.”

  “For us, perhaps,” Sir John replied sharply.

  I knew not how I had offended. ”Yes sir, will that be all, sir?”

  He sighed deeply. ”It should be. If all goes well, I should see you again in three days.”

  “So soon?”

  “Just so.”

  “Sir John?” It was Clarissa, calling in from the hall. ”He must leave now.”

  I stood and gathered up the letters from the top of the desk; then did I tuck them away safely in my coat pocket.

  “Well then, sir, goodbye to you,” said I to him.

  “And Godspeed to you, Jeremy.”

  His face sagged. He looked quite exhausted. I wondered how much-or how little-he had slept. Yet I had not time to think long upon it, for well I knew that if I were to miss the coach to London, it would extend my absence for another full day.

  Out in the hall, at the front door, I found Clarissa waiting for me. To my surprise, she held my valise in her hand.

  “I packed your bag for you-two clean shirts and two pair of hose and two books.”

  “Two books?”

  “Gulliver’s Travels and a Latin grammar. That’s what you were reading, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but how did you know that?”

  She shrugged. ”I noticed-simple as that. But you must be on your way, Jeremy.”

  Then, throwing open the door, she handed me my valise, leaned forward, and quite unexpectedly kissed me upon my cheek. More of her girlish nonsense it was, but in truth, I liked it well enough that I gave her a grin as I planted my hat upon my head and ran out the door.

  I was halfway to Market Street when I heard my name called, turned round, and saw Clarissa in the middle of the street.

  “Jeremy!” she shouted loud enough for all the neighbors to hear. ”Do not forget to wear a clean shirt and clean hose when you visit the Lord Chief Justice!”

  I nodded and waved my assent. Then did I turn round and run fast as I could to Broad Street.

  Of the journey by coach to London, there is little to say. During the short distances in which the horses were walked, and whilst at the rest stops along the way, I was able to read a little from Gulliver’s Travels. For the most part, however, the rocking and bouncing of the coach made it quite impossible. The interior compartment was quite crowded, as seemed in those days always to be the case. Yet I had me a seat by a window and thus was able to study the countryside as it reeled by at galloping speed. This held my attention far better than I would have supposed, for a different route to London had been chosen, one which during its final stages followed along the south bank of the Thames. Thus, after many hours and a bit of fitful dozing, I arrived in London early in the morning.

  Taking my valise in hand, I hurried from the Coach House to Number 4 Bow Street. I made the trip, it seemed, in a short time, for the streets were not yet crowded with the hordes on the march to their day’s employment. In truth, I had taken to heart Clarissa’s caution against wearing my soiled shirt and hose to visit Lord Mansfield. I entered by the door which led to the strong room and the Bow Street Runners’ province-the area which Sir John referred to as Bow Street’s backstage. Mr. Baker, gaoler and armorer, caught sight of me as I was about to ascend the stairs to our living quarters.

  “Hi, Jeremy,” he called to me, ”is Sir John returned?”
/>
  “Uh, no, Mr. Baker,” said I. ”He sent me back on an errand.”

  “Going back to Kent, then?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “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 ”between 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.