by Deryn Lake
‘No, no,’ Maud shrieked.
‘Quiet,’ Hugh snarled at her, and for the first time the Apothecary saw the wolf that lurked behind the crisply tanned features.
‘Did you strike your father in order to stop him signing his new will or did you just lose your temper?’ John asked. ‘And did you deliberately steal the stick so that Valentine Randolph would be implicated, thus removing him from your path as well, or did you leave your own on the ship and simply take the first one that came to hand? Or don’t you even know the answers yourself, you wretched man?’
‘I deny the entire tale invented by this idiot,’ Hugh answered.
‘Deny away,’ said the Blind Beak calmly. ‘You’re still going to swing at Tyburn.’
‘What? On a thread of evidence that can never be proved? Don’t be so ridiculous.’
‘You’ve forgotten one thing,’ said John, pulling something from his pocket.
‘And what is that, pray?’
‘The button from your coat, the button that you dropped by the gravestone where you murdered Sir William Hartfield. Even now Mr Fielding’s Runners are searching your clothes press in St James’s Square to find the garment from which it came.’
‘And what if it is not there?’
‘Then,’ said John, taking an enormous gamble, ‘I shall produce the potboy from The Spread Eagle who saw you taking Sir William’s body down to the waterside, and ask him to identify you, face to face.’
The chance succeeded and Hugh let out a frantic cry, rushing not to the door leading to the staircase but to the balcony over the river.
‘Stop him!’ shouted John, but only Nicholas Dawkins had the wit to move quickly enough and dived immediately after Hugh into the river which, at full flood, ran only a few feet below them.
As if released from a trance, everybody surged to the parapet and stood looking downwards to where two heads bobbed in the wild water beneath. But though Nicholas had obviously learned to swim well he was no match for Hugh, who struck out downstream with a powerful stroke. And then, almost like a creature from some avenging myth, the mudlark appeared in his coracle, riding the surface of the waves like a gull.
‘Which one?’ he shouted to John through cupped hands.
‘The man, not the boy,’ the Apothecary called back.
Without further ado, Fred headed straight for the swimmer, swinging a vicious looking boathook and catching Hugh a crunching blow to the head with it.
‘No more, you’ll kill him,’ John yelled.
Then he saw that revenge was indeed at work that day for the mighty river itself was taking charge of events. A freakish wave lifted Hugh’s inert body high and crunched it into the hull of one of the tall ships dancing at anchor, splintering flesh and bone into pulp with the force of the blow. There was a terrible scream, though John was never sure afterwards from where it came, but at the sound of it most of the people on the balcony turned away their heads, so that only the Apothecary witnessed the moment when the mudlark hauled Nicholas out of the river and the two boys huddled together as Fred paddled furiously for the shore.
There was a sound behind him and John saw that Joe Jago had come to join him. The clerk’s light blue eyes scanned the waterway. ‘All over,’ he called to the Magistrate, who had remained seated in his oaken chair throughout the uproar.
‘Quite sure?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘“Full fathom five,”’ quoted John Fielding.
‘“Ding dong bell,”’ finished Joe Jago, and shook his head in disbelief at the way in which fate deals out the cards.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dawn at Wapping, and the clear cold river reflecting the colours of the sky so vividly that it had transformed to a pink ribbon, as charming and delicate as any to be found on a pedlar’s tray at a country fair. At first light the tide had swelled to full flood, so that now the mighty ships were hearing the call of the sea and were struggling to be set free from the moorings that held them captive. Up in the rigging, sailors were unfurling white clouds of canvas; the sightless eyes of figureheads surveyed the wild wide channel down which they must soon lead the way; and the air was full of the cry of gulls and the almost tangible sense of the great adventure that lay before them all.
Along the shore, at the bottom of the various Stairs, crowded small boats waiting to take passengers to the vessels which would carry them to their far distant destinations across the wide and dangerous oceans. And at the top of Pelican Stairs, standing with the friends who had come to bid them farewell, was a group of people brought together by the terrible events surrounding the deaths of Sir William Hartfield and Kitty Perkins.
Standing taller than them all was Samuel Swann, his arms flailing like the sails of a windmill as he swung them vigorously round himself to keep out the freshness of the breeze. Beside him, immaculate as ever despite the earliness of the hour, was Sir Gabriel Kent, his tricorne hat safely secured by a pearl-headed pin, his black velvet cloak swirling out like the sail of a funeral ship. Looking not quite as immaculate, in fact showing definite signs of needing a shave, his adopted son, John Rawlings, stood on the edge, the vivid blue of his eyes enhanced by the brilliant colours of the morning.
‘So,’ said Valentine Randolph, as the rowing boat from the ship Sea Maiden pulled up to the steps, ‘we must finally say farewell.’ He turned to Lydia, standing beside him, one lock of hair which had worked loose beneath her hat, flying out on the breeze. ‘Are you ready, my dear?’
She smiled. ‘Of course.’
Sir Gabriel drew Hesther Hodkin slightly to one side and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘This is a very courageous thing you are doing,’ he said gently.
She shook her head. ‘No, it is a very sensible thing. I need to start my life all over again because, so far, I have had very little life to speak of. I shall be perfectly happy in Virginia with Valentine’s kinfolk, the Randolphs and the Jeffersons. Who knows, I may even find myself a husband at long last.’
‘Then he will be a very lucky man,’ Sir Gabriel answered gallantly.
‘And talking of lucky men, Lydia and I are to be married at sea,’ Valentine informed anyone who wanted to listen.
‘Congratulations,’ said Nicholas Dawkins, yawning. He had already heard that particular piece of information a dozen times and was getting bored with it.
Luke Challon picked up the ladies’ hand baggage, the rest of the luggage having already gone out to the ship. ‘Best be getting along.’ He shook hands with Valentine. ‘Good luck, my friend. I hope your new life is everything that you hope it will be.’
Valentine cuddled Lydia close, an adoring expression on his face. ‘With her beside me, how could it be anything else?’
John Rawlings kissed Hesther’s hand. ‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hodkin. I wish you every success in the Colony.’
Sir Gabriel also bent over her fingers. ‘You are a very fine woman,’ he said.
‘Thank you for everything, my dear,’ she answered, and very briefly brushed his mouth with hers, before she climbed into the boat, from which she did not look back. Valentine helped Lydia into the swaying craft, then got aboard himself, and the pair of them waved continuously until they reached mid-stream.
‘So,’ said John, ‘an ending and a beginning.’
‘Not just for them,’ answered Luke, making a grimace. ‘Did you know that the great beau is emulating his eloping brother and is due to marry Miss Lamboum tomorrow? That is if he shows up.?
John’s mobile eyebrows shot to his hairline. ‘Good God! What is he trying to prove?’
‘I suppose it doesn’t occur to you,’ said Sir Gabriel severely, ‘that he might be genuinely fond of her?’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ answered John cheerfully. ‘He could never have exploited her the way he did if that was so. Besides, Roger is so madly in love with Roger that there’s room for no one else in his heart at all.’
‘Cynic!’ replied his father, but Samuel guffawed.
‘There was no need. So you have managed to come to terms with the fact that she’s about to become Roger’s wife?’
‘I’ve had to,’ Luke answered grimly, ‘after all he and Julian are my employers now. They are continuing to run the company and have made me office manager.’ He fingered his chin. ‘Strange how it’s all worked out.’
‘With Hugh dead and Maud flown the coop, you mean?’
‘Yes, I do. I wonder where she got to after that dramatic dash of hers.’
‘Very probably Jamaica. She was damned lucky to escape as she did, though. If it hadn’t been for the diversion caused by Hugh …’
‘Well, he served her one good turn at least.’
‘Probably more than he ever did in the rest of his lifetime, pretending she was unfaithful in order to throw dust into my eyes.’
‘Any news of horrible Lady Hodkin?’ asked Sir Gabriel, watching through his telescope as the Sea Maiden’s gangplank was raised and the capstan creaked into life and slowly began to haul up the anchor.
‘I believe she’s sending for some impoverished female who has been advertising in the newspapers for a position, to be her companion.’
‘Heaven help the poor soul.’
‘Look, they’re moving!’ called Nicholas.
John gazed at the pinched face, now filling out almost daily and developing a fine rosy complexion. ‘Would you like to be on board?’
The Muscovite shook his head. ‘No, indeed. Not now that you’ve made me your apprentice, Mr Rawlings, and Mr Fielding has paid for my indentures.’
‘Then that’s as well.’
The five of them fell silent. The square rigger was starting her stately journey down to the open sea. On board there was a flurry of waving white handkerchiefs and the notes of a fiddle playing a song of farewell was borne shorewards on the morning air. The sails began to swell with a lusty wind bound for the Americas and the powerful ship bobbed and dipped as the Thames led the vessel inexorably on towards the ocean, already casting its relentless spell upon her.
‘They’re on their way!’ called Sir Gabriel, and the telescope passed from hand to hand as they watched the Sea Maiden grow smaller and smaller until she was finally hidden by the bend in the river and passed from their sight.
‘They’ve gone,’ said Samuel, a little sadly.
But John Rawlings shook his head. ‘No. They are still there, just as are we. It is simply that now we can no longer see them.’ And so saying, he turned away from the river and set his face to the dawning day.
Historical Note
John Rawlings, Apothecary, was born circa 1731, though his actual parentage is somewhat shrouded in mystery. However, by 1754 he emerged from the shadows when on 22 August, 1754, he applied to be made Free of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries. He did not succeed on that occasion and I thought it would be interesting to quote from the Worshipful Society’s Court Book dated 13 March, 1755 (Ms 8200/7).
‘Mr John Rawlings, a Foreign Apothecary, attended the Court and desired to be admitted to his Freedom of the Company by Redemption on the terms mentioned in the Court of Assistants of 22nd August last but not withstanding the Order of this Court of Assistants of the 5th December last whereby the Fine for admitting Foreign Apothecaries was increased, he having attended at the Hall to take up his Freedom on the Private Court Day in August last but the Court was just broke up and he was prevented by business attending again before the 5th December last, which being taken into consideration. Ordered that on his paying a Fine of £7.10.0d.40 to the Garden and Fees and passing an Examination he be made Free of the Company by Redemption. He paid the Fine.’
In this instance the word ‘Foreign’ means that he was apprenticed outside the City of London, and the word ‘Fine’ simply means a fee.
Here, then, is the authenticated record that John Rawlings was kept waiting at least seven months between ending his indentures and being made Free. On becoming a Yeoman of the Society, John gave his address as 2, Nassau Street, Soho, thereby linking himself irrefutably with H.D. Rawlings Ltd., Soda Water Manufacturers, who gave the same address over a hundred years later.
The Devil’s Tavern still stands but these days is called The Prospect of Whitby. Originally built in 1520 as a timber-framed country house, it opened as a tavern some time later and soon became the haunt of riverfolk and smugglers. In 1777 the landlord renamed The Devil’s Tavern, calling it The Prospect of Whitby after the collier, The Prospect, which regularly moored off the tavern and became a local landmark. As well as The Devil’s Tavern, both the other hostelries mentioned in this book remain. The Spread Eagle is now called The Mayflower, but has little sign of its historic past. The Angel, however, retains its original name and still boasts the balcony supposedly haunted by Judge Jeffreys. The Church of St Mary the Virgin, Rotherhithe, looking very much as it did in John Rawlings’s time, also stands as a proud monument to the past.
