Fletcher's Glorious 1st of June

by John Drake

  “No! No!” screamed Mrs Johnson. “Don’t hurt him, not my Jacky, he’s not a bad man ...” But the three men had heard that a hundred times from battered wives, and they paid it not the slightest attention.

  But Danny edged towards his master and dropped his voice, “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain,” said he.

  “What?” said Slym, with a frown.

  “Well, Captain,” said Danny, looking anxiously at Slym, and with real concern, “it’s dead or alive for Johnson, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Slym.

  “Well then,” said Danny, “don’t take no risks, Captain,” and he slid a finger across his throat. “Let the bleeder top ‘isself if that’s what ‘e’s set ‘is ‘eart on. What’s the difference if he get’s it here or outside Newgate Prison? We gets the gelt either way.”

  “Yeah,” said Jimmy, “an’ don’t worry about no moll, Captain, no one’s paying us for ‘err

  “Shut your gobs, both o’ you,” said Slym and went up the stair.

  “Cor!” said Danny. “What’s the matter with ‘im?”

  “Dunno,” said Jimmy. “The sod’s bin like that all day. And did you know there’s no more work for you and me after this? On account of ...” he glanced at the stair to check there was no chance of Slym’s overhearing the fell nickname, “… Slimey Sam’s got something special, just for hisself alone.” Jimmy sneered, “Sod him, I say!”

  The attic was better lit than the room below, as it had a large window let into one end. Mr Jack Johnson, a Smithfield meat porter, was up there with his daughter Daisy, looking at the bright sunlight and the little grains of dust that floated within it.

  Two days ago, Johnson had fallen out with Mr Jones the butcher in the matter of a loan that Johnson could not repay. Words were exchanged, and one thing led to another. Finally, as knives are laid out ready to hand in a butcher’s shop, Johnson had selected a large one and thrust it so hard into Jones’s belly, that much of the blade came out on the other side.

  And now Johnson was sitting cross-legged across the rafters with his back propped against one of the timber uprights that supported the roof. He was facing the stairway, and in front of him was sprawled Daisy, a thin, pretty girl of thirteen, just on the brink of womanhood. Her neck and shoulders gleamed where they had been bared for the razor-sharp, eighteen-inch blade of the knife in her father’s hand. His left hand was wound into her long hair, to give a purchase to pull her head back across his knee, to keep her chin up and her throat exposed.

  “I know you,” said Johnson, as Slym cautiously stepped into the attic, “I seen you at the hangings, you bastard.”

  “I know,” said Slym with careful politeness, “but I’m not here on that sort o’ business, Mr Johnson.” Slym talked quietly and steadily as he measured the distance to Johnson, taking note of where he might put his foot without going through the flimsy lath-and-plaster work between the rafters.

  “Get back,” yelled Johnson, and Slym’s heart jumped as the knife waved over the girl’s neck. She moaned and said something to her father.

  “Shut up,” said Johnson, “or I’ll do it now this minute.”

  “Wait,” said Slym. “I’ve got a message from the Bow Street Magistrate’s Office. It could mean a pardon!”

  “What?” said Johnson, whom Slym had correctly judged not to be one of London’s brightest sons.

  “A pardon,” said Slym with a smile. “I’ll sit here and tell you about it, shall I?”

  “What pardon?” said Johnson.

  “A Royal, warrant-of-arms pardon,” said Slym. “Sanctified by the Bishop of London under the Lord Common Seal. It’s the way in these cases.”

  “What?” said Johnson.

  “Yes,” said Slym, “it means casuistical, sophomorical extinction of the crime, or crimes, under the Yeoman Hearthfires Act of 1345.”

  “What’s that?” said Johnson, mystified and lowering the knife somewhat. “What’s it all mean?”

  “It means that first you have to have a chimney in the house, Mr Johnson, like that one there,” and Slym leaned forward to point with his blackthorn stick.

  “Garn,” said Johnson, “there ain’t no chimbley there ...” But he turned to look, and the gnarled head of Slym’s blackthorn (with the eight ounces of lead that he’d personally filled it with) sliced through the air in an arc that pivoted on Slym’s hand, and terminated in a terrific thwack on the blade of Johnson’s knife.

  “Arrrgh!” roared Johnson, as the knife clattered away into the recesses of the attic corners.

  “This way!” yelled Slym and lunged for the girl’s legs to pull her bodily out of her father’s grasp. He scooped her up and threw her out of the way and she screamed and tumbled over and over, and put her arm through the lath-and-plaster as she tried to get up.

  “You bastard!” cried Johnson and leapt to his feet, pulling another knife, the twin to the first, from out of his belt. “Come on then!” he screamed, with mad eyes, “I’ll cut you, you fuckin’ bastard, I’ll cut your fuckin’ eyes out!”

  But now Slym had no third party to worry about and it was a straight fight: himself with his stick against a maniac armed with a knife the size of a gladiator’s sword, with the added refinement that one false step would plunge him hip-deep through the floor.

  Down below, Jimmy and Danny followed the proceedings in the attic by the various sounds to be heard, and by the sight of Daisy’s arm bursting through the ceiling in a shower of plaster dust. Finally, there came a rumbling on the attic stair, like a load of coals being tipped into a cellar. And a limp form shot through the doorway, head first and deeply unconscious. He was recognisable as Mr Jack Johnson, but only just. Mrs Johnson screamed at the sight of him and even Jimmy and Danny winced.

  “Stap me, Captain!” said Jimmy, when Slym appeared, “You didn’t half baste him!”

  “Shut your gob!” said Slym.

  It was dark when Slym finally emerged from No. 4 Bow Street, the most important Magistrate’s Office in London and the one with the widest jurisdiction. He had just delivered up the body of Johnson the Knife Murderer, more or less alive and intact. Normally, for Slym, it could never be a simple matter of darting in and out of the Bow Street office. There was too much life there for a man like him to ignore. Too many useful contacts: professional rivals like the Robin Redbreast “Runners”, potential customers among the aggrieved victims howling for justice, and shoals of clerks, petty lawyers, and informers of all kinds who might be useful to him. Besides, there was the drama of the place when it was in full swing: the shouting and jostling and arguing.

  But tonight he couldn’t take pleasure in the spectacle and left as soon as he could. He turned left out of the door and set off at a smart pace along Bow Street.

  He turned left into Long Acre, right into Hanover Street, followed it into Belton Street, then left into Broad Street and so on to Oxford Street, and straight on to the junction with Marylebone Lane on the left. A brisk fifteen minutes for Slym who walked by choice, and walked hard.

  As he arrived at the Marylebone Watch House, a file of elderly men, thickly overcoated against the night air, was emerging from the big double doors. They were kitted out alike, with lanterns, cudgels and woollen cap with long flaps to cover the ears. They leaned heavily on their cudgels and they looked up at the night sky with the grim pessimism of men who knew how useless it was to complain of what the weather might do to them. They had old, watery eyes, and wind-reddened cheeks, and a single drop of clear moisture hung under the point of every noise, as if it were an officially issued part of the uniform. This body of men was the Marylebone Parish Watch going forward to its nightly duty.

  The Watch Men made way for Slym, and touched their caps respectfully at sight of him. “Mr Slym!” they said as he entered the building. It was a combination of a lock-up for such drunks as the Watch might bring in and a police house where the Watch were organised and their stores were kept. Right now, it was still full of shambling wrapped-up figures,
swaying slowly towards the door, and the round interior of the room growled with the sound of old mens’ voices as they gossiped and got their orders from the Constable of the Night, at his table to one side. He was a superior figure with a wig and a suit of blue clothes, and as well as busying himself with the pen and papers on his table, he puffed at a long pipe and refreshed himself from a quart pewter tankard as he gave his men their orders. This was more of a task than it sounds, as none of them were quick-minded and some were very deaf.

  The Constable spotted Slym as he entered, and his eyebrows twitched. Slym went over to him.

  “Well, well!” said the Constable, in a bold, clear voice that all present could hear. “Look who’s come! Gor’ blind me if it isn’t Slimy Sam himself.”

  “Huh!” grunted Slym, dismissing the dreadful words with a wave of the hand, for this was the one man in London from whom he must accept them without complaint: his father, Mr James Slim.

  The resemblance between the two men was marked and would have been remarkable but for the fact that James Slim had been a prize-fighter of some note, in his earlier years, and this had developed his features in other directions than nature had planned. But he had the same stark, black hair, untinged with grey, and the same broad, stocky build and heavy hands with red knuckles. True he was thicker about the middle than his son, and he was not so terrifyingly smart in his turnout. But his figure was good for a man of sixty, and as for the latter disparity, no man born could equal Sam Slym for the brutal force with which he blacked and shone his boots.

  “Sit yourself here, boy,” said Slim, indicating a chair. “When the Watch is out, we’ll go into my room to be more cosy.” He tapped a forefinger against his tankard, “I’d offer you a wet, but I suppose you’d not thank me?” Slym shook his head. “Tch! Tch!” said Slim. “Can’t see how you can be no son of mine, what won’t take a drop of drink, nor baccy neither!”

  “Tea’ll do nicely, Pa,” said Slym.

  “Tea?” said Slim, raising his eyebrows. “Expensive tastes you’ve acquired, my lad!” But later on, when the last noble guardian of the King’s Peace had sallied forth, coughing and spitting upon his creaking limbs, Slim led his son into the Constable’s room, unlocked his tea-caddy and put a kettle to boil on the patent, cast-iron stove that gave out a steady heat in one corner. The little room was by far the nicest place in the Watch House, with a table and chairs and some sporting prints in frames on the walls. It smelt of tobacco and old leather. Slim opened a cupboard and got out some bread and cheese and a teapot and cups.

  “Help yourself,” he said.

  “I’m obliged, sir,” said Slym, sounding the word as “obleeged” in fashionable style. Slim just laughed.

  “Are you, indeed?” said he. So they drank tea and munched bread and cheese, and neither spoke.

  “Well?” said Slim at length.

  “How’s Mrs Slim?” countered Slym.

  “The Widow?” said Slim, for that’s what he persisted in calling her. “She’s in robust health, me boy, and I’m sure she sends you her best.”

  Slym nodded in reply, and looked about him. He waved his hand to take in the whole building.

  “Why d’ye bother with this?” said he. “You’ve married a woman that owns the biggest alehouse in Wapping, and two more down Billingsgate way. You could live at your ease like a gentleman of leisure.”

  “I do it ‘cos a man must have his work,” said Slim, “as well you know!” Slim leaned across the table and fixed his son with his eye. “Now, Sammy-boy,” said he, “are we two going to pass the night talkin’ about me and the Widow? Or are we to come to the point? It’s not twice a year you come to look up your old dad, and when you do it’s never for nothing good. And judging from the look on your face now, there’s something going forward that’s got you wound up like a clock-spring. So tell the truth, my lad, and shame the devil! What is it?”

  Slym frowned and played with his blackthorn stick and looked at the highlights in his impossibly glossy boots.

  “It’s a woman, Pa,” he said.

  “Well, heaven be praised!” said his father. “There’s been times when I’ve wondered if you hadn’t the taste for it.”

  “Pig-shite!” said Slym. “I’ve the taste for it, all right, by God I have! But I’ve never had the time,” he sighed miserably and shook his head, “never the time, Pa.”

  “So what about this one?” said Slim. “You managed to find the time for her, I take it?”

  “In the way of business, Pa,” said Slym, and fell silent again.

  “Talking of business,” said Slim to fill the silence, “I hear it was you that took Izzy Cohen” — Slym still gazed at his boots — “and the murmur is,” said Slim, “that Izzy offered five hundred in gold for you to look the other way when you found him.”

  “Three hundred,” said Slym.

  “Three hundred or five,” said Slim, shaking his head in disapproval, “what’s the matter with you, Sam? That little Jew-boy was a forger, that’s all. Where’s the harm in that? I beg to ask. Why didn’t you take his money like a sensible kiddy and let the poor cove run?”

  “‘Cos I can’t and I won’t, Pa,” said Slym, “and that’s what it’s all about with me and this woman. I’ve never met any woman like her. Not in all my life. I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t sleep properly. And you know me — head on the pillow and off!”

  Slym looked at his father gloomily. “She’s got me so damn angry, I nearly killed a man today. And I don’t do such things. I keep control.”

  “Well,” said Slim, “looks like you’re smitten at last, my lad. In that case you may be forced into matrimony. But if you take my advice you’ll get your leg across her first, and give her a good rogering to see if that’s all there is to it! That’s if she’ll grant you the pleasure without the price, of course!”

  Slym shook his head. “She’ll do that right enough,” he said, “when she’s ready. She thinks she’s trapped me with the promise of it. But she hasn’t.”

  “Ah!” said Slim, “she’s that sort, is she?”

  “No!” said Slym. “She’s a great lady. A Society lady. She’s got everything that I want, and you should see her, Pa. You should just see her …”

  “Hmm,” said his father, and for the first time he thought he’d begun to understand his son’s problem. It was time for him to give serious advice. “Now look here, my boy,” said he, not unkindly, “you always did have ideas above your station, and I’d be the first to congratulate you on what you’ve made of yourself, but there’s limits in this world. There’s the likes of us, in Wapping and Billingsgate, and there’s the likes of them in Grosvenor Square. And as far as they’re concerned, whatever you do to better yourself, why, you’re just a dog-turd stuck with roses! D’ye think this woman’ll ever marry you?”

  “Yes,” said Slym.

  “Bah!” said his father.

  “Pa,” said Slym, and reached across to take his father’s arm, “I’m deadly serious! This woman’ll give me everything she has, because she needs me to get it back for her in the first place. She thinks she’s been very clever and that I don’t know who she is. But I do. She’s Lady Sarah Coignwood.”

  “Lady Sarah Coignwood?” said Slim, and frowned. “I know that moll. I know the name ...” He thought for a moment, then James Slim rocked his chair back on its two hind legs and whistled slowly. “My stars, Sam,” said he, “you’re fighting out of your weight, kiddy. There’s too much money in it. There’s lords and dukes’d take an interest in this. And bleedin’ lawyers: regiments of ‘em! And all England knows about that woman and her son, the papers had the story and everyone talked about it.”

  “That was last month,” said Slym; “the public has the war to think about now, and the fear of a French invasion. And who’d recognise Lady Sarah Coignwood in the street? Only her own friends, and them she can avoid. Who else knows what she looks like, unless they’ve been to Coignwood Hall to see her portrait! You wouldn’t rec
ognise yourself from a picture in a print shop!”

  Slim looked at his son and a feeling of great unease fell upon him.

  “You want to throw in with her, don’t you?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Slym.

  “She’s a bad ‘un, Sam.”

  “I know.”

  “She’s done murder, and worse.”

  “I know.”

  “Yet you wouldn’t take Izzy Cohen’s money?”

  “No.”

  “You never took fourpence that weren’t honest.”

  “No.”

  “There’s a reward out for her …”

  “I don’t care.”

  “This could ruin you.”

  “I know.”

  “You could find a rope round your own neck.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why?”

  “Because I’m in love with her.”

  8

  The newspaper article that Cooper wanted me to read, as near as I can remember it, was this:

  SPLENDID TRIUMPH AT SEA OVER THE FORCES OF THE BRITANNIC NAVY BY THE HEROIC ARMS OF THE UNITED STATES

  The Globe is informed that there came this 24th day of February, into Boston harbor, captive under prize crew, the British Armed Cruiser Bednal Green of thirty twelve-pounder guns and one hundred and fifty men. This powerful vessel was seized and taken after the most bloody struggle by the Boston vessel John Stark, Captain Daniel Cooper, a ship having but twelve guns of small size and less than fifty men embarked. The prolonged and desperate resistance of the British ship was entirely due to the leadership of her Captain, Lieutenant Jacob Fletcher, late victor of the celebrated battle of Passage d’Aron, whose unsurpassed excellence as a gunnery officer was so recently an example to the world. All the greater, therefore, is the valor and terrible efficiency of Captain Cooper and his band of men whose …