by John Drake
“Darn it, Fletcher,” says he, “haven’t I your word as a gentleman not to run? And anyways, I’ve begun to think of you as one of the family.” He turned to Lucinda, “Isn’t that right, Lucinda?” says he.
“Yezzah,” says she pouting at me over his shoulder where he couldn’t see. She ran the tip of her tongue slowly round her lips. Then froze her face into immobility as he looked up at her. She nodded politely and he turned back to me.
“Just you cut along to King Street, Fletcher, old fellow,” says he. “Anyone’ll tell you where my uncle’s office is to be found.” Then he grinned again, all pleased with himself for some reason or other.
I could see that something was afoot and I’m sure he wanted me to ask him what it was. But the man irritated me with his pomposity and posturing, not to mention his robbing me on the high seas. So I kept quiet.
Half an hour later I was walking through the streets of Boston in my Sunday best. Lucinda had found me a decent black coat that fitted (more or less) and with a round hat, clean shirt and stock, new breeches and a pair of top boots, I was quite the gentleman. In fact I’d never been togged up so smart in my life. I’d been an inky clerk and a Jack Tar, but never a man of fashion. What’s more, I found that I was a celebrity. The ladies smiled and the gents tipped their hats.
It was all due to Cooper and his big mouth. Boston society was a small world in those days. They all knew one another, and Cooper had plastered them with his tall tales. These, of course, had included puffing up my reputation to enhance his own. And I’m too big to hide in a crowd. So when the smart set clapped eyes on me, they nudged one another and pointed me out. Not all of them were friendly, and I got some hard stares from the King-damning Republicanites, but Americans are generous and hospitable folk as a rule so mostly I got smiles. Especially from the ladies, and it went to my head, I can tell you.
So I swaggered about, saluting my public and asking directions for the fun of being recognised and to hear them babble on about Boston, which they were fearfully proud of and childishly eager to show off to a stranger.
“You’re BriDish, ain’t you, sir?” says an elderly merchant with his fat wife goggling at me. “Would you, by chance, be Mr Cooper’s English Lieutenant?”
“Oh, do be sure and see our fine bridges,” says a dear little blondie, out shopping with a footman in tow and her sister giggling on her arm. The one sixteen, the other fifteen, I’d guess. Plump and dimpled, with snub noses like pink little piggies. I could’ve eaten the pair of ‘em. “Why,” says she, without pausing for breath, “the Charles River bridge cost 50,000 dollars and is fifteen hundred feet long, with seventy-five oak piers, while the new West Boston bridge, opened last November, and one of the wonders of the world, runs three-and-a-half thousand feet and cost 100,000 dollars ...” By George but American women can talk!
“The builders’ works for the new State House, sir!” says a Dragoon officer in a leather helmet and a sabre at his side. “You must see that! A noble edifice to rival anything in Europe. The dome is to be plated in pure gold!”
The fact was that Boston in 1794 was turning itself inside out with new building, with rebuilding and with improvements. They were even digging out the hills to throw them into the bays to make more land! It was an exciting time in an exciting place: like enough to England to make an Englishman feel at home, but different too. And different in ways I approved of. It was a city wide open to business, trade and enterprise — the natural avenues of my talents and inclinations. The buzz and hum of trade in the area around Exchange Street and Market Square fairly made my pulses race. There were banks, insurance houses and companies of all kinds lined up like guardsmen in close order. It was heaven.
Uncle Ezekiah’s offices occupied most of a brick-built edifice of five storeys with long, round-topped windows and fluted stone columns between. It stood on the corner of Exchange and State Streets, near the Long Wharf. It was brand spanking new, and there was a huge black doorman outside, dressed in a green livery-coat and bicorne hat with tassels at the corners and ostrich plumes sprouting from the top. It was a damn close thing what looked more ridiculous: him or a General of the Frog Army. He saluted, smartly as I advanced, and threw open the doors. I could see from the look on him that he expected half-a-crown for this, at the least. But it was the General’s unlucky day, for I had no money.
Inside, I caught the eye of a little bald-headed chap who occupied a glazed porter’s lodge which gave him a commanding view of the approaches. He had a livery coat just like the General’s, but no hat. He stood up as I entered.
“Mr Fletcher?” says he, peering through his spectacles. “Yes,” says I, by now used to being recognised.
“You are expected, sir,” says he, and paused before adding the final word in tones of awe, “… Upstairs!”
“Upstairs?” says I.
“Upstairs,” says he. “If you would follow me, sir?” So off we went, past lines of clerks and ledgers, lines of ink-pots and high desks. It was like coming home. And onward, up the stairs to the first floor. Onward through ante-chambers staffed by increasingly senior minions, even unto the very door of the big, front-centre office, where Uncle Ezekiah was waiting with a smile like the sunshine.
“Mr Fletcher!” says he, seizing my hand. “Come in, sir! Come in! Will you take port or brandy?”
The door closed behind me, the sunlight beamed through the tall windows to glow upon the polish of Ezekiah’s desk. A thick Turkish carpet was under my boots and silver and brass ornaments twinkled all around. The room oozed wealth and family portraits lined the walls. It was more like a nobleman’s library than an office, but that’s Yankees for you. It was all too good to be true, and I should have been on my guard. But I was too overwhelmed with the joy of it.
Ezekiah sat me down, and he grinned, and he said what fun we’d had last night, and he said he’d an offer to make me.
“And all the more willingly now that I know you have a head for business, Mr Fletcher!” says he. Actual tears came to my eyes at that, for here was one of the great men of this great trading city, about to make me a business offer. Here, I thought, was the chance to make right the hideous warping of my life that I’d suffered since those God-damned Coignwoods had shanghaied me into the Navy. Just give me any foothold in Boston trade, I thought, and I’ll forge ahead like a clipper ship in a gale of wind. In short, it’ll be taking up the life I’d always wanted.
11
… but the singularist thing, my dear Lucy, was a gentleman and his wife that sat opposite us in the Mail up from London. I know so little of these things that only when my dear husband explained, did I understand what my eyes had seen.
(From a letter of 21st September 1793 to Mrs Lucy Gardiner, from her sister-in-law Ruth, staying with friends at 98 High Street, Lonborough.)
*
Exactly as the clock of St Luke’s struck three, the London Mail turned into the George Inn at Lonborough. The three “outsides” ducked their heads in fright as they passed under the low archway and through the short, dark tunnel that led into the courtyard. The clatter and thunder of four iron-tyred wheels and sixteen hooves bounded up and back from the cobbles below and the brick walls to either side.
“Whoooa!” cried the driver, hauling on the reins, and the huge, high vehicle, with its stamping steeds, shinhig brass, chocolate livery and gleaming Royal Crest; with its scarlet-uniformed crew, its packed bundles of luggage and its seven tired passengers, rolled to a stop. Ostlers ran from all sides to minister to the needs of beast and machine where they stood in their splendour: the last word in long-range overland travel, according to the very latest designs.
“The George Inn!” bawled the driver for the benefit of the world at large, and he threw off his driving apron and climbed down in swaggering satisfaction. For here was man conscious of his elite place in an elite service. A man in command of a vehicle that had averaged eleven miles in the hour, with twenty-three changes of horses, to arrive slap-bang on time, at
the end of the ten-score miles between here and the courtyard of the Swan Inn, Lad Lane, London.
A crowd of domestics from the George stood by to receive the passengers and to see the Mail come in. Sedentary provincials that they were they gazed in wonderment at the god-like, far-travelled figure of the driver as he took a draught from the pot of strong ale held out by one of the maids (a favourite task for the George’s girls). He winked at her and chatted to his guard in the racy coaching patois that even gentlemen affected when they wanted to be thought sporting bloods.
One such gentleman, an inside passenger, was even then dismounting, and turning back to help down his lady: a tall, slim creature, heavily pregnant and wrapped in a cape with an enveloping hood. Having seen her safely into the charge of a maid, and asked after his luggage, he approached the driver.
“Smart whipping, cully!” said he, with a patronising smile. “A bang-up rig and a spanking set of prancers.”
The driver and his guard exchanged glances. They were used to gentlemen who fancied themselves as whips and who felt free to pass judgement on their betters. And this gentleman was not quite a gentleman either. More of a flash cove. A youngster in his early twenties, strongly built and good-looking in a coarse fashion, with curly yellow hair and over-dressed in expensive clothes.
But the gentleman’s hand was outstretched and it glinted with gold. The driver’s reaction was instinctive and the coin sped to his pocket.
“Your health, Captain!” said he and raised his tankard in salute.
The young man grinned, flashing a set of big white teeth. He raised his hat in return. Then he led his lady inside and called loudly for a private room, since her condition forbade that she should bear a press of people. Liberally pressing coins into the hands of all comers, he elbowed his way before the other passengers. “And mind it’s a ground floor room,” says he, “and one with a good window on a quiet prospect.” Thanks to his generosity, the staff took to him at once, and soon he found himself and his lady in a snug bedroom, with a low, latticed window looking out on the green-hedged lane that ran behind the George.
“Now then, m’lad!” said he, to the elderly servant who’d struggled in with his baggage. “A quart of ale for me, sherry for madame, and a double helping of beef, bread and pickles and a pint of shrimps to go with ‘em! Quick-sharp, my boy!” Yet another shilling changed hands and the “boy” sped off, closing the door behind him.
The young man turned to his lady, who was examining the window with much interest. He stepped over to her, took her in his arms and kissed her with a lingering ferocity that was entirely unfitting behaviour towards a lady who looked to be in her eighth month.
But the lady sighed with pleasure and returned his advances with an ardour greater than his own, which was not in the least surprising, since the lady was Mr Victor Coignwood who was not in the least pregnant, despite his innumerable encounters with gentlemen who’d done to him every imaginable thing (and some unimaginable) that might have got him into that condition. And so, sadly, the fruit of these many labours was no more than a pair of cushions tied under Victor’s gown to add credence to his favourite disguise.
“Impetuous boy,” simpered Victor, “but leave me be, dear Arthur, for the servant will soon return.” He took off his bonnet and sat himself before the mirror of the dressing table, preening himself and rearranging his wig.
“You’re an odd one, you are!” said Mr Arthur Walton. “I’ve met one or two of your breed, but none that does it so well as you, Victor.”
“Why don’t you look to our bags, dear husband?” said Victor. “Just to see that all is well.”
“Dear husband,” mocked Walton. But he went immediately to a small, heavy leather bag with a pair of handles and an iron lock. He produced a key and opened it.
“All safe,” said he, looking inside.
“Good,” said Victor. “So all’s well.”
“Huh!” said Walton. “So you say. What if they hadn’t got a ground-floor room, eh?”
“But they had one, didn’t they?”
“Aye, and what if they didn’t … ?”
“Oh don’t be a bore, Arthur!” cried Victor.
“And don’t you play no tricks!” said Walton. He smiled, but there was menace in his voice.
Victor looked at the handsome face and the broad shoulders and shuddered inwardly with an unholy thrill. Victor was addicted to young men like Arthur Walton precisely because they could be dangerous.
But there was no more conversation for a while because a knock at the door announced the arrival of food and drink.
Later, Walton went out. He told the servants not to disturb his wife as she was sleeping, and he made a tour around Lonborough. He paced the length of Market Street, paying careful attention to the instructions he had received from Victor. He found No. 38 Market Street and he noted the building works opposite, where the Phoenix Insurance Company’s money was paying to replace the houses lost in the big fire of 19th July.
Walton carefully observed every aspect of the street and its buildings, he even noted the blistered paint on the heavy front door of No. 38, caused by the intense heat of the fire on the other side of the street. The fire that had reduced Nos. 35 to 41 to smouldering ashes. In short, he made the thorough and careful inspection that, in the specialist terminology of his trade, was known as “casing the crib”.
However, if Mr Arthur Walton had known precisely who it was that had started the fire, the effects of which were so apparent, and had he known what the fire was intended to hide, he would have been ten times as careful.
When he had gazed his fill at Market Street, Walton made his way back to the George, where his client was waiting in a state of eager anticipation.
“Well?” said Victor.
“Easy!” said Walton. “The front’s like the Tower of London, but the back door’s thin wood. And it’s in a little yard with high walls and not a lamp in sight. Once we’re in there we can take our time.”
“Good,” said Victor. And quite unable to contain his eagerness for what he was going to do, he added, “Then shall we do it tonight?”
“Tonight, old fellow?” said Walton, baring his teeth in a savage grin. “Now wouldn’t that be a circumstance, eh?” said he, looking closely into Victor’s eyes. “For didn’t you, tell me the gold’d not be in the house till the 23rd? And today’s only the 21st.”
Victor bit his lip. He’d made a nasty slip. Victor knew plenty of young men who were prepared to be obliging for the right price, and some of them lived in the grey shadowland beyond the law. But only Arthur had the skill of slipping through locked doors and windows that was vital to the operation that his mother had entrusted to Victor. Unfortunately, along with this indispensable qualification (and the blue eyes and golden curls that made Victor sink at the knees) Arthur Walton was brutal, sharp and trusted nobody. Victor searched for a way out.
“Dear boy!” said he, and forced a smile. “What a silly little thing I am! It’s just that I’m so eager to begin. All this is new to me, remember.” It was the best excuse Victor could invent. It was not very good, and didn’t work.
“Victor,” said Walton, “you’re a twisting little rat, and I don’t know what it is you’re after in that house, but I’ll be surprised if it’s gold!” He gave his wolf’s-head grin again. “But I don’t really care. All I care about is you paying what you owe at the end of this, ‘cos I’ll slice the prick off you and make you eat it if you play me false!”
“Would you do that?” said Victor, round-eyed with horror. “To me?” Walton laughed, pleased with himself at putting Victor Coignwood in his place. But Victor was smiling inwardly. He was play-acting. He didn’t care what young Arthur believed just so long as he got the two of them into 38 Market Street where Mr Taylor lived with his wife and their infant son.
So Victor retrieved his mistake as best he could and agreed that he and Arthur would, of course, spend two more days at the George, until the 23rd, when Taylor wo
uld take delivery of the money (he said). He comforted himself with the thought that it meant two more days alone with Arthur.
Two days later, after midnight, the two men quietly left the George by the window in their room. Both wore dark clothes and kept to the shadows. Fortunately, shadows were plentiful, as the few lamps employed to light the streets of Lonborough in those days gave little illumination.
Five minutes’ walking brought them to the entrance to the yard behind No. 38. It was almost pitch black but Arthur was prepared for that, and found the entry by counting his paces.
“Lamp,” said Arthur, softly in Victor’s ear. Victor slightly opened the blind on the hot, stinking lantern he had brought with him. In the feeble cone of yellow light, Arthur considered the lock on the gate leading into the yard. He sneered with contempt and produced a tool from his bag. The lock yielded in seconds and they were in the yard.
Inside the yard, Victor’s excitement became so intense that his hands shook and he felt a ridiculous desire to giggle. He smothered this as Walton ran his fingers over the back door, feeling for the best place of attack.
Methodically, Walton drove a centre bit into the woodwork, attached a handle to it and turned the iron steadily. Victor was horrified at the noise of this procedure, which to his ears was like the grumbling of a millstone grinding corn. But Walton pressed on unconcerned, and soon removed a neat disc of wood from the door. Punctiliously, he dismounted his tool, replaced it in his bag and reached his hand in through the hole. After an instant’s fumbling, Victor heard the click of a lock and Arthur drew out the key.
“Stupid bastard’s left it in the lock on the inside!” whispered Walton, and shook his head. But the door was still fast and two more discs had to be removed to enable Walton to slide the top and bottom bolts. And then they were in.
