by John Drake
After we’d all been introduced, and Sammy and I had been fed, Toby took Sammy and me outside and across the yard to the loft over the stables where he had a sort of office looking out over the boathouse and the river. He kept a bottle of brandy up there and it was private so we could talk.
“Well then, our Sammy,” says he, “I can see from the look on your face that something’s going forward, so now the wife and the nippers is out of the way, you can tell me what it is.”
And so Sammy explained. He told his brother everything about me, sparing nothing. I was uneasy at hearing so many of my secrets told, but I trusted Sammy and I had to trust his brother. For we could certainly not do all that I wanted without his help.
And by George there was plenty of help Toby Bone could give, too. He was clearly a man of far greater means than he seemed. During the next hour or so all sorts of things came out in his conversation: other properties up and down the river, quiet warehouses where goods of all kinds were safely hidden, river boatmen that he could call on to turn out armed for a fight, and when Sammy asked if Toby weren’t afraid of the Press taking his men (boatsmen being popular with the Press if they couldn’t get real seamen) Toby just grinned.
“Lord Mayor’s protection, Sammy,” says he, and went over to a cupboard and took out a box of big brass badges to show that the wearer was a Livery Company boatman, and so immune from the Press. Now that can’t have been legal. Not with the line of business Toby was engaged in, and not with him having a stark of badges to hand out. So by what greasing of palms Toby could wield the mighty name of the Lord Mayor of London, I didn’t know and chose not to ask.
Finally when Sammy and Toby had talked me over to their hearts’ content, they turned to me.
“So there you are, our Toby,” says Sammy. “That’s the tale. But what I want to know now is, what’re we gonna do with this bugger?” He jabbed his thumb at me. “‘Cos if you ask me, I don’t think he knows what to do with himself!”
They both looked at me, the two acute intelligent faces, one older, one younger, but two peas in a pod really. They even frowned with the same creases on their brows. They made me uncomfortable. The trouble was, Sammy was right. I knew the Navy’d hang me if I stood trial for Bosun Dixon, and so I’d escaped. But didn’t know what I was doing in London other than following a deep and consuming feeling that I would not leave Kate Booth at the mercy of Sarah Coignwood.
That was clear enough, but after that all was fire and smoke. I only had to think of that monster Sarah Coignwood to send me off into fantasies of murder and revenge. She was the one at the bottom of it all. I’d had my hands round her neck once and if I got them there again, then God help her.
“I want Kate Booth,” says I; “I want to find her and bring her out safe, from wherever she is.”
“What about your stepmother?” says Sammy, peering at me hard. “What’s your course in that respect?”
I thought hard about that but couldn’t give a proper answer. Finally, Toby filled the silence with a practical remark.
“Let’s worry about that all in good time,” says he. “First you got to find your Miss Booth. I’ll have a word with some of my pals tomorrow and get some questions asked. Lady Sarah Coignwood’s one o’ the bright and beautiful and her doings is well known. I’ll get some questions asked of her servants in Dulwich Square to find out who’s living in the house. I’ll spread the word that Toby Bone wants to know.”
We talked some more after that, and then we went to bed. They gave Sammy and me a nice little room which two of the daughters had been turned out of. It had pretty wallpaper with little flowers and songbirds. Sammy and I were both very tired and we didn’t talk much before falling asleep, but Sammy was worrying over me and Sarah Coignwood.
“What’ll you do if you find her?” says he. “A fight’s one thing, leastways it is against a man, but you can’t just hunt her down and ...” He fell silent. “Bugger it,” says he, “what’s in your mind, lad?” I didn’t answer him because I didn’t know.
33
COIGNWOOD & SONS
butchers and purveyors of choice meats to the carriage trade, beg to announce a unique and special sale of
JAMBON KATERINE a la BOOTH
at their Premises at
208 MAZE HILL, GREENWICH
They assure their customers of the exquisite tenderness of the meat which will be sliced while still
ENTIRELY FRESH
The carving to commence at 12 o’clock 10th 1140 PROMPT. Those who might wish to purchase the meat intact are warned to arrive early since otherwise the proprietors will be obliged to cut it entirely into small pieces.
(Handbill circulated in large numbers in Wapping during the period 6th to 10th July 1794.)
*
A footman in elaborate livery — snowy wig, scarlet coat, gold frogging, satin breeches, silk stockings and silver-buckled shoes — opened the door of Lady Sarah’s house in Dulwich Square. Sam Slym pushed past him, shoving hat and stick into the minion’s hands.
“Sarah!” he roared. “News!” He turned to the servant. “Where’s your mistress?” he said.
“Her Ladyship is upstairs, in her dressing room, sir. She is receiving …”
Slym was already halfway up to the first floor with his gleaming top-boots taking the stairs three at a time. He darted along a corridor past elaborate mirrors, luscious paintings in ornate gilt frames, glittering sconces of candles, French side tables with dainty bronzes and every other sign of the opulent style in which Lady Sarah lived.
“Sarah!” he cried and wrenched open the door into her dressing room.
Inside two figures jolted with shock and pulled still further apart than the few seconds’ prior warning had enabled them to manage.
Sarah Coignwood’s dressing room was an inner sanctum to which she admitted only a handful of chosen intimates. Next door to her bedroom, it was really a small sitting room, elaborately furnished with upholstered French furniture. A single big window looked out over the Square, but it was heavily draped with silk and muslin curtains to give light and privacy at the same time.
“Huh!” said Slym as he saw who was being “received”. It was the pretty-faced boy who was her current pet: up to the eyes in fashion, heir to millions, less than half her age, and all the brains of a carrot. Just the type she preferred. They licked her toes like spaniels and imagined she was adorable.
Sarah was sat comfortably on a sofa, with a tiny coffee cup in her hand, and smiling at Slym as calm as you please, while the lad, looking distinctly pale, was jammed into a chair that looked to have just been shoved against the wall furthest from her.
Slym said nothing, but took the boy by the collar of his coat, heaved him out of his chair and dragged him to the top of the stairs. The footman was gaping up the stairs with round eyes and open mouth.
“This gentleman is just leaving,” said Slym, and gave him a hefty shove and turned on his heel. The sounds of the young gentleman making his way downstairs came faintly to his ears as he closed the dressing-room door.
She had that look on her face again. The look of a tempest being held back by force of will. He almost wished she’d open fire and not hold back. At least that would have been straight.
“Never mind none o’ that!” he said. “I’ve got news.” He paused, for this was too important to deliver offhand.
“Fletcher and his pal,” said he, “they’re in London. I know it for sure and I think they’re in Wapping. I’ve been out and about for a couple of days — that’s why you ain’t seen me — and I’ve had people asking questions. Fletcher’s mate’s called Bone and I think they’re hiding at Bone’s Wharf in Wapping. Toby Bone must be a brother and helping out.”
He saw the fear in her eyes and his own feeling for her overwhelmed him completely. They overwhelmed even the sound of the front door closing on the rival he had just thrown out. Slym sat beside her and put his arms around her.
“Never fear,” said he, and fumbled for
endearments in a cobwebbed, empty vocabulary, “my girl, my brave girl.” For an instant she leaned her head on his shoulder in as near to a genuine act of trust and submission and a seeking for comfort in the arms of another person that Sarah Coignwood could ever be capable of. Sam Slym was flooded and sunk with joy.
“Never you fear, my girl!” said he. “I’ll see to him. I’ll get a dozen good men together and burn the bastard out. I’ll not play games with him, I’ll …”
“No!” said she. “Not that way.” The first shock was receding and she was able to think clearly. “It must be done quietly,” she said. “There is much the world must not know. I want him brought to me.”
“Here?” said Slym.
“No,” she said, “not here. He must go to Greenwich. To my uncle’s house. I absolutely forbid that any of this business should take place in Dulwich Square.”
“Well, yes,” said Slym, unsure of exactly what she wanted, “if he’s to be brought to Maze Hill, my girl, then I’m your man. But he’s a bloody big cove by all accounts and he’ll take some bringing!”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said and smiled sweetly at him. Sam felt the chill of what was coming even before she said it. He knew her very well now. He knew that such a happy smile in the face of all her fears of Jacob Fletcher could only mean some bloody vicious plan was hatching in her mind.
And he was absolutely right. His warm happiness in her acceptance of his comforting arms was frozen rigid by the detail of her plan to make Jacob Fletcher walk into 208 Maze Hill of his own accord. Naturally, she insisted that everything was a bluff. But he knew better.
None the less he went to the printer’s and ordered five gross of her handbills. And he had them given out and posted up all over Wapping. Especially round about Bone’s Wharf
34
They looked after us well at Bone’s Wharf. Toby’s wife, Pen, took a fancy to me as women often will and the daughters did too. They were bright enough little things, if a bit tiny by my standards. And they obviously thought me a figure of romance. As I’d found with Lucinda, there’s nothing that gets the lust going in a woman like the knowledge that they’ve got a noble warrior in their power: one word from them being capable of sending him to his doom. Of course, the girls weren’t supposed to know what was going on, but such secrets don’t last long in a family.
All in all, I had to behave myself while I was under Toby’s roof, what with the two girls following about behind me making big eyes and giggling to one another. It would have been poor thanks for Toby’s hospitality to please myself the way I had in Boston.
For a few days Sammy and I did nothing but eat, sleep and idle our time away. Pen looked after the cuts and bruises that were still on me from the beating I’d got aboard Queen Charlotte and I suppose this quiet time helped me get back to my full strength, which is just as well, all things considered.
And then on 7th July, two things happened at once. Georgie Bone, the middle son, came rattling into the yard under the “Bone’s Wharf” sign in a one-horse gig. He leapt down, tied up the horse and yelled for his Pa.
We had another meeting in the office overlooking the river and young George told us what was up.
“They’re looking for you, Mr Fletcher,” says he, “and Uncle Sammy too.”
“Who is?” says Toby.
“Slimy Sam and his pals,” says George. “Sam Slym the thief-taker,” he added, seeing my look of puzzlement. “He’s Lady Sarah’s latest. Goes all round the town with her.”
“I know him,” says I. “Hard-faced man, about forty, dressed like a tailor’s dummy?”
“How d’ye know it’s Slimy that’s looking for ‘em?” said Toby. “Did you see him asking questions?”
“No,” says George, “that’s the odd part of it. It was one of his regulars, that goes nosing round for him, and this cove asked me if I knew of a big seaman and a little one, on the hop from the Navy. And he had your names too.”
“That’s nothing particular,” says I. “It was in the newspapers that I’d escaped.”
“Yes,” says George, “but this cove he let on it was Slimy he was asking around for. He did it on purpose, to make sure I knew what was going forward; that Slimy was working for Lady Sarah Coignwood. He said Slimy wanted it known.” He fumbled in a coat pocket and produced a handbill. He held it out to me. “And he said since I’m from Wapping, I should have one of these. He said Slimy’s men are handing ‘em out all over the docks.”
I unfolded the paper and read it through and sat down feeling sick. Then I had to listen to it all over again as Toby read it aloud for Sammy who, like most lower-deck seamen, could not read. It was a ghastly thing, masquerading as a tradesman’s bill but really a threat to kill Kate horribly, inch by inch, as Sarah Coignwood had threatened.
“This is for you, lad, isn’t it?” says Sammy.
“Yes,” says I.
“They say they’re going to do it on the 10th,” says Toby, “and today’s the 7th.”
“I’m going this instant,” says I, standing up.
“What?” says Sammy. “Where?” I took the paper back from Toby and looked at the address.
“208 Maze Hill, Greenwich,” says I. “That’s where they’ve got her, and I’m going to take her from them.”
“Avast there!” says Sammy. “You’re going right now, are you, lad?”
“Aye!” says I. “I’ll not leave her a second longer with that bitch. I’m going now!”
“Just as you are?” says Sammy. “Unarmed? What’ll you do? Knock at the door and ask for her?” He jabbed me in the ribs and looked up at me with a frown. “This is a trap, lad! This is your bloody stepmother’s work. It’s bleedin’ obvious! They’ll have that place crawling with men and you’ll be cut down or pistolled the moment you step inside the door.”
Toby stepped forward and placed a hand on my arm. “See here, Jacob,” says he, “this bill says you’ve got until noon on the 10th, so I say take the bloody thing at its face value, which means we’ve time to do the thing proper, which means we take a good look at No. 208 and when we go, we go prepared!”
“Aye!” says Sammy. “Listen to our Toby. We ain’t letting you go, Jaocb, not like this!”
Eventually they prevailed. They were so obviously right that they managed to calm me down and make me wait. But it was a bad time and I didn’t sleep very well over the next few days.
Toby sent George and his other two sons to look over No. 208. This incidentally was something they were well used to doing, and the fluent ease with which they described the approaches to the house, and its various defences against forced entry, revealed the tradesman discussing his craft.
“Three floors and a basement,” says Georgie, “spiked railings and an area at the front: eight feet across and a twelve-foot drop, so there’s no getting at the front windows, the which are shuttered heavily on the inside in addition.”
Toby nodded thoughtfully.
“What about the back?” says he.
“No good, Pa,” says Georgie, shaking his head.
“But Maze Hill backs on to Vanburgh’s Fields, doesn’t it?” says Toby. “That’s open parkland! That must be good.”
“No,” says Georgie. “Ten-foot wall at the back, with shevow-derfreeze**Fletcher’s obstinate anglicised rendering of “chevaux de (rise”: a row of iron crosses with sharpened tips, fixed to a horizontal shaft through holes in their centres, like many wheels side by side upon an axle, such that an attempt to grasp a spike causes a cross to rotate forwards, eluding the grasp of the intruder and most likely driving the next spike into his head as he struggles upward. S. P. on the top: all nice new ironwork, greased and sharpened. And there’s a heavy gate with a good lock.”
“Hmm,” says Toby. “Difficult, I would agree, but I’ve known active men get round problems like that.”
“No,” says Georgie, again, “it’s a rum go, Pa, the place is busy.”
“Ah!” says Toby, and looked thoughtful.
<
br /> “What does that mean?” says I.
“Busy,” says Toby, “that means there’s men on guard.”
“Men at the upstairs windows,” says Georgie, “big kiddies: milling coves. Trying to keep out of sight. I counted five different faces.”
“What about servants?” says Toby. “Any way there?”
“No,” says Georgie, “there’s no opening there neither. Leaving aside the bruisers, there’s two proper servants. One’s an old cow with a face fit to frighten the French. The servants from the next door houses say she helps out ladies what get themselves ‘embarrassed’. But she don’t talk to nobody. And the other one’s a little slut that don’t do nothing at all ‘less cow-face tells her to!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, gents, but it’s the tightest drum I ever saw.”
There was a gloomy silence in the room. Toby sighed, his sons shuffled their feet and looked uncomfortable as if it were their fault that the house was impregnable, and I began to lose my temper.
“So what’s it to be?” says I. “Sit on our backsides and let that bitch have her way? You can all please yourselves but I’m going tonight, and if I have to do it myself, then I will.” They looked back at me with a mixture of guilt for their own lack of courage and pity for my crass stupidity. I might as well have told them I was planning to blow my brains out. Toby tried to explain.
“Look, son,” says he, “them coves’ll be armed and they’ll be waiting for you. They’ll …”
“I don’t give a damn,” says I, for I was full up with anger and half-a-dozen other emotions all mixed up. I just couldn’t let Kate be killed for that creature’s pleasure, and I was burning for revenge on my own account. I don’t pretend for a minute I was acting sensibly, but that’s how you are when you’re young and the blood is up. I was just drawing breath for another speech when Sammy spoke up.
“This paper,” says he, waving the handbill. “It’s an invite to all-comers, ain’t it?”
“What’re you talking about?” says Toby.
“What if they all turned out?” says Sammy.
