Near her, someone started to sing, in a high, sweet, perfect voice that soared above the noise of the crowd.
Quoth I, “Such sweet lips were for kissing decreed.”
Cried she, “Very fine, very pretty indeed.”
I kissed her and pressed her still more to obtain,
Till she sprang from my arms and flew over the plain.
The song pealed like a bell through the hot, dusty air. She looked around but could not find the singer through the foot and horse traffic that passed on all sides of her.
Like Daphne she strove my embrace to elude;
Like Phoebus, I quickened my pace and pursued.
Pica looked up. The slightest of breezes swept dust in swirls from the pavement. Around her, heads began lifting to the sky in expectation of heavenly relief.
What followed, ye lovers, must never be said,
But ‘twas all very fine, very pretty indeed.
As the last line ended, a shadow persisting at the edge of her vision made her turn. Amphitrite Snow stood nearby, dressed in the straw bonnet and frock of a servant.
– Put black skin in a slave’s clothes, Snow said, replying to Pica’s look of surprise, and no one looks twice. It’s been useful, especially today.
– You’ve been following me.
– You should be thankful, Snow nodded. You’re lost, aren’t you?
Pica fought back tears.
– We should go back to the Bee, Snow said.
– I haven’t found my father.
– Perhaps he’s returned to the ship on his own.
She took Pica’s arm and glanced around nervously.
– What is it?
She had gone downriver to Wapping, she told Pica as she tugged her along, to the taverns where newly arrived sailors drank away the wait for their next outbound berth.
– All the talk, Snow said, was of the huge warship they had passed in the estuary.
A gleaming white legend, riding placidly at anchor. As to how long it had been there or why it had come, there were many speculations, but she had kept her own thought to herself: if the Commander was offering such a temptation to his former masters in the Admiralty, it could only mean he knew that his quarry was close at hand.
A freshly-painted sign swung above the door.
The Indian & Conundrum.
All welcome.
Flood ducked through the low entryway and entered a room full of trestle tables at which men sat, noisily manhandling newspapers or huddled together in close conference. At the back a huge silver urn stood burbling and steaming on a squat four-legged stove, a turtle in black armour.
He sat at an empty table and one of the boys running up and down the aisles brought him a pot of coffee and a cup. A burly red-faced man left his stool by the urn and sat down heavily beside Flood.
– The name’s Henday, sir. This is my coffee house. Your first visit, I believe.
– I don’t know, Flood said. I was on my way … somewhere. I can’t remember.
– By good fortune, the man said with a toothless grin, your steps have directed you to the one establishment where uncertainty is a virtue. The actors frequent Bedford’s, the politicians conspire at Will’s, the doctors compare cures and corpses at Child’s. Here we cater not so much to occupations, however, as to preoccupations. Phantoms of unreason, obsessions, mysterious perturbations of the spirit. First cup is always gratis.
– I just need a moment. To gather my thoughts.
– I understand, sir. We all have such days. Don’t hesitate to shout if you feel the need to talk.
Henday heaved himself from the bench and lumbered off. Flood took a gulp of coffee, grimacing as the bitter liquid burned its way down inside him. It would have made more sense to eat something. This vacancy in his thoughts was simply the result of an empty stomach. He looked up to see that Henday had returned and was leaning forward to whisper in his ear.
– Pardon my intrusion, but I thought I should point out that tall fellow, over in the corner there, with his Roman nose in the Royal Magazine. A lord of the Admiralty, upon my honour. Strides in here once a week and goes on about that newfangled luncheon snack that’s all the rage in the gambling houses. Beef and mustard and what-you-will between two slices of bread. Can be eaten while standing at the gaming table, or in bed between bouts with the mistress. His Lordship claims he invented the thing and that it should be named after him.
Henday straightened and rubbed his hands.
– So as you see, everyone in here has a story. Myself, I once roamed the wild north lands of America, for the Hudson’s Bay Company.
– Did you? Flood said, distracted by his own thoughts, pacing around the rim of a great blank. He had lost the thread he was following.
Henday sighed, sat again on the bench, shifting his bulk so that the flimsy table creaked ominously.
– At sunset one day my Cree guide shot a buffalo. The great beast rolled down into a hollow, and we followed. As we were butchering it I looked up to see figures against the sky. At first I thought they were people. My blood ran cold and then I saw that they were wolves. A grey senate of wolves, around the rim of the hollow, watching us.
Henday’s voice trailed off. He shrugged and slapped the table with an open palm.
– Ah, well. I can see that you’re tired. I am sure we will compare wolves another day.
Flood’s gaze returned to the turtle—shaped stove. Like the one he and his father used to melt down their worn-out type.
– I’m a printer, he said.
– Coincidences welcome, too, Henday said, brightening. This house was formerly a bookbinder’s. Before him, if I remember rightly, a short-lived topical newspaper was published here. And before that it was home to a writer of satires and homilies. Remarkable, isn’t it? All trades dabbling in ink.
– Until now, I suppose.
– There are those who say my coffee is thick and black enough to dip a quill in. But many of my customers live by the printed word. Once in a while even the esteemed Mr. Samuel Johnson deigns to visit.
– I’ve never heard of him.
– A dictionary-maker, sir, who has undertaken a labour of Hercules that would’ve turned any other man’s wits. We’ve seen him in here a time or two, let me tell you, while he toils on that endless book of his.
– Endless …
– A dictionary, sir, of our native tongue. Every word of it that is, pinned, defined, and exampled by quotes from the immortal Shakespeare, among others. Soon those of us who struggle with the unsayable will have a new weapon.
He tapped the table in front of Flood.
– And I’m willing to wager you are here for the sake of that struggle.
Flood remembered Pica sweeping type off the work table in one of her rare fits of temper. I can’t learn this. Why should I?
– I’m looking for lodgings, for my daughter and myself. I’ve been away a long time, and I’m hoping to set up shop again.
– Alas, my friend, I can be of no help with something that practical. Business is brisk, and I haven’t any room to spare. But come to think on it, why not go see Mr. Johnson? They say he employs squads of clerks and copyists and such people to help him compile his book. Perhaps he has work for you, or can introduce you to someone who does. Gough Square, off Fleet Street. Near the Cheshire Cheese. Do you know it?
– I know it, Flood said, rising. Thank you.
Once Flood was back in the street Henday’s black brew struck home. He staggered forward, heart galloping, as the rooftops and chimney-stacks rose and toppled like waves. A coach thundered past, showering him in dust. He stumbled backward, coughing.
A horse whinnied in his ear.
– Thought it was you, sir, the coachman said, leaning down.
Flood fell against the door, felt the window glass shudder in its frame. He was still without the thread, but he had another now. It would have to do.
At Blackfriars Stairs, Pica and Snow were waiting for a wherry to take
them back downriver when the coachman drove up on the quay and called to them. They hurried over.
– It’s your father, the coachman said to Pica. You’d best climb in and let me explain on the way.
She and Snow seated themselves and the coach lurched forward into the streets. Pica stuck her head out the window and was about to speak but stopped herself, remembering that it was better to let the coachman gallop unchecked.
– Took him to Gough Square, the coachman shouted. To see a Mr. Johnson. Employment prospect, I believe. So I wait for him in the street. After a while there’s a great hullabaloo. People running this way and that, like a grand spectacle’s just been announced. I climb down from the coach just as they’re carrying your father off.
– Carrying him off?
– I only know what they told me. Mr. Johnson not at home, landlady says, but expected soon. Lets your father in to wait. A few minutes later there’s a scream that brings half the parish running. Landlady comes flying out of the house, blubbering and shrieking. Madman, a madman. Neighbours rush in, find him on the third floor. Standing in an empty room making these unaccountable motions at the thin air. Doesn’t seem to see them. Doesn’t reply. They jump him, knock him senseless, carry him out of the house. Tall, thin fellow, all in black, suddenly appears and takes charge of things. So off they go, your father, the man in black, and the mob.
– Where?
– I forgot you’re not from here, little miss, the coachman said. They took him to the madmen’s hospital, of course. To Bedlam.
They rode out along the London Wall to the desolate expanse of Moorfields, passing lone, cheerless houses, the camps of gypsies, smoking hills of rubbish. In the southwest a dark anvil of cloud had risen, towering up behind the turrets and spires. The air bristled like a dog’s hackles and a strong, hot wind began to blow, driving straw and dust before it along the empty road.
– Here we are, ladies, the coachman said, drawing up amid a herd of carriages and sedan chairs.
The article on London in the encyclopedia had mentioned Bedlam, but she had not imagined it like this. A great, dark palace. She and Snow climbed out of the coach, skirted the drivers and porters playing dice on the pavement, passed between the lofty iron gates. Ahead of them on the long gravel path ambled a party of sightseers, the men arm in arm and the women two steps behind, whispering together and breaking into little gusts of laughter. Pica and Snow hurried to catch up with them and followed close, slipping through the narrow portal in the door out of the turnkey’s line of sight.
Looking back to ensure they had not been seen, Pica collided with two taffeta hoop-petticoats. The women looked back, identified the source of the disturbance, and turned away. One of the men with them glanced at Pica, then at Snow.
– Bringing the slave, he murmured to his companions. Not good for discipline.
Pica muttered a pardon me and darted around the women.
In front of her was a naked man. He stood in a shallow tub of water, gazing down at his own body, heedless of her startled stare. Beyond him stretched a long, high-ceilinged hall lined with doors. Vague figures moved in and out of shafts of light falling through narrow barred windows high in the walls.
A keeper stepped forward, his office made clear by the ring of keys on his belt and the iron-tipped staff he banged twice on the stone floor beside the naked man’s tub.
– Here was a doctor, the keeper announced in a stage bellow. He fell into a melancholic humour and developed a moral theory of the elements. Now he believes he will escape the fires of hell by immersing his feet in cold water. Go ahead, you may address him.
A red-faced man stepped forward and circled the tub, tilting his head inquisitively. The doctor’s head lifted slowly from the contemplation of his own flesh. He smiled and held out his hand.
– Go on, sir, the keeper nodded to the red-faced man. You can be assured he will do you no hurt.
The red-faced man grinned at his friends and gave his hand to the doctor, who pressed it warmly between both of his.
– He’s blessing you, sir, the keeper said.
– He looks damned familiar, you know, the red-faced man said, extricating his hand. I may have consulted him once. What’s the poor wretch’s name, keeper?
– We don’t use names here, sir. If you’re looking for someone in particular you have to go by trade, or type of mania, or edifying lesson inculcated by sight of the particular unfortunate. For example, in number seven here, we keep the Evils Attendant Upon Excessive Button-making.
The keeper tilted his staff at a cell door and as if on cue a face appeared in the barred window. The women uttered little shrieks and then began to titter.
– There will be a time, a soft voice said, when the feathered tribe holds not sole dominion over the skies.
– Speak up, please, someone in the crowd demanded.
– When I soar with my army of eagles, the voice went on, to do battle, for all humanity, with the pitiless stars.
– Bravo, the red-faced man said.
They moved away from the cell, the keeper leading them to a shallow, roped-off pit, where a manacled wildman crawled on all fours, his face shrouded in a mane of clotted grey hair.
– Our resident magistrate, the keeper announced. Proudest man in London. Sable and ermine, coat of arms.
The man in the pit ceased prowling to sniff at a wet brown stain on the earth floor.
– Only daughter ran off with a lowly schoolmaster, the keeper went on. Now her once-noble father dabbles in his own shite.
– She must have been in love, one of the taffeta women said.
– Indeed, ma’am. One madness often brings on another.
– Will he speak to us, keeper?
– Do you hear that, Your Honour? the keeper shouted into the pit. Some gentlefolk to converse with you.
– We wish to inquire about the cause of your misfortunes, the woman called down.
– She went, the magistrate growled up at them, tossing his head from side to side like a chained bear. She went. And she went. She went. She went. Then she went.
The red-faced man leaned over the pit.
– And then what did she do, m’lord?
The magistrate’s shriek rent the air and set off an echoing chorus up and down the gallery.
– SHE WENT.
Pica and Snow followed the tour down the long gallery, staying on the fringe of the group while the other sightseers peered through cell windows and into cages. Most of the inmates who had the freedom of the gallery paid no attention to the visitors. Some stood motionless or shuffled slowly about, their lips moving silently, their eyes staring into vacancy. Others were busy scrawling obscure diagrams in charcoal on the walls. One young man they passed, sitting against the wall with his knees drawn up, fixed Pica with blue, arresting eyes, reminding her of Djinn. She tried to imagine where the compositor was now, what he was doing, but her thoughts could not pass beyond these dark walls
At the end of the long gallery the keeper stopped and tapped his iron-tipped staff against the floor.
– Second and third floors are up these stairs, ladies and gentlemen. There we keep the female inmates and the most dangerous lunatics. Not for the faint of heart.
– What about that gallery, keeper? the red-faced young man asked, pointing to a corridor to one side of the stairs.
– That’s for the new arrivals, sir. Can’t show you those until the doctors have decided just where they fit in, as part of the tableau. It’s all about arrangement, you see. That’s why we save the best for last.
He flourished his staff and the sightseeing party crowded after him up the stairs. Pica and Snow hung back until the others had all rounded the curve of the staircase, then they slipped down the side gallery. An attendant with a barrow and a broom stood lazily sweeping old straw out of an empty cell. When they passed him he did not even look up. In the cell opposite him two attendants were struggling with a man in the throes of a violent seizure. At the end of the gall
ery another keeper sat dozing in a chair, his hat over his eyes.
Pica found her father in an open cell heaped with straw, the wooden walls covered with gouged words and scribblings. Snow waited just outside the door to keep watch.
He was lying on his side, his back against the wall, in a torn shirt and breeches. Against the far wall of the narrow cell another man sat with his arms around his knees, the fingers of his hands locked together, his head and arms shaken continually with tremors.
– Father, Pica whispered.
The other man looked up when Pica entered, gaped at her with frightened eyes. She turned and knelt beside Flood. He gave no sign of having noticed her presence.
– He doesn’t say anything, the other man muttered, waving a palsied hand at Flood. I don’t think he should be here. I don’t want him here.
– I will take him away, Pica said.
– Yes. Please.
She stepped back out into the gallery. Snow handed her the cloak from the back of the dozing keeper’s chair.
– My boots, too, she whispered, tugging them off. See if they’ll fit him.
When she re-entered the cell the man with the palsy stamped his foot, raising a cloud of dust and chaff.
– Wake up. You’re going.
Flood raised his head and looked up at Pica, frowning.
– You brought the press last time.
– That was somewhere else. A long time ago.
He sat up, leaned back against the wall and looked up at her.
– Don’t let yourself get caught.
She held out her hand.
– Please, Father, get up now. They said we could leave.
Flood closed his eyes, shook his head.
– We can’t. He’s here.
– Who is, Father?
– Him, the man with the palsy said, pointing a shaking finger at the tall, black-robed figure standing in the hallway watching them.
Salamander Page 26
