Enemies at Every Turn

by David Donachie

  ‘In the name of Christ, John-boy, don’t you be too long.’

  Much as he wanted to go to Emily Barclay, Pearce could not pass by the Liberties of the Savoy without he dropped into the Pelican Tavern to ask if anyone knew of a fellow who called himself Arthur Winston and where he could be found. Though he doubted it to be his true name, he was the man who had engaged him to go to Gravelines. It came as no surprise when the response was a flat no, leaving him wondering if he had been wise to buy so many pots of ale and porter to loosen tongues in the process.

  He could hardly call into the Pelican without remembering that first visit, the foul night he had met the men who would become his friends, as well as the sods who had made up Barclay’s press gang, or that he had been on the run himself from that very King’s Bench warrant issued by the Government at the behest of the man he had just left, Henry Dundas.

  Disappointed in his quest, not cheered by recollection, he left and made for the Strand, passing through the boundary of that part of London where there was no fear of arrest for debt or minor felonies, the confines of the old Savoy Palace. As usual there were men lounging round, with alert eyes and, no doubt, a good memory for a face, there to take up anyone foolish enough to set foot out of the sanctuary of the Liberties which kept them safe.

  John Pearce had nothing to fear from these tipstaffs and his step became more jaunty as he thought of the destination to which he was now proceeding and who he was going to meet.

  Michael was still standing with his back to the wall when the gang led by the Tolland brothers arrived. Full of ale and pie and with Franklin having asked discreet directions of the stable boys, they made their ways from the Cittie of Yorke to Jockey’s Fields, which turned out to be no more than a short walk. Yet on viewing the street the same immediate problem surfaced for them as it had for Michael O’Hagan. Eight fellows could not just stand around without sticking out like a sore thumb, even if the light was going, for it was not a busy thoroughfare.

  Jahleel left his lads at the base of the street – a mob of eight moving together was too obvious – and he and his brother walked up past number 18, narrow, three storeys high and brick built, but they did not linger and a little further on they passed a giant of a fellow, hat pulled low, who was doing just that and who did not react as he overheard one of them speaking in a gruff cracked voice.

  ‘There’s no way to watch the house close to, Franklin, so we must take station at both ends …’

  The voice began to fade, which meant Michael missed what followed. ‘… though having marked it, we can keep a sharp eye out for the man so described to us by that gaoler, either in a naval uniform or not.’

  ‘Four each end?’ Franklin suggested.

  ‘Aye, you go back and send three of the lads my way and keep the rest with you.’

  In such a street, watching what happened, it was not hard to be suspicious – why was that fellow walking back so quickly? – and, after a very short time, there came three right hard-looking buggers who looked at him without a word as they passed. Apart from that, what rang the warning bell was that these looked to be the same fellows in dress and manner he had espied in Dover asking for a fellow with a bandaged foot.

  Tempted to move, Michael was torn; the only point at which he was sure Pearce would appear was that doorway he was watching, but which way would he come? Having dug foundations in half the streets of London, which was in the middle of a house-building frenzy, Michael O’Hagan knew the place better than most and he reckoned Pearce had to come from the south end of Jockey’s Fields.

  Behind him, over the brick wall, the windows of the large building just behind it were beginning to be illuminated by lamps or candles, which somehow made the twilight in the narrow street seem darker. Above Michael’s head the sky was still clear, which was more than could be said for the situation.

  It did not take much thinking to work out why they were here; that Dover postmaster must have shown them the same letter he had let John Pearce write on, which meant that if he stopped his friend, Mrs Barclay would still be in the house, name known, and as a bargaining piece she would be peerless – he knew John-boy well enough to be certain he would not allow anything bad to befall an innocent woman, never mind this one.

  Whatever he did involved risk, but doing nothing was scarce an option and he moved immediately to the door of number 18, which was opened once more by the lady of the house, who looked at him as she had done before, down her nose and reluctant to let such a fellow into her parlour; he was the kind who should come in by a back door and he would have been sent round to do so if she had possessed access to one.

  ‘Could you call to Mrs Barclay, please, ma’am?’

  ‘Again?’ Mrs Fletcher replied.

  ‘It is important.’

  The face went through several expressions, none of them kindly, before she said, ‘Very well.’

  It was hard not to look up and down the street and just to stand there. Could those coves see which house he had called at, could they tell the number at such an angle? Did the lamplight from the hallway make him too visible? It was as if he could feel those eyes upon him and for all he was not a man given to dread it was with him now.

  ‘Michael?’

  She was dressed to go out and meet John Pearce and that was a blessing, and he spoke quickly and breathlessly. ‘Mrs Barclay, sure you’re going to have to trust me and I have no time to explain to you. Would you be after getting your bonnet and shawl and come with me?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Holy Mary you are in danger. Now, I admit to not knowing you as well as John-boy but he is that too. You just have to take my word and do as I ask.’

  Jahleel Tolland, stood at the junction with the busy Theobald’s Road and peering down Jockey’s Fields, said to one of his men, ‘Do you recall that Dover fellow said that Pearce was in the company of a big sod when he came for his letter?’

  ‘No I do not, for I was not in the post house.’

  The growl made the reply sound as if it was the fellow’s fault. ‘Well, if that ain’t a big ’un we passes a’standing I don’t know who is, and where he is now looks to me to be mighty close to the number of the house we’re after. Best we have a gander.’

  ‘Please, ma’am. I know you are good at a time of danger, for I have been told so, but this is worse than facing hell itself. You must come now!’

  The street was in shadow now, dark enough for it to be hard to see one end from the other and still Emily hesitated, but there was light enough from Mrs Fletcher’s lamp to see clearly Michael O’Hagan’s face and that brooked no delay. She reached for her bonnet and shawl, both on hooks in the hallway, and stepped out, he holding out a hand to ease her down the two front steps, then without letting go, the hand moving to her elbow, setting the pace with a grip that was tight.

  Jahleel Tolland was moving now, his men behind him, and as he saw the hurrying pair he yelled out, a noise that carried and echoed in the narrow confines of the street. Michael saw four men gather and move to look up to where the shout had come from.

  ‘Are you able to run?’ Michael asked.

  ‘You must tell me what is going on,’ she demanded breathlessly.

  His voice carried the same quality, brought on by anxiety, not the pace they were walking. ‘There are men at either end of this street who will kill John-boy if they get hold of him, and me too most like. Four of them up ahead – can you see them gathered?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s no time, Mrs Barclay, for they will take you if they are given a chance. When I let go of your arm, run away as fast as you can and go to Mr Lutyens as you said you would.’

  ‘What about you?’

  Michael laughed, wondering if it sounded as false to her as it did in his head. ‘Why, I am going to be right behind you.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  There was a sharp right turn at the bottom of Jockey’s Fields, where the road dog-legged prior to taking another left turn that led to
busy Holborn. Michael reckoned if she could make that crowded thoroughfare she would be safe – it was too busy a place for outright mischief against a well-bred woman, but getting to that would be hard. If the men before him had heard the shout so had he, which meant as well as those in front of him he had four more coming as fast as they could to join.

  ‘Keep close to me, ma’am, very close.’

  He said this as he let go of her elbow, necessary so he could put one hand on his hidden hanger. The odds were terrible, but he had his height as well as his strength to aid him and once he had got Mrs Barclay clear he would himself be looking for a chance to disengage and run.

  ‘Would it help if I screamed?’

  ‘Sure, it would do no harm.’

  Enclosed as it was, the street echoed with that, a noise that was bound to bring folk to their windows; that it might bring aid was too much to expect, but unknown to both Emily and Michael the sound carried to John Pearce, who had left Holborn a minute before and was making his way through that first dog-leg. The sound made him stop dead so he could try to identify the source.

  Having been walking with his head down, deep in thought, it also caused him to look straight ahead. The knot of four men in heavy coats and riding boots was very obvious as they blocked the southern exit of the street in which Emily lived. In his mind he was back at that inn in Lydden, reprising what he had overheard and cursing himself for not getting hold of the true import and meaning of the words that had been exchanged between those two fellows who did the talking; they too had been to the Dover post house and it was a fair bet they had either seen or been told of the address to which his letter was being sent. There was no pondering this; Pearce was already running, his fine long-bladed officer’s sword swishing out of its scabbard, the sound of his shoes clattering on the cobbles.

  Michael left the short hanger hidden inside his coat until the last moment, wondering as he began to pull it clear why those before him had suddenly diverted their attention. Whatever the cause, it was too good a chance to miss so he lunged forward, pulling out the blade and striking at the first man he came to, who, distracted, was too slow to draw his own weapon and found that before he got it clear the arm required was rendered useless by a deep cut. His scream was added to those of Emily Barclay as he fell back, mixing his yells of distress with expletives.

  Another one had his sword out but was facing away, which left only two men with whom Michael had to deal, and the fist he pushed out, inside the metal guard of his weapon, caught another fellow on the side of the head and felled him. Emily, doing as she had been bid, ran straight into John Pearce, who pushed her to one side with no gentility and took guard, sword point level.

  ‘Run, Emily,’ he shouted, as the first of his opponents swiped at his blade, this while the last of the quartet was backing away from a furiously swinging Michael O’Hagan, who had stepped over another laying comatose. ‘Get to Nerot’s Hotel.’

  Unaware if he had been obeyed – it was necessary to concentrate on what was before him – Pearce withdrew his sword from what was a much more substantial weapon, more like a cutlass, that might have broken through the thinner metal he was employing and severed it. But it did not go back far, only enough to let the other blade swish uselessly past, then in classic fashion he bent forward on his right knee, extended his back leg to the full and drove the blade into flesh, quick to twist it and withdraw.

  ‘To me, Michael.’

  That shout had to be heard over the crash of twin blades as they struck against each other, the next act of Pearce to slash at the face of the man now standing stock-still before him, eyes wide open, shocked by the fact that his body flesh had been penetrated.

  ‘There’s four more behind me, John-boy.’

  Michael’s warning came at the same moment as the fine point of Pearce’s blade, manufactory sharp, sliced down his opponent’s cheek, drawing immediate blood. The huge Irishman was doing the right thing, using his strength rather than any clever swordsmanship to get to the right side of his opponent; by the time they were shoulder to shoulder the odds had gone to five against two, with the light fading rapidly.

  ‘Franklin!’

  The shout and the gruffness of the voice identified the fellow called Jahleel, and he bent over the man now on his knees holding his slashed cheek, blood oozing through his fingers, his groans likewise, this while the trio that had come running with Jahleel stood, swords out, not sure what to do. Pearce had no doubts.

  ‘Run!’

  No second bidding was required and both were off like hares – there was no time to worry about a damaged foot – the only sounds their boots and the keening of the man whose arm Michael had near chopped in half, but that did not last, for a great shout echoed in the confined space.

  ‘You won’t get clear of me, by thunder, Pearce. No one steals from Jahleel Tolland and lives to tell the tale.’

  Aware that they were not being pursued, Pearce stopped at the corner of the street that led down to Holborn, there being just enough residual light from the windows behind the smuggling gang to show that the concern was more for those wounded than any chase. Chests heaving, both he and Michael watched as the man Pearce had skewered was helped to his feet, bent double over his first wound, while his brother pressed a handkerchief to his gashed face.

  ‘How do I tell them we are not the guilty party?’

  ‘John-boy,’ Michael gasped, ‘this is not the time, by Jesus.’

  ‘There will have to be one, friend, for I cannot see them giving up. Twice we have had the luck to survive, it would be tempting providence to think there would be a third occasion.’

  ‘Take the blessing the Good Lord has given us this night,’ Michael replied, not forgetting to cross himself, ‘for I tell you, John-boy, I did not expect to come out of this whole.’

  Pearce felt his arm taken and Michael pulled him down the street, and immediately his thoughts turned to the whereabouts of Emily Barclay.

  Not far from where they were and by the light of a candle, Isaac Lavery was reading the reply he had fetched earlier from Sir Richard Ford, the Bow Street magistrate and the man in charge of the now famous Runners. His alderman employer, having responded to it, was out at a Mansion House dinner, a male-only affair at the London Mayor’s residence, which left his wife at home.

  That the letter was in a locked part of his master’s desk presented little difficulty, the key had been copied not long after he took up his position, it being axiomatic for the clerk that he should know as much as he could about the alderman’s private affairs.

  Not to do so was to preclude him being aware of any threat to his position, as well as denying him profit from knowing of certain speculations of a lucrative nature, which had to be kept secret, edging as they did on illegality – for Denby Carruthers, upright to those with whom he would now be dining, was not as pure as the driven snow; he was a man who used his wealth in many ways.

  Having read it through twice, he decided not to take it to Mrs Carruthers and show her the contents, reasoning that that would not give him the leverage on her affections that he sought; it would also make her aware of his unauthorised access, which could be unwise. Instead he verbally related what he had gleaned, without saying how he had come about the information. Likewise he kept to himself that another low fellow had come to his master with an unknown message, though one he suspected was from Codge.

  ‘The matter refers to the fellow who called yesterday, Codge is his name, and identifies him as a true villain whom the Runners and Sir Richard Ford would dearly love to lay by the heels.’

  Catherine Carruthers had to hide her impatience; she was not in the least interested in the creature called Codge or the desires of Bow Street magistrates. But the whereabouts of the man she still loved, the man she had thought to be in cold ground, concerned her mightily.

  ‘It seems,’ Lavery continued, ‘he is a criminal of some repute, but one who has never been caught in an illegal act himself. Sir Richard advi
ses your husband to be careful in his dealing with the man.’

  Patience ran out. ‘Was Gherson mentioned?’

  ‘Only in passing; it seems he has commissioned this Codge to commit some felony—’

  ‘Felony?’

  ‘… and your husband has suggested that once he has the details, which he will most assiduously seek, that the Runners can be alerted to catch them both in the execution.’

  ‘Which means that Cornelius is alive.’

  The enthusiasm with which that remark emerged, as well as her look, brought a frown to Lavery’s unprepossessing face, but it also induced a degree of curiosity. ‘You had reason to imagine him dead?’

  ‘I fear you do not know my husband, Mr Lavery, he is a man of strong resentments.’ She paused then, wringing her hands. ‘You see, Cornelius and I were friends.’ The next words, as Lavery tried to compose his features, were hurried and larded with excuse. ‘No more than that, but my husband misunderstood.’

  It was as well that Lavery was well practised in dissimulation, for if he had not been, he would have shown his reaction to this blatant untruth. Why was it that rich folk never understood that their servants knew everything, especially about matters untoward? It was they who washed the bed sheets, they who took care of the clothing and it was they who could not fail to see tender glances exchanged or hear a blazing shouted dispute in which every fact, most of which they were already aware, was loudly aired.

  ‘I am told he was an engaging young man.’

  ‘He was my soulmate, Mr Lavery, the person to whom I turned when I was in confusion.’

  He could not resist it. ‘Confusion, Mrs Carruthers?’

  Her head was down and she was looking at her wringing hands now. ‘Little is done to prepare we young women for marriage, and my husband can be intemperate, as well as so jealous of my company that he allows me no friends.’