by Jason Vail
“It’s enough, don’t you think?” I said, appealing for support from Crockett and Willie, who did not respond.
So we left our examination of Parliament there and made our way up the embankment to Waterloo Bridge, where we crossed over to the north side and London proper. A few urchins were out on the mud bank on the river’s south shore scavenging bits of trash. Many of them were barefoot on account of the mud. This was not the first time I have seen such packs, and I have always wondered how they managed the cold. How desperate they must have been for whatever scraps they could find. The sight of them only darkened my mood when we reached the opposite bank and turned left onto the Strand at the big hotel.
Node’s office was in a building just before Charing Cross. It’s not there any more. Some years ago, it was torn down to make way for a railroad station, at least I think so from the London map I acquired not long ago. But in those days, it was a great red brick building with a fine entrance of Greek columns flanking bronze double doors. It had a lobby that would have complemented any grand country house with tiled floors and a chandelier that stood so far off the ground that lighting the candles required men risking their lives on ladders. A wide staircase swept up to the second floor — excuse my Americanism, the British call it the first. We gave our names to the clerk who presided over the lobby from his desk by the foot of the staircase. He summoned a boy, who disappeared upstairs to announce our presence. No wonder the manifesto cost us so much. A good part of the price had to go to support this opulence.
Presently, the boy returned. He whispered into the clerk’s ear. The clerk said, “Mister Node will see you now.”
We weren’t, however, allowed to wander through the building in search of Mister Node ourselves. The boy escorted us to Node’s office. He knocked on the door for us. Mister Node bade him to enter. The boy opened the door and left us without ever saying a word.
We entered. Mister Node strode across the plush maroon carpet to shake my hand. He gave no indication that any of my companions were there, even though all were dressed as gentlemen in the best clothes we could manage for the occasion. Willie, of course, he already thought was a footman. I have no idea what he thought of Crockett and Austin.
Node waved me to a seat before the broad desk. The only object on it was a rather soggy looking map case that could have come directly from the Thames or someone’s well, resting on several sheets of newspaper. Node sat down behind the table.
“That’s it?” I asked, indicating the map case.
“Yes,” Node said.
I reached for the case, but Node stopped me with a gesture. He said, “You may want gloves to open it.”
At my quizzical expression, he added with considerable embarrassment, “It was been … soiled.”
“Soiled?”
“Yes. It was used in a rather barbaric ritual, I’m sorry to say.”
“What sort of ritual?”
“Every year on Boxing Day, the regiment holds a feast. As part of the celebrations, the officers require that the new men piss on it. A sign of their contempt for the king’s enemies, or so I’ve been told.” He waved a hand in front of his face as if attempting to dispel a bad odor. “Apparently when the officers have too much to drink, many of them use the object that way.”
“I see,” I said, disgusted. “And the manifesto is inside?”
Node nodded.
“Undamaged?”
“I am assured that the contents are safe.”
“But you have no idea.”
“No.”
“You have not opened it to inspect.”
“No.”
“If it is damaged in the least, we will not pay.”
Node’s mouth opened as if he intended to protest, since such a condition had not been part of our agreement. But he nodded.
Willie offered me his gloves, a nice touch since he was supposed to be the footman.
I drew them on and gingerly opened the top of the map case, somewhat relieved to see that the cylinder was coated with wax. Removing one glove, which Node indicated I could drop to the floor, I extracted the sheaf within. I held it between two fingers while Willie helped me remove the other glove. Then I spread the document on the tabletop. The edges wanted to curl so I had to hold them down. Austin and Crockett looked over my shoulders. Austin gasped with what sounded like awe.
“Those spots,” he said, pointing to a spray of brown fanned across the document, “they aren’t —” Apart from the spots, the paper seemed to be unaffected by its foul treatment.
“That is not from the ritual,” Node said. “Baron Tarleton told me that is the blood of the traitor Jefferson.”
“Dear God,” Austin said. “It’s true.”
“What’s true?” Node asked.
“A rumor,” Austin said, brushing the paper, for it was fine linen paper and not parchment, with a fingertip as if it would disintegrate at a mere touch. “Just a rumor.”
“Well, then,” Node said. “Are you satisfied?”
“Quite,” I replied.
“And you are prepared to pay the sum we agreed upon.”
“I should think so,” I said.
But behind me came a series of suspicious clicks — the unmistakable sound of pistols cocking — and Node’s eyes grew round with shock and alarm.
“What is this?” he fairly screeched.
“Keep your voice down, if you want to live,” Willie said.
“This is outrageous!” Node protested.
“Depends on your point of view,” Crockett said, handing his pistols to an equally amazed Austin, to whom he said, “Keep him covered.”
Austin nodded, stunned but compliant.
Crockett rounded the desk, extracting lengths of rope and a strip of rag from his pockets. “If you would kindly lie down, Mister Node,” he said.
Node was so incensed and disbelieving that he simply sat in his chair and gaped at Crockett. As Node did not move, Crockett grasped Node’s lapels and forced him to the floor, where he bound the solicitor’s hands and feet and gagged his mouth.
“He is right,” I said as Crockett came back around the desk and recovered his pistols. “You are mad — in the middle of the day, in the middle of the city!”
“Tarleton owes us a debt,” Crockett said. “He should pay with his life, but this will have to do.”
Chapter 25
London, Great Britain
December 1820
London is full of thieves. It is a city that has developed the picking of pockets to a fine art and a substantial portion of its people live by burglary alone. Robbery in its many forms — the cosh on the head, the dirk in the ribs — is also highly popular, a favored venue for the trade being outside an inn or tavern at night or in a thick fog when the mark, softened by drink, can be set upon with minimal effort and risk. Many practitioners of the thieving art are so brazen that they operate openly, in full view of the citizenry, without the least shame. Members of Parliament are among those who make no effort to hide their activities as they fleece people’s pockets, but the cutpurses, who run in packs, are equally as daring, despite the consequences, which for all but Parliament are often draconian. Hanging was not an infrequent sentence for the dodger artless enough to be caught, depending on the sum or the status of the victim.
London’s problem then was it had no regular police force. Two constables in every parish kept the peace, supported by a handful of wardens, and they were overwhelmed, even assuming that they bothered to venture forth from their neighborhood tavern to face the onslaught. The metropolitan police were ten years away, and in the mean time, citizens had to rely on those constables and the good intentions of their neighbors. As a result, the rabid few, driven by circumstances or simply evil spirit, preyed on the weak and vulnerable, largely undeterred by the erratic hand of justice. I hear it’s got better there, but not by much.
Nonetheless, I thought about the noose as we shut Node’s door and bade him adieu as if we had just concluded a sat
isfactory business venture, which I suppose you could say we had. We made for the stairs, walking slowly, suppressing the urge to run as a cold sweat broke out under my thick wool coat despite the coolness of the air. The clerk at the desk glanced at us as we reached the lobby, but etiquette demanded that we give no indication that we noticed his presence, and we went out to the street, where a boy stood watch over our horses. We paid him the remainder of his fee and mounted.
Crockett took the lead, heading south into Charing Cross rather than northward toward Waterloo Bridge, the way we had come.
I thought that odd, but I was so busy resisting the impulse to lash the horse into the gallop that I did not question this. He seemed to know where he was going; how he had acquired his knowledge of London geography I had no idea.
I had ears cocked for an outcry to our rear, but so far, all was quiet, if you didn’t count the eternal clamor of the city.
In recent years, Charing Cross has grown into a parklike open space filled with statues celebrating Nelson and other British heroes. But on the day we passed through it, it was an unremarkable, congested intersection where several streets came together in a sort of hub, unremarkable except for the traffic: a great press of barouches, gigs, landaus, broughams, and sport curricles moving fast behind their two horses; and that did not take into account the carts, drays, wagons and vans that competed for room and right of way; whips cracking and drivers shouting.
Somehow we maneuvered through it all, and exited onto Whitehall. A few hundred yards down, we passed the Admiralty where Nelson labored thanklessly as First Lord, his triumph at Trafalgar forgotten in the daily niggling of politics, and Admiral Cockburn no doubt had received reports of our action with the Spanish frigate and issued orders for my arrest. When I had sworn in as a midshipman, I had envisioned a knighthood and a country house waiting for me upon my retirement, and the honors of a grateful country, not to mention the attentions of beautiful eligible women. I had had no idea that it would lead instead to a life of crime. Fate has its odd twists and turns, you know.
As we trotted by the Horse Guards, trying to look like just another group of men intent on serious business, I held my breath in fear that something would give us away and the Household troops would swarm after us. But then the Treasury loomed ahead on the right and I wondered what the Prime Minister was doing today, assuming that he was even in town at all.
Finally, we came upon Westminster Palace and the adjoining Houses of Parliament, the red stone coated with soot, across the street from St. Mary’s and the Abbey. Austin gaped at the size and grandeur of the structure and he might even have pulled up to soak in whatever inspiration he hoped to gain from it, but Crockett said, “Stephen, we can’t stop.”
“I know,” Austin sighed without slacking his pace.
“Next time,” Crockett said.
“There won’t be a next time,” Austin said. “We can never come back. You know that.” He did come back years later for a turn as ambassador and as far as I know, no one remembered his role in the great theft. If they did, they were too polite to say anything about it.
Crockett led us around the corner and across Westminster Bridge. Half a mile to the south lay the great whitish bulk of Lambeth Palace on the opposite shore. From this vantage point, it was possible to see the palace covered in scaffolding with men scrubbing the soot away with long-handled brushes. Apparently, the archbishop cared more for appearances than Parliament.
By the time we reached the foot of the bridge, my panic — for I must confess that’s what it was — had begun to subside and anger to take its place. Crockett was just far enough ahead that I had to call out for him to hear. Willie on the other hand was at my side, and I let him have it with as salty a tirade as I have ever mustered. “What in God’s name were you thinking?” I concluded.
Willie glanced at me without responding.
“You helped him!” I had to restrain myself from shouting. “Why?”
“It was my idea,” he said at last. “Crockett helped me.”
“Yours? Whatever for? It could be the end of us! Have you lost your senses?”
He shrugged his shoulders and evaded the question. “We’ve saved you a great deal of money. I doubt Austin would have been in a position to repay you for quite some time, if ever.”
“I was not hoping for repayment in money,” I muttered. For of course I had realized this possibility too, and had counted on preying on Austin’s fundamental honesty to extract a greater share of Wasp in the end. The loss of that opportunity, far more than the danger into which we had fallen, fueled my anger.
“I know, Paul. I’m sorry.”
Lone Star Rising: A Short History of the Republic of Texas and the Free States of America
by Victor Davis Lautenberg
The teacup paused halfway to Tarleton’s mouth. There was shouting in the lobby so loud that it penetrated the thick doors of the reception room, although none of the men waiting there could make out what was being said.
“What is that racket?” Tarleton asked no one in particular, certainly not his son or the six footmen who had accompanied him to the solicitor’s office.
“I do not know, my lord,” said his son, Richard Tarleton, a strapping nineteen-year-old on leave from the 10th Hussars. He put his own cup on the table and went out into the lobby to investigate the source of the disturbance.
He got no farther than the doorway. Node, the solicitor rushed in, his face pale. His assistant, alerted by Node’s pounding of the floorboard with his heels, had discovered him tied up behind his desk.
“What is it, man?” Tarleton demanded.
“It’s been taken!” Node cried.
“What?” Tarleton asked. “What’s been taken?” He knew, of course, but to have such a calamity occur in the heart of London in broad daylight was unthinkable.
“The manifesto! We’ve been robbed!”
Tarleton wasted no time on recriminations or despair. As a soldier, he was used to dealing with unexpected reverses on the battlefield. With a few pointed questions, he extracted the details from Node.
He stalked out to the street, where he spotted a boy lingering by the foot of the steps. “Boy,” he said, “four men, one of them a nigra, came out a few moments ago. Which way did they go?”
The boy pointed toward Charing Cross.
Tarleton uttered a curse. “Jeremy,” he snarled to the youngest footman, a boy of sixteen, “After them!” He waved toward Charing Cross.
The boy darted into the street and dashed on foot in the direction Tarleton had indicated. He was a running footman; they were often made to run long distances to deliver messages.
Tarleton turned to the others. “Get the horses.”
Unlike most men of his position and his age, Tarleton did not like carriages. Ever the cavalryman, he preferred the back of his own horse. He was famous for this predilection, and the London papers, when they chose to caricature him as they frequently did, often pictured him on a swayback nag. But neither he nor his footmen rode such broken down animals. His pride would allow them to ride only the finest horses in England, fast and conditioned for long rides, for Tarleton was well known for his swift journeys about the country.
They caught up with the running footman at Westminster Bridge. As they passed the boy, he pointed across the river. Tarleton rushed by Jeremy and weaved his way through the congestion of carriages and wagons, followed closely by all but one of his footman, who dallied to allow Jeremy to vault onto the riderless horse he had in tow. Then they hurried to catch up.
Surrey and Sussex, Great Britain
December 1820
Our inn loomed close on the right. Even though it was not truly a haven of safety, it felt as if we were approaching our fortress where we might pause for refreshment and catch our breath before continuing. The moment did not last.
There was the sound of horses approaching fast behind us. Willie and I looked back at the same time, instinctively alarmed. Seven men in tall hats
on large horses were bearing down on us at a charge, clutching their hats, the tails of their coats flapping. It wasn’t exactly the constabulary, but it looked ominous enough.
“David!” Willie called a warning. “Trouble!”
Crockett glanced back. “Tarleton!” he snapped not letting his astonishment get the better of his impulse for self-preservation. “Ride!”
He dug in his heels. His horse leapt into a gallop. He did not look back. Austin gazed at the rapidly approaching men, and I had to swat his horse on the rump to get him going.
Racing down Walcot Place, dodging pedestrians, carriages, drays and wagons, barely registering the astonished and in some cases angry faces as we occasionally caused horses to rear and shy dangerously, I expected to hear the cry of “Thief!” at any moment, which would have brought people to the aid of our pursuers. But they followed, silent and grim, and I glimpsed the butts of pistols under the flapping lapels. They intended to handle this business themselves.
“Which one is Tarleton?” Willie called to Crockett, who was the only one of us who had the privilege of meeting the man in the flesh.
“The smaller, older one!” Crockett called back.
I saw immediately whom he meant. The man in the lead, on the finest horse, was a slim, muscular gentleman, shorter than most, with a narrow face, graying dark hair, and imperious eyes. His thin mouth was drawn tight with determination. Although he was at least sixty, he looked fit. He rode well, and they were within fifty yards and gaining.
At Kennington Circus, a wagon train crossed our path. All the other traffic on Walcot Place had stopped for it. It fully blocked the street, creating a cul de sac. Our adversaries must have expected us to halt and make a stand, for they drew their pistols and slowed.
But Crockett and Austin, in the lead, were having none of that. They spurred their mounts straight at the barrier, and to my amazement, their horses fairly flew over as if they had wings. There wasn’t anything for either Willie or I to do but to follow, and I drove my legs into my horse’s sides to impel him forward, as my riding teacher had taught me to do, petrified that he would refuse or that we would crash together. It’s odd how I did not flinch at being dismembered by shot but the prospect of a broken neck made me faint.
