Duncan’s shoulders brushed each side of the passage as he stooped and proceeded down it, discovering that it opened onto a small flat at the base of the roof that provided access for those working on the chimneys or slates. Ishmael was sitting on a small step built into the intersection of adjoining roofs, staring wide-eyed at the remarkable scene before them.
“London,” the young Nipmuc whispered as Duncan reached his side. There was awe in his face but also a hint of apprehension. “I never imagined it would be so!”
“Blessed Michael!” The Gaelic exclamation slipped off Duncan’s tongue without conscious thought. He had carefully studied the map from the Galileo, but the chart had given no hint of the scale or size of the city’s buildings. The rooftop perch offered a sweeping view to the south, west, and north. In the distance the majestic twin towers of Westminster Abbey rose over a vast landscape of parkland and elegant stone buildings. Ishmael pointed to a busy square adjoined by a massive three-story building that was only a few blocks away. “That has to be Charing Cross,” he said, “with the statue of the old king on his horse and the great Northumberland House beside it.”
Duncan extracted the map, and with Charing Cross and the Abbey as reference points they quickly identified the Palace of Westminster where Parliament met, St. James’s Palace, Buckingham House, and the long green space known as St. James’s Park. With a chill, his gaze settled upon the slate roof of a long building between the park and the Thames. It was the home of the Horse Guards.
He looked back at the surprisingly plain St. James’s Palace, where the king resided while Buckingham House was being remodeled to the tastes of Queen Charlotte. He was a fool to think he might prevail against Hastings. Hastings wouldn’t be alone. The major would have the entire Horse Guards regiment at his side. And behind them would be the Secretary at War and the War Council. Ultimately, he wasn’t fighting Hastings; he was fighting the king, and this mighty city. It wasn’t a fool’s errand he was on—it was a death wish. You will die again and again, the prophet had warned.
His gaze shifted to his companion, and he saw that Ishmael was now trying to maintain his balance halfway up the steep roof, seeking an eastern view. “Moorgate,” the young Nipmuc said. “The bosun said it was by the old Moorgate.” He was already trying to find Conawago.
“It’s still a couple hours until nightfall,” Duncan said. “If we can make contact with Dr. Franklin today, we can scout Bethlem Hospital tomorrow morning.”
“I will go to Bedlam now,” Ishmael countered. “Franklin is not my concern.”
Duncan helped the Nipmuc off the steep, slippery slates, then gently set him on the bench. “You are too young to have ventured into enemy territory, to learn from a raid on Huron or Abenaki camps,” he said. “There is no safe place in such raids, no room for mistake, no chance to retreat to nurse wounds or find reinforcements. One misstep and it is over. That’s where we are, Ishmael, on unfamiliar terrain with possible enemies at every step. You cannot just walk into the halls of this Bedlam and demand your uncle’s release. And Franklin is the concern of every Son of Liberty. We go together or we go not at all.”
Ishmael was silent for several breaths, but the defiance that had flared on his face faded. He gazed again over the city, his awe gradually replaced with confusion. “Never before have I looked out over a land and seen almost nothing but buildings. The bosun said hundreds of thousands live here. How is that possible? I can’t fathom so many people choosing to live in such a cramped place, walking in their waste, turning their backs on nature. It frightens me,” he admitted. “There are no spirits left here.” It was his way of agreeing with Duncan. “No wild animals,” he added. The tribes kept harmony with their world by considering themselves just one more type of creature in the vast mysterious forest. In his early years with the tribes, Duncan had been chastised more than once for acting as though he were above, or more important than, the forest’s other creatures. No wild animals meant there was nothing to keep human humility in check.
Duncan pointed to a flock of pigeons that had appeared from the direction of Charing Cross. “There’s messengers at least,” he said. The tribes believed that birds and snakes carried messages to the gods, much as the Vikings who had settled the Highland coast believed that ravens went out into the world each day to bring news back to Odin.
Ishmael frowned. “Those fat ugly things? They’re like the rest of these city creatures. They probably forgot how to speak with the spirits ages ago.”
“Make way! Make way for important personages!” the ragged boy in front of Duncan cried, tapping a man in front of them with the pole on which the boy carried a lantern. When Duncan had asked Mrs. Laws for directions to the Franklin residence on Craven Street, she had fussed over their appearance, ordering Lizzie to brush their clothes, then insisting Duncan hire a link boy. When he had met her request with a blank stare, she had taken him to the front steps and summoned Xander from the throng of adolescent boys watching the lamplighter make his way down the street.
Link boys were apparently fixtures on London streets, hired by those who were afoot to guide them through the shadowy labyrinths of the city. When the porter pointed out that link boys mostly were used at night, Mrs. Laws rejoined that dusk was fast approaching and then, considering the somber man with salt-and-pepper hair for a moment, ordered him to join the party. “Sinner John may look like a chewed-up piece of gristle,” she explained good-naturedly, “but he spent nigh fifty years at sea and he’s as canny as any on the streets.”
“Sinner?” Ishmael asked.
Mrs. Laws sighed. “He spent too much time in Bristol after putting ashore.”
The explanation did little to dispel Ishmael’s confusion. “Bristol turned him into a sinner?” he asked.
The landlady gave a cackling laugh. “Bristol made him a damned Methodist. It’s where those troublemaking Wesley brothers settled for a few years. Put a few drops of rum in him and ye’ll likely hear about his wild life on the seven seas. South Pacific tarts and such. He insists on being called a sinner to keep him mindful of his repentance. He’s an able-bodied creature, the bosun of my ship ye might say. It’s only every few weeks that his evangelical ardor erupts.” She put a hand on Duncan’s arm. “Please take him, Mr. McCallum. You don’t know the dangers of London’s streets after dark.”
They made an odd procession as the link boy Xander led them out onto the Strand. Ultimately Mrs. Laws had not been satisfied with Duncan’s old waistcoat and had brought him a somber tunic with tails that had been used on formal occasions by her husband, saying that Dr. Franklin was a man of high station who would expect finery.
Behind Duncan was a subdued Ishmael, who wore a strip of white ermine tied around his head, also loaned by the landlady, who had insisted that Dr. Franklin would be enchanted if he could just make his aborigine origins more apparent. Ishmael, however, had declined the maid Lizzie’s offer to braid his long black hair.
At the rear Sinner John, carrying an oaken quarterstaff, strode in grim silence except for occasional condemning syllables muttered to passersby. “Harlot!” he barked to a woman with a low bodice, then “Papist!” to a man wearing a crucifix. He seemed to have a knack for spotting fellow sinners.
A quarter hour later they came to a halt before an entry in a long row of four-story brick town houses just off Charing Cross. Sinner John rushed forward and took the boy by the shoulder, aiming him into an arched tunnel that led to the stables behind the houses. “Mustn’t presume to call all sudden-like at the front door of such a famous personage,” he warned. “We ain’t been expected or announced. Kitchen door is the path for humble Christians.”
When they reached the back door with a numeral seven painted over it, the pious porter arranged Duncan and Ishmael side by side, then had the link boy knock. Duncan had just recalled he had a letter for Franklin written by Charles Thomson and was reaching for it when the door opened. A woman in her early twenties, wearing a gray dress and a white apron, pu
t one foot out the door, then frowned.
“It’s past sunset, ye know,” she declared in a disapproving tone, then leaned inside and called. “Mrs. Stevenson!”
Moments later a well-fed, tidy-looking woman of mature age appeared and gave them a disappointing shake of her head. “I’ve seen much better pretend savages,” she declared with disapproval as she studied Ishmael. “I can plainly see you’re just another of those dark Irish always begging in one disguise or another.” She pushed Xander’s lantern away, as if steering him back down the alley.
Duncan found himself strangely tongue-tied. On nights floating on the Ohio they had speculated about Franklin and his residence in London, and for weeks he had carefully guarded the slip of paper with the address on it. The reality of at last being at Craven Street, at the house of the great Franklin, suddenly seized him. He had forgotten his rehearsed words and began to fumble for the introductory letter provided by Charles Thomson.
When they did not move, Mrs. Stevenson frowned.
Sinner John began a hymn. “Oh for a thousand tongues to sing,” he bellowed in a rich baritone, “my blest Redeemer’s praise. The glories of my God and King, the triumphs of his grace.”
Mrs. Stevenson rolled her eyes and spoke to the maid. “Wesley men,” she said with a sigh. “Too ardent to tolerate, too pious to ignore. Bring whatever’s broken, Judith.”
“The triumphs of his grace!” Sinner John continued, so loudly his words were echoing down the alley. Mrs. Laws had said his evangelical ardor erupted only every few weeks. Now it was spewing forth like a volcano.
Mrs. Stevenson maintained her smoldering gaze until Judith reappeared, holding a flour sack which she tossed to the link boy’s feet. Sinner John had started another verse, so loudly Mrs. Stevenson had to shout. “If you do not vacate my yard at once we shall summon the watch!” She turned and slammed the door. Sinner John, not seeming to hear, continued his hymn.
Ishmael opened the bag, revealing half a loaf, a shank bone with some meat left on it, and two potatoes. Xander reached in with a cry of delight and began chewing a potato. They had been given a broken meal, the proper reward for beggars, consisting of the leavings of the Franklin dinner table.
Forgoing further advice from their new household, Duncan and Ishmael stole out of the inn before dawn and set an easterly course through the shadows of the great city. In the parlor the night before, Mrs. Laws had shared a well-worn map of London, the “famous one published by John Roque,” and Duncan had spent an hour supplementing the crude map they had brought from the Galileo. They had but to find the old Moorgate, since the bosun had told them once they passed through that gap in the ancient city wall, the “palace of the lunatics” would be impossible to miss.
The slumbering city was quiet but not silent, and a surprising number of its inhabitants were in fact not sleeping. Carts stacked with crates of chickens, slabs of bacon, and baskets of peas and other early vegetables trundled down the streets toward the markets at Covent Garden and Hungerford. Some were pulled by horses and mules, some by heavy dogs, and more than a few by weary men and women. Stern men in dark clothing, armed with staffs, paced slowly along many blocks. These were the watch, their companions the evening before had explained, each responsible to their parish for their assigned patch of the city, and more than once Duncan and Ishmael ducked into an alley to the surly cry of “on wi’ ye wastrels!” from one of the patrolling sentinels. Duncan realized that they appeared suspicious, for they neither wore the dandy clothes of late-night revelers nor carried anything that indicated they were bound for work. In one such alley he found a pile of hoes, and after they each leaned one on their shoulders they were challenged no more.
As they came to the quieter streets of Ludgate Hill, Duncan increased his pace to reach a party of laborers ahead of them, then realized Ishmael was not beside him. The Nipmuc had halted a hundred feet behind and was staring, his mouth agape.
“How is it possible?” Ishmael whispered as Duncan reached his side. “Can it be the work of ordinary mortals or did their god just drop it here?”
Duncan followed his awed gaze toward a massive shadow behind the row of buildings before them. The sky was rapidly brightening, making the towering dome glow in the dawn. Duncan did not need to consult his map. “St. Paul’s Cathedral,” he said and was himself now struck dumb by the immensity of the structure. “Built in the last century by a mere mortal named Christopher Wren.”
“We must see it! Look at the stonework! Look at the carvings! We must ascend to the dome! It touches the heavens! Surely up there the gods will take notice of us!”
“We must get to Bedlam,” Duncan reminded him.
Ishmael sobered, then clenched his jaw and swung the hoe back on his shoulder. “We must get to Bedlam,” he echoed.
Twice Duncan asked for directions, the second time from a more congenial watchman who was whistling in the dawn. “ ’Tis the gap in the old wall along the next street over,” he explained. “If they hadn’t tore down the gate a few years ago you could have seen it from here. A good solid gate. Disrespectful to our noble ancestors that was,” he added with a frown. “Disturbed many a Roman ghost.” He glanced toward the rising sun. “Soon enough you can be guided by the howls from the other side of the old wall.”
“Howls?” Duncan asked.
“It’s nearly the breakfast hour at Bedlam. Those poor wretches will soon be screeching like hyenas for their porridge and tea.”
Their pace slowed as the ancient city wall came into view, each filled with dread of what they would find on the other side. The stories heard on board the Galileo and written in London gazettes came back to Duncan, nearly overwhelming him with images of inmates wallowing naked in mud, nibbling their own flesh, and communicating only with the sounds of pigs and donkeys.
“They don’t really restrain them with chains and ropes, do they?” Ishmael asked in a tight voice.
Duncan wasn’t certain of anything about the notorious hospital, but he would not let his worry show. “Of course not. I hear the establishment is run by trained doctors. It is a hospital, not a stable. Conawago is probably just working as an assistant to one of the learned men. Or perhaps he organized a hospital newspaper,” he added, invoking the elder Nipmuc’s role as editor of the journal published in Edentown.
Ishmael forced a laugh, then fell silent as they passed through the gap in the high city wall. They walked silently along the newer wall that appeared before them, turning with it at the end of the block, then halting to peer in confusion through a large arched gate that opened onto a gravel drive. “It must be behind the palace,” Ishmael suggested, indicating the huge ornate structure with a central tower and faux pillars that sat beyond spacious gardens.
Duncan stepped back to study the elegant gate. BETHLEM HOSPITAL, read the inscription carved into the entrance arch, beneath two hideous sculptures of naked men with tormented faces. One of the figures was labeled MELANCHOLY and the other, wrapped in chains, was RAVING MADNESS. From the long palace before them animallike wails could be heard. They had arrived at Bedlam.
The bushes and trees of the gardens on either side of the wide drive were overdue for trimming, but the lawns were kept short by a small herd of grazing sheep. From somewhere inside the building came what sounded like a trumpet sounding a military call. The cries died away, and to Duncan’s surprise a harpsichord started playing what sounded like Bach.
They stepped aside for a hackney cab that dropped off a distinguished-looking gentleman carrying a leather satchel of a size used for surgical instruments. For a moment Duncan wondered why patients confined for mental disturbances would need surgery, then with a terrible chill recalled how Sarah’s father had concluded her fierce Mohawk-bred independence was a mental illness and devised a surgical treatment by London doctors.
They sat on a stone bench near the stately portico, each at a loss for words. After two more hackney coaches deposited somberly dressed men carrying medical kits, Ishmael sprang to h
is feet and, before Duncan could react, entered the building. Duncan muttered a Gaelic curse and followed.
They found themselves in a great hall that at first glance might have seemed the entrance to a royal residence. Large paintings were hung in the three landings of the elegant marble stairs. The massive wings on either side of the entrance hall were built around wide galleries, affording views down the entire length of the building, which Duncan estimated to be more than five hundred feet. An air of reverence had been attempted with a huge painting, hanging over the stairs, of an angel receiving humans who floated up to her outstretched arms. But the humans she greeted were all deformed, grotesque beings with humped backs, misshapen skulls, furry tails, and even some limbs that ended with clawed or hoofed feet. While some of the other paintings were innocuous renderings of pastoral scenes, most had beings that looked like beasts out of Dante’s Inferno, an impression only increased by the sculptures arrayed along the curve of the rear wall, which included a naked woman with a cat’s head, a bull with a man’s head, and an ape reading a Bible. More than a few physicians ascribed mental illness to the soul of an animal taking over that of a human.
As if the images were not disturbing enough, noxious smells wafted through the hall. The stench of excrement and urine mingled with those of soap, vinegar, and strong black tea. Men in matching brown waistcoats and britches, apparently staff, were emerging from chambers at the back of the main gallery, shepherding patients out of a dining chamber and opening windows, which created new currents of air that seemed to just circulate the same foul odors. Duncan tried to calculate the number of rooms or cells in the massive building. There had to be hundreds of inmates, and if they were locked in their chambers they were all using chamber pots. Even in the best of hospitals, chamber pots were not always emptied every day.
Duncan realized that Ishmael was pretending to examine the sculptures while inching toward the marble stairs. He had put a foot on the first step when a voice rang out in challenge.
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