Part 5 (1/2)
And then there was poor Walter Yate, sprawled upon the floor, propped on his back like an overturned turtle. One man held down his arms, while another lifted a chair over his head and prepared to lower it and crush the poor victim's skull. Three more stood by cheering, dividing their time between punching at the air in support for their brothers and glancing to the door in antic.i.p.ation of the even greater acts of destruction that surely now took place outside.
It was true that these matters of what porter received which job were nothing to me, and it was even more true that a part of myself believed Yate deserved to have his head pushed in for speaking so favorably of Griffin Melbury, but I could nevertheless not stand by to murder. I ran forward and knocked aside the man who held Yate down and pulled the quarry out of the way in time so that the chair hit the floor, where it burst into pieces.
Seeing me come to their victim's aid, the porters scattered. I quickly pulled Yate to his feet. Though dazed and a bit scratched, he appeared to have escaped serious harm. ”Thank you,” he said, as he ushered me toward the door. ”I thought to find no such friends here among Greenbill's boys.”
”I'm not one of Greenbill's boys. And though I did not think to find you here, I would speak with you regardless. You're of little use to me with your head crushed.” I pushed over a table near the door to provide us with some small shelter from the half dozen or so men who remained inside. Other than the two who had attempted to murder Yate, the remainder were exploring the wonders of a tavern without a tavernkeeper. That is to say, they were taking their fill of the bucket of gin and shoving their pockets full of knives and small dishes. In the next few minutes, they would be either asleep or more belligerent than ever.
The other two men eyed us as we crouched behind the overturned table. They eyed the men with the gin. They attempted to make up their minds.
”My name is Weaver,” I said hastily to Yate. ”I am in the employ of a priest called Ufford, who has hired me to find out the author of some threatening notes. He thinks you might know something of this-that it may be linked to your troubles with Dogmill.”
”Dogmill should go to the devil, and Ufford too. I wish I'd never involved myself in this business. It's nothing but plots and secrets and schemes. But it's the porters who pay the price.”
I thought to ask what plots and secrets and schemes he meant, but I observed that violence had defeated drink. Four men who had taken their fill of gin now rushed toward us like angry bulls.
Yate saw at once that it was time to take our leave. As he pushed open the door to the tavern, I knew that more talk would have to wait, for there was no refuge to be found outside. There were dozens, perhaps hundreds of men in the street, fighting with one another and with strangers, pulling down doors and women. One man had obtained a lantern and threw it at a building across the street. It fortunately fell short of its mark and broke safely upon the stone steps, setting on fire nothing more important than a fellow rioter.
We were not a foot from the tavern before two men descended once more on Walter Yate, and it would have been a strange thing to rescue him from one death and leave him for another, so I stepped in and took a swing at one of the a.s.sailants. My fist landed hard against the side of his head, and I took some pleasure in seeing him fall, but then there were two more who joined my first a.s.sailant, and I now found myself blocking and punching just to keep the blows from my face.
At one instant I looked up and saw a brick, clutched hard by white fingers, swinging toward my head. I don't know that I would have evaded this blow-certainly fatal-if Yate had not raised his arm, at the risk of exposing himself to violence from a man he fought, and caused my a.s.sailant to drop his brick. I took this brute down with a single jab to his face and grunted my thanks to Yate, on whom I began to look now quite favorably. Though he spoke glowingly of Miriam's husband-as grave an offense as I could imagine-he and I were now bound in the brotherhood of combat.
I still had the skills of a trained pugilist, though the leg injury that had ended my fighting days began to ache as I pranced about, defending myself and looking for an exit through which Yate and I might escape. But no exit was to be found. Someone would present himself to me with his fists and I would fend him off or fell him or sidestep him, only to find a new conflict. Yate, for his part, fought well, but like me could only keep his attackers away long enough to fend off more blows.
Occupied as I was in protecting my own life, I could see that the riot had taken a strangely political cast. Groups of porters were now chanting No Jacobites! No Tories! No Papists! No Jacobites! No Tories! No Papists!-all being led by Yate's rival, Greenbill Billy. Riots were apt to take on convenient tones of protest, particularly in election times, but I was nevertheless curious that this should have happened so quickly.
I had, however, more pressing things with which to concern myself, for while many of the porters were busy with their chanting and window-breaking, many more showed a remarkable commitment to fighting-and to fighting us in particular. I cannot say how long we battled there. More than half an hour, I suppose. I punched and I took punches. My face grew heavy with sweat and blood. And still I fought. The instant I found an opening I stepped into it, only to be attacked once more. In the first few minutes I perpetually glanced over at my companion, but soon I lacked the energy. I could do no more than protect myself. At one point I did summon the strength to turn and see how the porter fared, and I was astonished to see he was gone. Either he had fled or the crowd had separated us without our knowing. I presumed it to be the second, and for reasons I cannot fully explain, this thought filled me with dread. I had saved Yate, and he had saved me. I now thought his well-being my concern. I s.h.i.+fted my position just enough to change my view, but still no sign. A strange sort of panic washed over me, as though I had lost a small child with whose care I had been charged. ”Yate!” I called out, over the noise of grunting and cheering and the slap of fist on flesh. I received no answer to my calls.
And then it stopped. One moment I was fighting, shouting for Yate, and the next instant all had gone quiet, and I found myself swinging at air, spinning madly in search of the next anonymous opponent. A crowd formed around me with a good five feet of distance. I felt like a trapped animal, a thing dangerous and alien. I stood there breathing hard, half doubled over, waiting for the strength to inquire why I had become the subject of such scrutiny.
Then two constables stepped forward and took my arms.
I let them. I did not resist. I leaned forward to rest while they held me up, and in my exhaustion I heard a voice I did not recognize say, ”That's him. That's the one. He's the dirty Gypsy what killed Walter Yate.”
And with that I was taken to the magistrate's office.
CHAPTER 5.
LONDON AFTER DARK is no place for the vulnerable, let alone the naked, but I had freed myself from the most dreaded prison in the kingdom, and I could rejoice that I still had shoes upon my feet. My state would otherwise be as unwholesome as it was humiliating, for in my journey I moved south and, consequently, near to the Fleet Ditch. On these streets a perambulator is likely to step in t.u.r.ds or bits of rotting dog or the discarded tumor of some surgeon's labors. A man who had just escaped prison and near death in a narrow tomb, however, had no business feeling squeamish about a bit of kennel or amputated flesh on his bare legs, particularly when there was an icy rain to wash him clean. As to the problem of my nakedness, it was, though cold and wet, also dark outside-surely the best condition under which to undertake a prison escape-and I had little doubt that, in this city I knew so well, I should be able to remain hidden in shadows. is no place for the vulnerable, let alone the naked, but I had freed myself from the most dreaded prison in the kingdom, and I could rejoice that I still had shoes upon my feet. My state would otherwise be as unwholesome as it was humiliating, for in my journey I moved south and, consequently, near to the Fleet Ditch. On these streets a perambulator is likely to step in t.u.r.ds or bits of rotting dog or the discarded tumor of some surgeon's labors. A man who had just escaped prison and near death in a narrow tomb, however, had no business feeling squeamish about a bit of kennel or amputated flesh on his bare legs, particularly when there was an icy rain to wash him clean. As to the problem of my nakedness, it was, though cold and wet, also dark outside-surely the best condition under which to undertake a prison escape-and I had little doubt that, in this city I knew so well, I should be able to remain hidden in shadows.
But not forever. I would need clothing, and quickly too, for though the joy of having won my freedom coursed through my veins, making me feel as alert as though I'd had a dozen dishes of coffee, I felt dangerously cold, and my hands began to grow numb. My teeth chattered, and I s.h.i.+vered so hard I feared I should lose my balance and fall upon the ground. I was not happy with the prospect of taking from another what I so desired myself, but necessity outweighed whatever peccadilloes of morality troubled my thoughts. Besides, I had no intention of taking any man's clothes entire and leaving him in my own current state of nature. I merely wished to find someone who could be persuaded, one way or another, to share some small portion of his bounty.
There is something about having been in prison, and perhaps more so in having escaped from prison, that makes a man see the familiar as new. As I made my way to the west and south, I smelled the stench of the Fleet like some b.u.mptious arrival from the country. I heard the strangeness of the cries of the pie sellers and the chicken men and the shrimp girls, ”Shrimp shrimp shrimp shrimpers!” called out again and again like a bird of the tropics. The sloppy words scrawled on the walls that I would never before have noticed-Walpole go ye to the devil and and Jenny King is a h.o.r.e and s.l.u.t Jenny King is a h.o.r.e and s.l.u.t and and Com and see Misus Rose at the sine of the Too Bis.h.i.+ps for sheepskins Com and see Misus Rose at the sine of the Too Bis.h.i.+ps for sheepskins-now seemed to me the outlandish scrawl of a mysterious alphabet. But the renewed strangeness of the city took little of my attention from the discomfort of being cold and wet and hungry-hungry to dizziness-and the cries of pies and pickled fish and roast turnips distracted me something immense.
My ramble through this unsavory part of town took on the grim, disjointed tone of a nightmare. Once or twice a linkboy or mendicant spotted me and hooted, but, for good or ill, in a metropolis such as this one, where poverty is so rampant, it is not so unusual to spy an unfortunate without raiment, and I was merely taken for some desperate victim of the current poverty weighing upon the nation. I pa.s.sed by more than my share of beggars, who refrained from asking me for money, but I could see by the empty looks in their eyes that they knew me to be well fed and therefore more fortunate than they. A few ladies of pleasure offered their services to me, but I explained that I had, at that moment, no money about me.
Off Holborn, I saw a man of precisely the species I wanted. He was a drunkard of the middling sort who had abandoned his friends in an alehouse somewhere and gone in search of cheap flesh. For a staggering inebriant-that is to say, a man who is not overly particular-cheap flesh is easily found, all the more so because a man in his state might prove an easy mark for a woman with an eye toward his purse or watch or wig.
This fellow, bloated, soaked to the bone, and somewhat past the middle point in life, swayed toward a dark-haired woman who could be described in sadly similar terms. In some ways, I thought, I would be doing him a favor by preventing him from an intimacy with a creature far inferior to what he would desire in a state of sobriety-one who would almost certainly take what had not been offered and leave in return that which was not desired. I emerged from the shadows, lashed out at him with a hand on each shoulder, and pulled him into the alley where I had been hiding.
”Gracious G.o.d, help me!” he cried, before I could put a hand over his mouth.
”Be silent, you drunk fool,” I whispered. ”Can you not see I am trying to help you?”
My words had the effect I had intended, for he paused to consider their meaning and how this naked stranger might be trying to lend him aid. While he drunkenly measured my intentions, I was able to help myself to his coat, hat, and wig.
”Just a moment!” he shouted, but it afforded him nothing. He stood up, perhaps to chase me, but slipped in some slick filth and fell back into the alley. Still naked, but with my booty tucked under my arm, I dashed off into the night. I would be using those things but a short time, however, for I had it in my head to steal the clothing off another man next, and that would be to far more purpose.
Half an hour later, I was at last under a roof and near a gloriously hot stove, conducting a conversation marred with violence. ”You can either do as I ask you, or you can be bludgeoned senseless,” I said to the footman, a strapping lad of hardly more than eighteen years.
He glanced to the other side of the kitchen where the body of the butler lay facedown and slumped, a bit of blood trickling out of his ear. I had made the butler the same offer, and his choice had been none the wisest.
”I haven't worked here more than two weeks,” he said, in a thick northern accent. ”They told me ruffians have been known to break in without a by-your-leave. There's been hungry men at the door, begging for sc.r.a.ps, begging awful fierce, but I never thought to see a housebreaker till now.”
I am certain I looked a frightful sight, wearing nothing but an outer coat, a periwig that hardly covered my own hair, and a hat propped haphazardly on top-all of which were drenched. I had thought to take the wig because I believed that if my escape had been discovered, the search might be for a man of dark natural hair, not a bewigged gentleman, but I looked no more a gentleman than did a chained African just arrived in Liverpool.
”You'll see nothing but the back of your eyelids, lad, if you don't do as I tell you.” I ought to have moved closer to him that I might appear menacing. Instead I backed up to feel the warmth of the stove.
He noticed nothing of my movements, however. ”I've no cause for getting myself hurt in his service,” the footman said, gesturing with his head toward another room in the house.
”Then give me your clothes,” I said.
”But I'm wearing them.”
”Then perhaps you should remove them first,” I proposed.
He stared at me, awaiting further clarification, but when he saw none was forthcoming, he let out a confused sigh, mumbled to himself as though I were his father and had asked him to slop the pigs, and began to unfasten his b.u.t.tons and unlace his laces. His teeth petulantly dug into his lower lip, he stripped down to all but his s.h.i.+rt and tossed his clothes toward me so they landed in a pile. I gave him in exchange my recently got coat, heavy with wet, and I then donned his livery-agreeably dry, though thicker with lice than I should have desired.
My goal was not to trick his master; I would not do so for more than an instant. I believed, however, that seeing me in his servant's garb would prove disorienting enough to make him more pliable. I also knew that, once I left the house, the livery would make a fine disguise.
After the footman had put on my coat, I tied him with some rope I found in the kitchen. ”Are there any other servants in the house?” I asked him, as I grabbed a half loaf of bread and bit into it violently. It was a day old, and hard, but it tasted wonderful to me.
”Just the la.s.s what does the cleaning,” he said, ”but she's virtuous, she is, and I haven't done nothing with her that would harm her honor.”
I raised an eyebrow. ”Where is she now?” I asked, my mouth full of bread.
”This is her night off. She's gone to see her mother, who tends children for a great lady what lives near St. James's. She won't be back for two hours at least.”
I considered the possibility that he was lying-about the time of the girl's return, not her virtue-and concluded that he had not the guile to deceive me. Unwilling to set down my bread, I held it between my teeth while I took a kitchen rag and wrapped it around his mouth to keep him silent. I then told him that over the next few days he might review the daily papers to see if anyone advertised for the coat and wig and hat. The kind thing would be to return them to their owner.
I quickly finished the bread, found a pair of apples-one of which I ate, the other dropped into my pocket-and then thought it time to set out upon my business. The town house was not so large nor laid out in an unusual manner, and it was no difficult thing to seek out my man.
I found Judge Piers Rowley in a brightly lit study of red curtains, red cus.h.i.+ons, and a red Turkey rug. Rowley himself wore a matching red dressing gown and cap and was hardly recognizable to me without the full regalia of his judge's costume. I took this as a good sign. I would, perhaps, be equally unrecognizable in my own disguise-at least for the length of time I wished to effect a surprise. He sat with his back mostly to me, angled to get the most light possible from the blazing fireplace that illuminated a writing desk scattered with papers. Around the room a number of other candles burned, and a tray of apples and pears had been set out, along with a decanter of a brilliantly red wine-port by the smell of it. I could have used a gla.s.s or two myself, but I could not risk disordering my senses with drink.
As I drew closer, I saw that Rowley clutched a thick volume to his chest. He had fallen asleep. I was tempted, I confess, to take my revenge there. To grab him by his throat and allow him to wake to the nightmare of his own death. The cruelty of so mad an experience appealed to me, and certainly he deserved no less. But no matter how satisfying, I understood that the crime would accomplish little.