Part 72 (2/2)

”I'll be d.a.m.ned, that Luke was a h.e.l.l of a scribbler,” says Jack.

The Ordinary pauses and stares at Jack over his half-gla.s.ses.

Bribing the Ordinary is nothing new, of course, it is nearly as ancient and hallowed a ritual as celebrating the Eucharist. But the yellow silk, the gold-this is a kind of signature, a way of letting Jack know just who who did the bribing. did the bribing.

”Your Reverence, could I trouble you to read the Old Testament pa.s.sage one more time?”

”I beg your pardon?”

”Read it again. Consider it, sir, to be part of those Duties for which you have been already Compensated.”

With great rakings and shovelings of pages, the Ordinary returns to the very beginning of the Tome. The other condemned prisoners s.h.i.+ft and mutter; some even rattle their chains. To be hanged by the neck until dead is one thing; but to be forced to listen to a reading from the Old Testament twice, twice, why, that is not only Unusual but Cruel. why, that is not only Unusual but Cruel.

”Cain knew his wife,” the Ordinary intones, ”and she conceived and bore Enoch; and he built a City, and called the name of the city after the name of his son, Enoch...” There now follows a quarter of an hour of men knowing their wives, and becoming the fathers of other men and living for hundreds and hundreds of years. This was the bit where Jack lost his concentration on the first read-through. And to be perfectly honest he loses it again now, somewhere around the time when Kenan becomes the father of Mahalalel. But he snaps to attention later when the name of Enoch comes up again. ”When Enoch had lived sixty-five years, he became the father of Methuselah. Enoch walked with G.o.d after the birth of Methuselah three hundred years, and had other sons and daughters. Thus all the days of Enoch were three hundred and sixty-five years. Enoch walked with G.o.d; and he was not, for G.o.d took him. The Book of Genesis, Chapter 5.” And the Ordinary heaves an immense sigh, for he has been reading for a long time, and lo, he thirsteth mightily for the wine on the Lord's Table, for his throat is as dry as a place in the wilderness without water, amen.

”What the h.e.l.l does that mean? 'Enoch walked with G.o.d, and he was not, for G.o.d took him'?”

”Enoch was translated,” the Ordinary says.

”Even an unlettered mudlark like me knows that the Bible was translated from another tongue, your Reverence, but-”

”No, no, no, I don't mean translated that way. It is a term of theology, theology,” the Ordinary says, ”it means that Enoch did not die.”

”Pardon?”

”At the point of death, he was taken away bodily into the afterlife.”

”Bodily?”

”His body, rather than dying, was translated away,” says the Ordinary. ”Is it all right with you if we continue now with the service as planned?”

”Carry on, sir,” Jack says. ”Carry on.”

New Palace Yard, Westminster EVEN AS D DANIEL'S PROCESSION has been a.s.sembling in the Cloisters of Westminster Abbey, in other buildings, palaces, and compounds around London other groups have been coalescing in more or less ancient and awesome buildings and converged on Westminster by boat, foot, or gilded carriage, and are now stacked outside of Star Chamber like so many battalions waiting to be summoned onto the Fields of Mars. It is no mean similitude. The Trial of the Pyx is so pompous precisely because it is such a dire and vicious clash. In its rudiments, this is a four-way knife-fight among the Sovereign (here represented by the Lords of the Council and the King's Remembrancer), the Exchequer (which is playing host to the Trial), the Mint (today, synonymous with Sir Isaac Newton), and a medieval guild called the Company of Goldsmiths. In effect, what they are all here to do is to construct an airtight legal case against Sir Isaac, and find him guilty beyond doubt of Treason, in the form of embezzling from the Royal Mint, so that he may be punished straightaway and with no thought of any appeal. The penalties might range from aeternal shame and obloquy on up to loss of the right hand (the traditional fate of fraudulent coiners) or even to the same treatment that Jack Shaftoe is about to receive at Tyburn. The challengers are the Goldsmiths, here represented by a jury of chaps in suitably medieval-looking garb, flashy with cloth-of-gold. They are Prosecutors, Mercenaries, and Inquisitors all rolled in to one. The choice is cunningly made, for the Goldsmiths have a natural and long-standing suspicion of the Mint and its produce, which from time to time flares up to out-and-out hostility. Hostility has been the rule during Sir Isaac's tenure. Isaac has found ways to reduce the profit that the Goldsmiths reap when they deliver bullion to the Mint to be coined, and they have retaliated by crafting new trial plates of such fineness that Isaac has been hard pressed to mint guineas pure enough. For the Goldsmiths, as well as others in the money trade, such as Mr. Threader, the rewards of bringing down Isaac shall be immense. has been a.s.sembling in the Cloisters of Westminster Abbey, in other buildings, palaces, and compounds around London other groups have been coalescing in more or less ancient and awesome buildings and converged on Westminster by boat, foot, or gilded carriage, and are now stacked outside of Star Chamber like so many battalions waiting to be summoned onto the Fields of Mars. It is no mean similitude. The Trial of the Pyx is so pompous precisely because it is such a dire and vicious clash. In its rudiments, this is a four-way knife-fight among the Sovereign (here represented by the Lords of the Council and the King's Remembrancer), the Exchequer (which is playing host to the Trial), the Mint (today, synonymous with Sir Isaac Newton), and a medieval guild called the Company of Goldsmiths. In effect, what they are all here to do is to construct an airtight legal case against Sir Isaac, and find him guilty beyond doubt of Treason, in the form of embezzling from the Royal Mint, so that he may be punished straightaway and with no thought of any appeal. The penalties might range from aeternal shame and obloquy on up to loss of the right hand (the traditional fate of fraudulent coiners) or even to the same treatment that Jack Shaftoe is about to receive at Tyburn. The challengers are the Goldsmiths, here represented by a jury of chaps in suitably medieval-looking garb, flashy with cloth-of-gold. They are Prosecutors, Mercenaries, and Inquisitors all rolled in to one. The choice is cunningly made, for the Goldsmiths have a natural and long-standing suspicion of the Mint and its produce, which from time to time flares up to out-and-out hostility. Hostility has been the rule during Sir Isaac's tenure. Isaac has found ways to reduce the profit that the Goldsmiths reap when they deliver bullion to the Mint to be coined, and they have retaliated by crafting new trial plates of such fineness that Isaac has been hard pressed to mint guineas pure enough. For the Goldsmiths, as well as others in the money trade, such as Mr. Threader, the rewards of bringing down Isaac shall be immense.

The Serjeant at Arms Attending the Great Seal comes out in to the yard and summons Daniel's contingent. They troop into the Palace and enter presently into Star Chamber. Last time Daniel was in this place, he was tied to a chair and being tortured for sport by Jeffreys. Today the scene's a bit different. The furniture has been removed or pushed to the walls. In the middle of the chamber, planks have been laid down to protect the floor, and bricks piled atop them to make a platform at about the height of a man's midsection. Resting atop this is a small furnace, similar to the one in which Daniel melted his ring last night. Someone must have been up tending it since the wee hours, for it's already heated through, cherry red, and ready to go.

They pa.s.s out into a side chamber. Marlborough's here, seated at the high end of a table along with the Lord Chancellor, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the new First Lord of the Treasury-Roger's replacement-and other Lords of the Council. Seated in the middle of the table, facing the door, and flanked by clerks and aides, is a chap in a white judicial wig, a three-cornered baron's hat, and black robes. This, Daniel reckons, would be the King's Remembrancer: one of the most ancient positions in the Realm. He is the keeper of the Seal that is the sine qua non sine qua non of the power of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in the King's name he rides herd on the Exchequer in diverse ways-including presiding over Trials of the Pyx. of the power of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in the King's name he rides herd on the Exchequer in diverse ways-including presiding over Trials of the Pyx.

Such a Trial cannot even get underway without the necessaries that it has been Daniel's honor to fetch from the Abbey vault. And so what occurs next, encrusted as it might be with protocol and ceremony, is ever so straightforward: Daniel and the other five Key-holders are summoned to the table. The King's Remembrancer asks for the Indentures, the Weights, and the Plates. These are handed over, but not before Daniel and the others have sworn on stacks of Bibles that they are the genuine articles. One of the King's Remembrancer's Clarkes opens up the chest containing the trial plates. There are two of these, one of silver and one of gold: slabs of metal inscribed with great hairb.a.l.l.s of cursive a.s.serting just how fine and just how authentic they are, and pocked here and there with goldsmiths' seals. The Clarke reads these aloud. Another contingent of blokes is summoned and sworn: these have come from his majesty the King's Treasury at Westminster, whence they've fetched out a little chest, sealed shut with a lump of wax. The seal is that of the Lord Mayor. The Lord Mayor himself is hauled in, at the head of a jury of twelve Citizens, Mr. Threader among them. The Lord Mayor verifies the seal on the chest. It is opened and a die is removed from a velvet bed. The die is compared, by the Mayor and the Citizens, to the stamps on the trial plates, and all agree that the match is perfect. These are indeed the true plates made by the Goldsmiths as a challenge to Sir Isaac Newton; the Trial may proceed.

Similar rites attend the box of weights. This is lined in green velvet, with neat depressions to contain the individual weights: the largest, a full pint or so of bra.s.s, marked 500 s.h.i.+llings 500 s.h.i.+llings and much smaller ones for and much smaller ones for 1 s.h.i.+lling 1 s.h.i.+lling and and 4 pence 4 pence and and one pence, one pence, &c., &c., and finally a set of ivory-handled tweezers for manipulating the tiniest of them. &c., &c., and finally a set of ivory-handled tweezers for manipulating the tiniest of them.

”Summon the Goldsmiths,” intones the King's Remembrancer. To Daniel and his coterie, he says, ”You may stand over there,” and waves at an open s.p.a.ce in the corner. Daniel leads the group over, and turns around to find the eyes of the Duke of Marlborough on him: a reminder-as if Daniel needed any-that this is it. The new System is facing its first test, and it's doing so under the most adverse possible circ.u.mstances: a sick and possibly demented Alchemist is in charge of the Mint and a Vagabond has tampered with the Pyx and is now going to meet his Maker without having coughed up the evidence they want. And Roger's no longer around to make it all better.

The Stone Anvil, the High Hall, Newgate Prison ”I HAVE FOUND HAVE FOUND G G.o.d!” Jack Shaftoe announces. Jack Shaftoe announces.

”What, here here!?” says his interlocutor, a heavy-set chap in a black leather hood.

They are standing in a queue in the High Hall. Or rather Jack Shaftoe is, and the hooded man has come up to him, the better to inspect Jack's Hanging-Suit.

The High Hall might be a bit of a grand name for it. It is simply the biggest room in the gaol, outside of the Chapel, and so it is where fitness-conscious felons come to toddle around, in an endless ragged procession. The center of their orbit is a block of stone set in the middle of the floor, and equipped with a few basic smithy-tools. Normally they are a wordy bunch, the Hall a hurricanoe of profanity, a Vortex of Execration. Today they are gagged by their own amazement. All stare inwards toward the two most famous Jacks in London: Shaftoe and Ketch, exchanging civilities like Addison and Steele. There is no sound except for the sc.r.a.ping of their chains on the floor, and the organized chants of the Mobb outside.

Then an ear-splitting clang sounds from the stone anvil. Another prisoner has just had his ankle-fetters struck off. The only restraint upon him now is a length of cord with which Ketch has lately bound his elbows together behind his back.

”The communion-bread, you know, is in the shape of coins,” Shaftoe remarks.

Then he thinks better of it, for Ketch thinks it's funny, and forgets himself, and exposes his empty tooth-sockets, as well as a few that are soon to be empty. For the hood unfortunately stops at the level of his nose. Somewhere, Ketch must have a whole foot-locker filled with false teeth, as no man in London is in a better position to collect them; but he has not worn any today.

”But how richer a treasure are those coins of bread, than ones of gold!” Shaftoe exclaims. ”For gold and silver may buy admission to a Clubb, or other place of debauchery. But coins of bread have bought me admission to the Kingdom of Heaven. a.s.suming I can manage a few things in the next couple of hours.”

Ketch has utterly lost interest. How many times has he heard this identical speech from a client? He excuses himself very civilly, jumps to the head of the queue, and devotes a few moments to pinioning the next prisoner's elbows with another length of cord.

When Ketch comes back, it is evident he has been thinking about Jack's Hanging-Suit. ”After this,” he remarks, ”it will not be possible for you to change clothes.”

”Oh, you are a subtile one, Jack Ketch!” Shaftoe remarks.

”It is just that-according to some who style themselves in the know-you are dest.i.tute.”

”You think I borrowed borrowed this suit!? Fie on all such gossip-mongers, Mr. Ketch, you know better than to pay heed to them. This suit is every bit as much my own property, as that handsome hood is yours.” this suit!? Fie on all such gossip-mongers, Mr. Ketch, you know better than to pay heed to them. This suit is every bit as much my own property, as that handsome hood is yours.”

Another clang. Ketch excuses himself again and binds up the bloke who's directly in front of Jack. While he is doing so, he sniffles once or twice, juicily, as if the air in the High Hall does not agree with him. But of all men in London, Ketch must be the least sensitive to miasmas, damps, and vapours.

When Ketch turns back round, Shaftoe's startled, and even a bit alarmed, to see, below the fringe of the hood, a teardrop trickling down his cheek. Ketch steps close to Shaftoe, close enough that Shaftoe, craning his neck (for Ketch is a head taller) can resolve individual cavities in Ketch's last remaining incisor. ”You can't imagine what this means to me, Mr. Shaftoe.”

”No, I cannot, Mr. Ketch. What does it mean to you?”

”I'm in debt, Mr. Shaftoe, deep in debt.”

”You don't say!”

”My Betty-the missus-can't stop having little ones. Every year for the last eight.”

”You have eight little Ketches? How remarkable, that a man in your line of work should be such a fount of new life.”

”After the last hanging, one of my creditors tried to arrest me in the street! I've never been so ashamed.”

”Indeed! For a man in such a respectable profession, to be accosted in a public place, and accused of indebtedness, that is a grave humiliation!”

”What would my boys think of me if I wound up here, here, in Newgate?” in Newgate?”

<script>