Depressing, too, was the fact that the men he read about in the Old Bailey Proceedings were from precisely the same class and background as himself—a few from the very same slum neighbourhood in London—and were inevitably hobbled by the same lack of education, skills, social connections, or reasonable prospects. In reading about these men and their crimes, he could have been reading about himself. If not for Granville Gower, Earl of Sutherland, young Archie Burley would have been one of the miserable multitude with a one-way ticket to a short life of brute labour Down Under.
Still, the men Burleigh was interested in were neither saints nor angels unaware. He was not interested in petty serial offenders or poor unlucky mugs who, for lack of better police work or proper legal representation, might have walked free; or any whose crimes might well have been mitigated by circumstance if the facts of the case had been allowed full rein. None of these was suitable for his specific needs. As the earl pored over issue after issue of the Old Bailey’s broadsheet, he scanned for a rare class of individual: genuine brigands. His lordship wanted bona fide malefactors and miscreants, authentic outlaws, dyed-in-the-wool, unapologetic troublemakers of a high order. Only these, he reckoned, could he trust with the charge he intended to place upon them.
He strode through one of the lower corridors of the Justice House where prisoners were confined, awaiting the final resolution of their individual cases. Those who saw him might easily have taken Burleigh for the Prince of Darkness or one of his senior assistants—dressed all in black with a black riding cape lined with crimson satin, tall black boots, and a black felt slouch hat pulled low over his long face; his beard short and pointed as a poker, his dark eyes hidden in shadow—he did at least look the part as he glided along the deserted byways of the prison. In the pocket of his coat, his lordship carried his carefully prepared papers, one for each of the men he had selected as worthy of further consideration. Each detainee in residence had been sentenced and every last one of them knew what fate awaited him; none were happy men and none had reason to hope for anything good. Thus a pervading atmosphere of gloom and despair hung as a stagnant cloud in the darkened corridors through which Lord Burleigh, a lavender-scented handkerchief pressed to his nose, was led by a warden with a lantern in his hand.
“Do you have the list of names I sent you?” asked Burleigh, his voice pinging along the steel doors lining the corridor.
“Aye, sir,” mumbled Warden Jacks, selecting a key from the large ring in his hand. “I do have it.”
“Were you able to get all of them?”
“All saving one, sir. And he won’t be missed, if you pardon my sayin’ so. Won’t be missed by a mile.”
“Which one?”
“Burdock,” replied the warden. “Was found dead with a shiv in his neck this mornin’, so he’s been scratched from yer list.”
“Unlucky fellow,” replied Burleigh. “Oh well—one down, eight to go.”
The warden turned the key in the lock and opened the door. “A table and two chairs—as ordered, sir,” he said. “I’ll leave you to settle while I fetch the first one in. Anyone particular you’d like to start with?”
“Just bring them as they come to hand, Warden,” replied Burleigh, moving into the cell.
“As you will, sir.”
Burleigh took the chair behind the table where a pair of lighted candles burned in cheap tin holders. The air in the cell was rancid and close. Removing his gloves and folding his handkerchief, he put them to one side and withdrew the sheaf of papers from his coat pocket, placed them neatly on the table before him, then folded his hands to wait. Presently he heard the patter of footsteps outside and the door opened once more. Warden Jacks and the first prisoner appeared.
“Sit there and don’t you twitch a muscle,” cautioned Jacks. “I have you in my eye.”
The prisoner took his seat and regarded Burleigh with the wary expression of a man who could not decide whether the prospect before him augured good or ill.
“Name?” said Burleigh.
“Thompson,” replied the man. “Thomas Thompson.”
Burleigh searched through his papers and withdrew a single sheet, holding it to the candlelight. “Murder—is that right, Thompson?”
“It’s a lie. I never killed nobody. I wasn’t even in t’pub at the time.”
“Is that right?” That mitigating ambiguity was probably why Thompson was not destined for the gallows. Burleigh raised his eyes and gazed at the prisoner across the table, his angular face keen in the candlelight. “Tell me why I should believe you.”
“I’ve got a wife and three littl’uns, see? I’m their only support. I go to prison and they all starve. They’re on the street already. I don’t rightly know where they are.”
Burleigh glanced at the warden, who was shaking his head.
“Don’t listen to him,” whined Thompson. “He don’t know nuffin’ an’ that’s a fact.” He leaned forward, raising manacled hands. “You gotta help me, mate. I got duties an’ obligations, see? I gotta get outa’ here. I gotta help me family.”
Burleigh nodded, glanced at the page one more time, then held it to the candle flame. “I’m finished with this one,” he told the warden as the paper caught fire. “Bring in the next.” He dropped the flaming page to the floor.
“Okay, you,” said Jacks, putting a hand to the convict’s collar. “Out.”
Thompson was led away, still protesting his innocence. His voice could be heard ringing down the hallway; the pleading was silenced by the slam of a door, and a few moments later the warden appeared with another prisoner. This candidate was dark and slender, and much younger than Burleigh had expected. “Name?” he asked.
“Marcus Taverner,” replied the man in a clear, forthright voice.
“Why were you convicted?” Burleigh shuffled through his papers once more and brought out a single sheet.
“Robbery with grievous assault.”
“Did you do it?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Cove owed me money for a job well done and refused to pay up.”
“So you took it.”
“Oh, I took it, boss. For a fact I did—and gave him something to think about besides.” A slight smile touched the young convict’s lips. “Call it interest on my investment.”
“Where are they sending you?”
“Ganymede,” replied Taverner.
“Pardon?” Burleigh glanced up in surprise. “Did you say Ganymede?”
“The HMS Ganymede,” explained Warden Jacks. “A seventy-four-gun frigate captured from the Frenchies, sir. Now a prison hulk anchored in Chatham Sound.”
“What do you think about your sentence, Taverner?” asked Burleigh, turning once more to the prisoner before him.
“Not much.” He shrugged. “Reckon I’ll weather the storm right enough.”
Burleigh made a mark on the page with a stub of pencil, and without looking up said, “That will be all. Bring in the next one.”
The warden took the prisoner away, returning with another man in manacles a minute or so later. This one, like the others, was dismissed after a few questions, and a fourth criminal took his place, followed in quick succession by numbers five through eight—each in turn questioned by Burleigh, who made slight notations on the page before him.
“That’s the lot, sir,” announced Warden Jacks after removing the eighth prisoner. “Any you want to see again?”
“That won’t be necessary, Warden, thank you.” Burleigh took the last page, creased it, and wrote something while the official waited. “These are the men I’ve chosen. They are to be transferred to the prison ship HMS Discovery.”
Jacks looked at the paper, holding it close to his face. “The Discovery is at Deptford, sir.”
“That is true, Warden. How very astute.” Burleigh pushed back his chair and stood. “They are to be transferred tonight.”
“But—see here, sir—”
Burleigh stuffed the sheaf of paper
s into his coat pocket and stepped around the table. “Is there some problem, Warden? Or—could it be that the money you expect to receive should be given to someone else?”
“That’s not much time, sir—if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“No, Warden Jacks, it is not much time. But you are a clever and resourceful fellow. I have no doubt you will find the time to make the necessary arrangements.” He tapped the paper in the warden’s hand. “They must be aboard no later than midnight tonight.”
“If it is all the same to you, sir, what difference does—”
“It most assuredly is not all the same to me, Warden. You will abide by the terms of our agreement, or I will find someone prepared to do so without question.”
“Beg pardon, sir. The prisoners will be there.”
Burleigh departed Justice House, rejoined his coach, and ordered the driver to make his way down to the Isle of Dogs in the docklands. The coach rumbled down streets of increasing dereliction, each one grimmer and dirtier than the one before, until arriving at the Millwall Docks where the driver was directed to a pub called the Black Spot. Burleigh disembarked, saying, “Have the horse fed and watered, and get something for yourself.” He passed the driver a stack of silver shillings. “Then come back here and wait. I do not know how long I shall be.”
In fact, it was still early afternoon when the man Burleigh had come to meet entered the Black Spot. The clock in the church at Chapel House had just gone three, and the fellow, pausing on the threshold to allow his eyes to adjust to the low, fuggy light inside the tavern, was immediately spotted by Burleigh. A serving boy was dispatched to fetch the sailor to the alcove where his lordship had taken up residence. Burleigh thanked the lad and ordered beer and food to be brought.
“Sit down, please, Pilot Suggs. I trust you have been able to secure a suitable vessel for our use?”
“Not one to beat about the bushes, are we, sir?” observed the seaman. “Very well.” He glanced around the near-empty room as if expecting to be overheard, then said, “In answer to your question”—he looked around again—“a dog could die of thirst in this place.”
“I have ordered a jug of their best and some food for you,” replied Burleigh, waving aside the man’s impertinence. “It will arrive shortly. You were saying?”
“Yes, sir. I have secured a craft that answers right well to your particular requirements. She’s a single-masted river runner, going by name o’ Rose of Shar—”
“Do not trouble me with irrelevant details, Pilot,” Burleigh interrupted. “If you are happy that you have met the standard to which I shall hold you, then that is the end of it.”
The seadog’s eyes narrowed and he sniffed loudly. “I was just in the way of making polite conversation—begging your pardon.”
The boy arrived with a plate of bread and sausages; on his heels came the landlord bearing a foaming flagon and two jars. Burleigh thanked the publican and dismissed him with a few pennies. When the two were alone again, he said, “I have given my crew instructions that we are to weigh anchor no later than midnight.” He pushed the plate of food nearer the pilot, who helped himself. “Are we in agreement?”
“Tide flow.” Suggs nodded. “As agreed.” He took a big bite out of a sausage and chewed thoughtfully, then washed it down with ale. “And I am to be paid in coin—as agreed?”
“To be sure.” Burleigh took a long drink and then reached into an inner coat pocket. He brought out a small leather bag and hefted it in his hand as if weighing its contents, or trying to decide what to do with it. In the end, he tossed it to the seaman. “There is your payment in ready silver, and in advance.”
Suggs eyed the money bag but made no move to pick it up. “What is to stop me just taking the money and leaving you dry-docked?”
This brought a smile to Burleigh’s lips. “Not one to beat about the bush, pilot?”
Suggs sniffed again and took another bite of sausage.
“I’ll tell you why then, since you ask,” Burleigh said, taking another drink. “Fulfill the rest of the bargain and I will give you twice what is in that bag when I accept delivery.” He nodded as the river pilot scooped the silver off the table. “Call it a bonus for a job well done. You can divide it with your men however you will.”
“I’ll be there before midnight—providing your bluebottles show with the cargo.”
“That goes without saying.” Burleigh slid from his bench in the snug and stood. “I am satisfied that we are in accord. I will leave you to your dinner. I shall be aboard the Percheron from nightfall. Do not keep me waiting any longer than I must.”
“Never fear, sir,” replied a happy seadog. “You can count on Smollet Suggs.”
PART TWO
Many Unhappy Returns
CHAPTER 8
In Which Strong Temptation Is Resisted
Xian-Li stood in the yard with her favourite blue bowl, letting the dry kitchen scraps sift through her fingers. Surrounded by her flock of brown speckled hens, cackling and scratching as she flung bread crusts and apple peels to them, she felt a sudden chill and gave an involuntary shiver. The day was bright and blustery, so her long black hair was gathered in a red scarf. She watched her shadow on the ground; the trailing ends of the scarf waving in the breeze made it seem as if the shadow itself were alive.
Though the sun was warm on her shoulders, the chill struck her again a minute or so later—this time accompanied by a feeling of oppression or dread so strong that she paused in mid-throw, a handful of pea pods in her fist. She turned around, expecting to find someone watching her . . . but there was no one. The yard was empty, the servants inside or otherwise out of sight.
The feeling of foreboding passed in a moment and Xian-Li continued feeding the chickens. She soon emptied the bowl, shaking the last crumbs onto the ground. Tucking the crock under her arm, she started back to the house. As she reached the back door she glanced up, and there he was: Benedict, her precious son, standing in the open gateway. His hands were empty, hanging at the end of limp arms; he wore no coat or hat, and the look on his face was one of utter desolation and emptiness. The blue bowl slipped from her grasp as she ran forward.
“Beni!” she gasped as she gathered him into her embrace. “Oh, Beni! You have returned.” She pushed back and held him at arm’s length so she could see his face. Something in his aspect had changed; he seemed older than his thirteen years. “What has happened?” She glanced behind him, looking for Arthur. “Where is your father?”
“Mother, I—” Benedict broke off, unable to finish. Xian-Li saw then that he was in pain, his flesh pale, his eyes dark-rimmed.
“Are you hurt?” She looked him over, feeling for injuries with her hands. “What has happened?”
Benedict drew a deep breath and said, “He is not coming.”
“Not coming? Arthur is delayed?”
“Father is not coming home,” Benedict corrected, his voice quavering. “He is never coming home again . . .”
Xian-Li searched his ashen face for clarity. “I don’t understand. Is he hurt?” She straightened, as if preparing to fly to her stricken husband’s aid. “We must go to him.” She made to press by him.
“Mother, wait!” Benedict seized her arm. “Father is not injured. He is dead.”
She halted, her back stiffening.
“Father is dead,” he repeated. “He is not injured. He is dead and buried in a tomb, Mother, and he is never coming home.”
All strength fled in that instant and Xian-Li collapsed as if life and breath had been jerked from her body. She lay like a thing discarded—a bundle of refuse carelessly tossed aside.
Benedict stood unmoving, watching, as it seemed, from a distance and not knowing how to cross the awful chasm that had opened between them. Finally he stumbled forward, knelt down, and, taking her by the arm, helped his mother to her feet. They clung to one another in their sorrow.
How much time passed while they stood in the yard could not be measured, for time had
stopped. When Xian-Li lifted her head and opened her eyes once more, it was to look out on a world completely and radically changed. Never again would it hold for her the satisfactions and delights that she knew and loved. Never again would it be her home. How could it? The man she loved, who was her life, was gone.
Weeping at the fearful, gaping wound that had suddenly ripped through her soul, Xian-Li allowed herself to be led into the house, where she fell into a chair at the table in the kitchen. The cook and housekeeper scurried around trying to find ways to comfort their mistress. Xian-Li, numb to everything around her, did not resist, but met their efforts with the calm acceptance of the condemned who at last understand that time is short and life fleeting and that nothing matters except that which is eternal.
The cook, tutting and fluttering, produced a brown bottle and poured a small measure of sour cider into a cup, which she placed in her mistress’s hands. “Get some o’ this down you,” she advised. “You’ll be t’ better for it.”
Xian-Li, without thinking, raised the cup to her lips. The astringent cider assaulted her mouth and throat and made her cough, but helped clear her senses. She gazed around as if waking from a dream, saw Benedict and reached for his hand, took it, and squeezed hard as if to reassure herself that he at least was still solidly alive.
“I am sorry, Mother. They did everything they could—no one could have done more.” He knelt beside her chair, the tears so long held back falling freely now. “I did everything I could too.”
Xian-Li gathered him into her arms and held her son—a young man now, really, but not too old to refuse the comfort of her embrace—as he emptied the well of his sorrow and lifted his head at last. She gestured to the cook to bring more cider and then sat Benedict down in a chair beside her. “I want to know what happened,” she said, her voice raw. “I need to know everything.”
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