by Mark Hodder
“The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.”
“That’s what the core group call themselves, though they and their many followers have more generally become known as the True Libertines. Over the past twenty years or so, their brand of Libertarianism has transformed into a celebration of the so-called nobility of the human spirit. They look at the humble labourer and declare that he is a thing of beauty, this hard-done-by man, whose very existence is threatened by the ugly, job-stealing machines.”
He grinned. “I must admit, though, that the True Libertines are mostly the listless elite, foppish painters, languorous authors, lazy philosophers, or half-mad poets like me. They—perhaps I should say ‘we,’ for I do count myself among their number—we would rather wax lyrical about the labourer than actually pick up a shovel ourselves.”
“You don’t fool me, little ‘un,” said Burton. “You’re a half-arsed Libertine at best!”
“I confess—I’m merely a dabbler!” The poet laughed. “Anyway, to get back to the subject of my little discourse, Henry Beresford and his remaining supporters renamed themselves the Rakes and the rest you know: they’re a bunch of lawless rascals who delight in mischief. And, of course, they received a huge boost when Darwin published The Origin of Species. Who needs morality when God is dead?”
“I wonder what Darwin himself would say about it?” pondered the king’s agent.
“Perhaps he’d agree with your theory of a natural system of justice; the idea that we all have an individual built-in moral sense which brings rewards for our good deeds and punishments for our bad. I suspect he’d see it as a function that assists in the survival of the species.”
“Maybe so, if he’s still alive. With every religion declaring jihad against him, he might have discovered that scientific realism can’t protect against the vengeance of a dead god.”
“Do you believe the rumours that the Technologists are sheltering him?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. Francis Galton, the head of the Eugenicist faction, is his cousin. But back to the Rakes, Algy—do they still idolise Spring Heeled Jack?”
“If anything, more so. Their new leader, Beresford’s protege, is more extreme even than he was.”
“And who is this new leader?”
“You know of him. His name is—Ah-ha! Here’s the food!”
The barmaid placed a steaming plate before each man, laid cutlery on the table, and asked, “Another round, gents?”
“Yes,” said Swinburne. “No. Wait. Bring us a bottle of red wine instead. Does that suit you, Richard?”
Burton nodded and the barmaid smiled toothily and departed.
“Oliphant,” declared Swinburne.
“Pardon?”
“The leader of the Rake faction for the past two years: Laurence Oliphant.”
By midafternoon, the fog had turned a rusty brown and flakes of soot were once again drifting lazily through it.
Swinburne got drunk and staggered off into the smothering murk with no clear destination in mind. He would undoubtedly end up unconscious in a gentlemen’s club or brothel; his behaviour had been deteriorating these past weeks.
What that lad needs, thought Burton, is a purpose.
The king’s agent had managed to talk with the manager of the Hog in the Pound before departing. He’d learned that the original owner of the pub—the man who’d employed Edward Oxford and witnessed the birth of the True Libertines and Rakes—was named Joseph Robinson.
“He’s an elderly gent, now, sir,” the manager had advised. “A few years back, 1856 it was, he tired of the daily journey to and fro—he’s always lived in Battersea, you see—so he sold up and bought himself a public house closer to home, a nice little place called the Tremors.”
“Strange name for a pub!” Burton had commented.
“Aye, ‘tis. If you ever go there, ask him about it—there’s a story!”
Burton got home at six and hadn’t been there for more than ten minutes when a loud detonation sounded outside the house. It was followed by the clang of the doorbell. A minute later Mrs. Angell knocked on the study door and announced the arrival of Mr. Montague Penniforth, “who’s leaving a trail of soot on the carpet.”
The doorway darkened behind her as the giant cabbie ducked and stepped through. He was wrapped in a calf-length red greatcoat, beneath which he wore white breeches, knee-high boots, and a tricorne hat, all peppered with black flakes.
“I’m sorry, good lady,” he said. “My mistake. Forgot to wipe me feet. You see, I’m preoccupied, like, on account of the fact that me crankshaft just broke and flew a good forty feet in the air afore it came back down to earth in three pieces.”
He shrugged at Burton, who was seated at the main desk. “I’m sorry, guv’nor, but I don’t think I’ll be takin’ you anywhere ‘til I get the bleedin’ thing replaced; beggin’ your pardin for the bad langwidge, ma’am!”
Mrs. Angell sniffed and muttered, “I wouldn’t mind so much if they were normal-sized feet!” and glided out of the room with a haughty air.
Burton stood and shook his visitor’s hand. “Hang up your hat and coat, Monty. A brandy?”
“Don’t mind if I do, sir.”
Burton poured a couple of generous measures and, after Penniforth had divested himself of his outer layers, handed him a glass and gestured to one of the armchairs by the fireplace.
The men sat opposite each other and the cabbie gave a satisfied sigh.
“Blimey,” he said, “takin’ a brandy in the house of a toff—who’d have thought?”
“A toff, Monty?”
“‘Scuse me, guv’nor!”
Burton gave a wry smile. “I’ve not properly introduced myself, have I?”
“No need, sir. I reads the papers. You’re Sir Richard Burton, the Africa gentleman. A reg’lar Livingstone, you are!”
“Ouch!” winced Burton.
Penniforth looked bemused.
“It’s not a comparison I’m keen on,” explained the explorer.
“Ah. Competition?”
“Different ideas. I say, you enjoyed that brandy! Another?”
The cabbie looked in surprise at his empty glass. “I wouldn’t say no, if it ain’t an imposition, sir; I didn’t notice that one go down the pipe!”
Burton handed over the decanter. “Here, help yourself. Tell me, Monty, how well do you know the East End?”
The big man looked up in surprise—and forgot to stop pouring the brandy until his glass was filled almost to the brim.
“Oof!” he gasped. “The Cauldron! I can look after meself but I wouldn’t recommend it to no one but them what’s tired o’ life. I lives in Cheapside, what’s in spittin’ distance o’ Whitechapel, so I knows the East End. I knows all o’ London. It’s me job.”
“Have you heard anything about wolves in the area?”
Penniforth’s face—a solid, clean-shaven, weather-beaten, and square affair, framed by curly brown hair—paled slightly.
“Aye, somethin’ of the sort. It’s said they’re more men than wolves; monsters what have been comin’ out after dark these weeks past. You ain’t gonna ask me to go a-huntin’ wiv you, I hope?”
“Just that.”
Montague Penniforth swallowed his overfilled glass of brandy in a single gulp.
“Bloody ‘ell,” he gasped.
“You can refuse, of course,” said Burton. “I know the Cauldron is dangerous enough even without monsters running around it, but one way or another I intend to go there tonight. I was hoping that you’d come with me, as you know your way around. I’ll pay you generously.”
Penniforth reached up and scratched his head through his thick curls.
“The thing is, sir, that you bein’ a toff ‘n’ all-a-beggin’ your pardin—it’ll make you a target for every scallywag what sets eyes on you. An’ in the East End, every bugger what sets eyes on you will be a scallywag!”
Burton stood up. “Wait here. Finish the brandy if you like. I’ll be about fifteen minu
tes.”
He strode across his study and disappeared through a door.
Penniforth refilled his glass and looked around. He’d never seen a room like this. It was crammed with books and weapons and pictures and charts and things he didn’t even know the name of. He got to his feet and wandered around, examining the old flintlocks, the modern pistols, the curved knives, and the great variety of swords; it was the weapons that appealed to him most.
The cabbie had often exclaimed to his wife, “Ow the other ‘alf live!” But this man Burton, he didn’t seem to belong to the other half; he was one of a kind. He acted like a gentleman but he’d the face of a brute. He was of the “upper crust” but he spoke to the cabbie like they were equals. He was famous but he had no airs and graces. Strange!
The door leading to the stairs opened and a rough-looking oldster with a long white beard stepped in; an ex-seaman if his rolling gait was any indication.
“Hallo, Pa!” greeted Penniforth. “You lookin’ for the master of the ouse?”
“Yus,” croaked the new arrival, blinking beneath his beetling white eyebrows. “The beggar owes me three ‘n’ six an’ I can’t wait no longer!”
“Ho, he does, does he?”
“Yus. Where is ‘e, the rat?”
Penniforth laid down his glass and pushed out his chest. “‘Ere now, you’d better watch your tongue, Mister!”
“My tongue, is it?” wheezed the old man. “What yet gonna do abaht it, ay?”
“For a start, me of mucker,” growled Penniforth, “I’ll pick you up by the collar of that two-‘undred-year-old coat o’ yours, an’ by the seat of them scabby-lookin’ pants, an’ I’ll throw you out o’ this ‘ouse right into the gutter, make no mistake!”
“Oh yet will, will yet!”
“Yes I blinkin’ well will!”
The oldster let loose a bark of laughter and suddenly grew much taller and a lot wider.
“There’ll be no need for that, my good fellow!” came Sir Richard Francis Burton’s voice.
Montague Penniforth staggered backward. “My sainted aunt!” he cried. “It’s that African ju-ju!”
“No, Monty, it’s a white wig, powder in my beard, a little stage makeup to cover the scars, some old clothes, and a spot of playacting!” said the old man, who suddenly didn’t seem so old.
“Lord Almighty! You had me proper fooled! You’re a blinkin’ artist, guv’nor!”
“So you think I’ll pass muster in the Cauldron?”
“Cor blimey, yes—no one will look at you twice!”
“Jolly good! Then it just remains for us to arm ourselves and we’ll be off, if you’re agreeable?”
“Right ho, sir; right ho!”
Burton crossed to the bureau that stood against the wall between the two windows and, opening a drawer, pulled from it a brace of modern pistols. He handed one of the six-shooters to the giant cabbie.
“It’s loaded, so be careful. And Monty, this is only to be used in the very last resort, is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you have to draw it, be careful where you point it and only pull the trigger if there’s no other option.”
“Right you are, guv’nor.”
“Good. Let’s be off, then. I’m afraid we’ll have to pay one of your competitors to take us there.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Penniforth. “We cabbies have an understandin’ between ourselves. An’ whatever chap takes us, I’ll ‘ave ‘im arrange for me steam-horse to be towed away from outside your ‘ouse, too.”
They pushed their pistols into their belts, buttoned up their coats, and left the house.
THE CAULDRON
or nigh on five hours, Sir Richard Burton and Montague Penniforth had been trudging around the crowded streets, courts, alleys, and cul-de-sacs of Whitechapel with the fog churning around them and the unspeakable filth sticking to their boots.
The honeycomb of narrow, uneven passages, bordered by the most decrepit and crowded tenements in the city, was flowing with raw sewage and rubbish of every description, including occasional corpses. The stench was overpowering and both men had vomited more than once.
They passed tall houses—“rookeries”—mostly of wood, which slumped upon their own foundations as if tired of standing; houses whose gaping windows were devoid of glass and patched, instead, with paper or cloth or broken pieces of wood; windows from which slops and cracked chamber pots were emptied; from which defeated eyes gazed blankly.
Lines of rope stretched across the alleys, decorated with flea-ridden rags; clothes put out to be washed by the polluted rain, later to dry in the rancid air, but currently marinating in the toxic vapour.
Time and again the two men were approached by girls barely out of childhood, who materialised out of the fog with matted hair and bare feet, smeared with excrement up to their knees, covered only by a rough coat or a thin, torn dress or a man’s shirt which hung loosely over their bones; who offered themselves for a few coppers; who lowered the price when refused; who begged and wheedled and finally cursed viciously when the men pushed past.
Time and again they were approached by boys and men in every variety of torn and filthy apparel, who demanded and bullied and threatened and finally, when the pistols appeared, spat and swore and sidled away.
Time and again they passed skeletal women sitting hunched in dark corners clutching tiny bundles to their breasts; poverty and starvation gnawing at them; too weak and hopeless even to raise their heads as the two men walked quietly by.
Burton, the author, the man who’d described in minute detail the character and practices of cultures far removed from his own, felt that he could never find the words to depict the utter squalor of the Cauldron. The dirt and decay, the putrescence and rot and garbage, the viciousness and violence, the despair and emptiness; it was far beyond anything he’d witnessed in the darkest depths of Africa, amid the so-called primitives.
Thus far tonight, the two men had drunk sour-tasting beer in four malodorous public houses. It was the fifth that delivered what they were looking for.
They were approaching Stepney when Burton mumbled, “There’s another public house ahead. I have to get this foul taste out of my mouth. We’ll take a gin or rum or something; anything, so long as it’s not that pisswater they call ale.”
The cabbie nodded wordlessly and stumbled on, his big feet squelching through the slime.
The pub—the White Lion—halfway down a short and crooked lane, bulged out over the mud as if about to collapse into it. The orange light from its windows oozed into the fog and was smeared across the uneven road surface and opposite wall. Shouts, screams, snatches of song, and the wheeze of an accordion came from within the premises.
Burton pushed open the door and they entered, Penniforth bending to avoid knocking his head on the low ceiling.
“Buy us a drink, Dad?” asked a man of Burton before he’d taken two paces toward the bar.
“Buy yer own fuckin’ drink,” he replied, in character.
“Watch yet mouth, you old git!” came the reply.
“Watch yours!” warned Penniforth, his massive fist pushing up under the man’s chin.
“Steady, mate, no ‘arm done,” whined the individual, turning away.
They shouldered through the crowd to the counter and ordered gins.
The barman asked to see their money first.
Leaning on the scarred wood, they gulped down the spirit and immediately ordered another round.
“Thirsty, aint’cha?” commented the man beside Penniforth.
“Yus,” grunted the cabbie.
“Me too. I always gets a thirst on after fightin’ with the missus.”
“Been givin’ you earache, ‘as she?”
“Not ‘alf, the bleedin’ cow. I ain’t seen you in ‘ere before.”
“I ain’t been ‘ere afore.”
“That your old fella?” The man nodded toward Burton.
“Yus,” answered
Penniforth, gruffly. “Nosey, ain’tcha?”
“Just bein’ neighbourly, that’s all. If yet don’t wanna talk, it ain’t no skin off my nose!”
“Yer, well, fair enough. I thought I’d get ‘im out o’ Mile End for an ‘oliday!”
The other man laughed. “An ‘oliday in Stepney! That’s rich!”
“At least you don’t ‘ave bleedin’ monsters runnin’ around at night!” exclaimed the cabbie.
Burton smiled appreciatively into his glass. Good chap, Monty! Quick work! He ordered more drinks and included a beer for their new acquaintance.
“‘Ere yer go, mate—get that down yer neck,” he rasped, sliding the pint over.
“Ta, Dad, much appreciated. The name’s Fred, by the way. Fred Spooner.”
“I’m Frank Baker,” offered Burton. “This is me son, Monty.”
They drank to each other’s health.
Over in the corner, the man with the accordion began to squeeze out another tune and the crowd roared its bawdy lyrics, which, as far as Burton could make out, told of the various places visited by a pair of bloomers belonging to Old Ma Tucker.
He waited patiently, the odour of old sweat and bad breath and acidic beer and stale piss clogging his nostrils. He didn’t have to wait for long.
“So they’re in Mile End now, are they?” shouted Spooner above the noise.
“Yus,” said Penniforth.
“They’ll be ‘ere next, then,” said the East Ender, with an air of resignation. “My mate over in Wapping lost ‘is tenant to ‘em last week.”
“Wotcher mean, ‘lost’?”
“They snatched one of the kids what roomed at ‘is place. That’s what they do—they steal the nippers, though most of the kids what were taken ‘ave come back since. They took ‘em from Whitechapel first, then Shadwell, Wapping these weeks past, and now I guess it’s Mile End’s turn.”