Wild

by Nathan Besser

  His landlord is Bob Gould, the ambitious son of Robert Fosco Gould Senior, fish wholesaler and Billingsgate property owner. The young man goes about officiously, running the alehouse and the rooms above with tight-fisted diligence. Defoe is content with the arrangement; expectations, while low, are met. When his window was smashed by a thrown flask, the repair was conducted the same day. His half-board carries fresh bread, jam and coffee. Defoe has either a single biscuit or a piece of fruit for lunch, and then wanders into the City to one or other victualhouse for a hot supper. No matter where he wanders, it is always into comparative quiet.

  When Gould’s driveway isn’t obscured by a transport wagon, Defoe can see all the way through to the river’s edge. Mounds of guts and heads pile up, bucket by thrown bucket, until at the end of the day they are driven back into the river. The birds scream in delight. They fight and swarm and circle. From his window, Defoe sits at his small desk, watching.

  When Arnott heard where he intended on rooming, he begged Defoe to take the spare quarters at his Cornhill terrace, offering the same price for what would undoubtedly be substantially more comfortable rooms.

  ‘It sits empty,’ he’d said. ‘Two shillings is two shillings.’

  But Defoe will impose no further on Arnott’s kindness.

  With his bankruptcy officially declared, the trustee accepted a settlement paid in instalments over two years. The deposit was raised by selling all future royalties of the mistress story. Arnott, who also turned out to be the secret benefactor of his prison account, advanced him three months of instalments. It is only Godbehere – bent on full principal plus interest – who continues hunting for evidence of Defoe’s money so he might return him to the roundhouse. He pins a series of Syrus quotes to his rafter; one reads Debt is the slavery of the free.

  Once or twice a week Arnott joins him for supper. While Defoe is bored by his talk of gilt doorknobs and fire pokers, Arnott appears equally bored by the details of Defoe’s latest work in progress. Regardless, Defoe now considers him a most cherished friend. They are an unlikely and anomalous couple who, out of mutual respect – Arnott for Defoe’s talents, Defoe for Arnott’s virtues – sit together, content to bore each other stiff over a glass of wine and dinner.

  The physician who tended Defoe’s hand has prescribed daily application of mercury cream and complete cessation from his work at the oars.

  ‘If it begins to smell,’ he’d warned, closing his case, ‘we might need to saw it off.’

  Despite his absence, Arnott continues to pay Defoe his weekly salary of seven shillings, ten pence. If he ever hopes to keep pace with the bankruptcy instalments, he must supplement his income with royalties from writing. When not writing his various works for Applebee, he composes letters to his children. He writes stories of high adventures in the King’s secret business, and comedic encounters in foreign lands. In a town named Crumplenipt, God is found in broccoli soup. On an island near Africa named Crackenjack, children are forced to walk backwards. Mary writes to him every week with updates.

  Occasionally, when seized by a fit of desperation to return home, Defoe daydreams of a scheme to raise funds. Of owning a fishery or joining Arnott in his trading. But he lets the urge pass and forces himself to return to the work at hand. One task at a time. As it turns out, on this point, his father was right.

  Lord Robert Harley, the Earl Mortimer, hasn’t answered a single of Defoe’s many letters until he writes concerning the Thief-Taker General and the

  certain and incontrovertible evidence of Jonathan Wild’s corruptions and calculated murders. Whilst petty crime is not the Crown’s concern, an increasingly virulent uprising is fomenting, sufficient in scale to concern Our Monarch’s government …

  Harley’s secretary, Cumberbatch, returns his correspondence within forty-eight hours, requesting Defoe’s presence at the Exchequer office the following day. The letter is suffixed with a warning:

  It is Lord Harley’s expectation that no engagement is sought regarding your personal debts, which the Crown will neither discuss nor remedy.

  To this last comment Defoe can’t help bristling. No amount of prayer or penitence will eliminate his indignation.

  Since receiving the letter, Defoe can’t help but feel Harley scrutinising his indigent existence. It is like the Earl Mortimer is there with him, nose upturned, as he drops to his knees for morning prayers of gratitude. Or as he performs the same exercise routine he developed in prison. Or as he hovers his chin over the morning coffee for a blessed reprieve from the fishy miasma.

  On the day he is set to meet Harley, he spends more time than usual dusting down his tattered jacket and picking at the dirt in his fraying wig. In the convex distortion of his reflection, Defoe sees an old, broken man.

  He considers asking Sackville for passage, then decides otherwise. He walks for well on an hour, through the bitterly cold morning, from the crowded fish markets to the wide chauffeured streets of St James’s. He arrives with half an hour to spare and sits in the cavernous lobby, watching the urgent, hushed activity of government business.

  Cumberbatch invites him to sit beneath three bay windows in the corner, where Lord Harley is examining documents.

  ‘Daniel. You smell,’ he says, frowning. ‘Of fish.’

  ‘Most observant, My Lord,’ replies Defoe. ‘I’m rooming in Billingsgate, by the fish markets. Two shillings only, for room and half-board.’

  Harley avoids his eyes. ‘I see.’

  ‘And your sonnet writing, My Lord? I have been searching Barrow’s for your latest book.’

  He raises his eyebrows and blinks repeatedly. ‘I have been occupied of late,’ replies Harley, defensively.

  Cumberbatch clears his throat. ‘Mr Defoe,’ he begins. ‘You dispatched concerning our Thief-Taker General. Some evidence relating –’

  ‘Excuse my candour,’ interrupts Defoe, leaning forward. ‘But I must confess my surprise at your swift reply. On other matters I heard nothing.’

  ‘Daniel,’ Harley reproves. ‘We have made it quite clear. Quite clear indeed. Your debts are not our concern.’

  ‘My Lord. I was making no reference to my debts.’

  ‘To what, then, were you making reference?’

  ‘I had expected to be referred to the Lord Mayor. Excuse my probing, but how is your office concerned with London’s Thief-Taker?’

  Cumberbatch and Harley exchange a glance.

  ‘I trust we can still rely on your secrecy?’ asks Harley.

  ‘My Lord,’ replies Defoe, making a small bow of the head.

  ‘Our Thief-Taker,’ begins Cumberbatch, ‘is currently under consideration by the House.’

  ‘Under consideration for what?’

  ‘There is an application,’ says Cumberbatch. ‘For his admission. As Lord of the House.’

  They look at Defoe with discomfort.

  ‘Surely not?’ Defoe says.

  ‘He has a network of support among the landed Scottish,’ grumbles Harley. ‘He is engaged to the daughter of a well-connected Baronet.’

  ‘A Thief-Taker made Lord? In all my wildest guessing, I never –’

  ‘With the Scottish Alliance so precarious, we must make concessions when they require it,’ says Harley.

  Defoe reaches into his coat. He slaps the small notebook down, sending ripples into Harley’s tea. ‘There,’ he says.

  Both men peer at the tattered book.

  ‘It is written in code. A list of every man with whom Wild has had dealings. There are chancellors. Lords. He lists the amounts of his bribes. And the names which bear two crosses indicate those that have been executed for reward. Scores of names. Scores.’

  They both continue eyeing the journal, not touching it. ‘You must understand,’ mutters Harley. ‘The Alliance is our principal concern.’

  ‘Your sinecure is your principal concern.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Harley stands, as does his secretary, by rote. Defoe rubs his face.

  ‘Your own n
ame appears, Lord Harley.’

  Harley is shocked. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Yours too,’ says Defoe, pointing at Cumberbatch.

  They simultaneously lunge for the book. Harley frantically begins turning the pages. ‘Indecipherable,’ he mutters.

  ‘Must be read backwards.’

  ‘Not a single penny has been exchanged in this office,’ says Cumberbatch. ‘I assure you.’

  Cumberbatch and Harley sit again, sidled closely, legs touching. Harley points at a certain name, then another. They exchange weighty glances.

  ‘How did you get hold of this?’

  Defoe crosses his legs. ‘It matters little.’

  ‘What is your purpose, then? What do you stand to gain?’

  ‘Wild has Jack Sheppard held in a secret location. I wish to interview him. And for clemency to be granted.’

  ‘Clemency is impossible,’ replies Harley. ‘Quite impossible.’

  ‘My Lord?’

  ‘The assizes have been heard. The sentence has been delivered. The only person with authority to commute a sealed sentence is the King himself, who presently returns to Hanover.’

  ‘What is the sentence?’

  ‘Hanged. On Monday.’

  Defoe leans back, sighs.

  ‘Mr Defoe,’ says Cumberbatch. ‘I can arrange a visit though, with The Lad.’

  ‘Who else has seen this journal?’ asks Harley.

  ‘I can’t be certain who else.’

  ‘No more fiddling,’ spurts Harley, looking at his clock. ‘I haven’t the time. Tell us how you got hold of it?’

  ‘It was delivered to me by a woman named Beaubottom,’ Defoe replies after a pause. ‘When I was in the roundhouse. One of Wild’s many enemies, I presume.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Harley says to Cumberbatch. ‘From the moment I set my eyes on that Thief-Taker. What did I call it, Cumberbatch? What?’

  ‘A farce,’ concedes Cumberbatch.

  ‘That’s right. A farce. That Lemon boy, Astley, was right after all. Now we must pin Wild with something unrelated. And in another jurisdiction too. Bullingdon’s or Glyde’s.’

  Cumberbatch points to another entry.

  Harley whistles incredulously. ‘My, my. Astonishing.’

  For some minutes, Defoe is ignored as the two men discuss their course of action with the same urgent anxiety by which he was not long ago continually plagued. Earlier that morning, he imagined Harley’s disdain of his slender circumstances, but now, in his actual presence, Defoe is gladdened by the simplicity of his Billingsgate rooms. The blanket he hangs over the window in absence of curtains. The straw mattress he cushions with his coat. The three-legged stool beneath his small desk. The bitter sediment in his morning coffee. The various works that accumulate in their piles. The sounds of circling gulls. The chilly whip of sails.

  ‘And how much, then, Daniel?’ Harley is asking him. ‘How much do you want? How much?’

  ‘My Lord? Sorry, I was –’

  ‘For your silence. This –’ Harley shakes the journal ‘– cannot be discussed. Much less written of.’

  Defoe considers the question. The perennial question. How much?

  WILD

  And just like that I have only one friend left

  November 1724

  Time began its distension as we stood in the courtroom vestibule. It was four weeks before my wedding, at the sentencing of Sykes. It was a strange motion, I recall thinking. Blueskin appeared to be reaching for the other armpit, maybe to scratch it. What is he doing? I wondered. Well, Blueskin was pulling a dagger from his coat pocket. Funny thing, the ballooning of time. I can summon those few seconds with greater acuity than whole years of my life; morning sunlight hitting the Old Bailey’s marble floor, Blueskin’s hand shoving Hamilton Carrot aside, the glint of his dagger like slanted rain in moonlight, Langton Silver’s teeth clattering against his pipe, the backhanded swing of Blueskin’s right hand, the narrow line of pain that spread fleshward, the inability to breathe. It took four of my new Irish to hold Blueskin down. With all this detail you’d think I’d have understood what had transpired. No. Each awareness was unrelated to the other. It was only when I held the goggling eyes of that fool Carrot that I knew something grave had happened viz. my throat had been slit.

  Lord Chancellor Hardwicke, our esteemed Justice, to whom I owed many a favourable hanging, watched hopelessly from the dais, hammering his gavel pizzicato. With a knee dropped full force and his nose spread across his face, Blueskin was finally still. A crowd of protesters were shouting, ‘Jonathan Wild! You are reviled! Jonathan Wild! You are reviled!’

  I beheld a strange whistling with each breath. A gurgling too, that made me cough. I held the wound together, but perceived much blood to be running. A physician was called for and I was taken to my carriage. My lungs heaved for air, but it whistled away from me. A rotten pear burst against my window. Then a few tomatoes, too. The greeny-red was reminiscent of gazpacho.

  It would have been preferable to die then, in my Felton & Hatchett, in the cushioned luxury I’d acquired through cunning and application. You see, I found a spot in my throat that I could plug with my thumb, and if I pressed there was able to breathe tolerably well. The bleeding slowed to a trickle.

  At my offices a barber sewed the length of the wound and a physician fashioned me a cork plug for my throat hole, which he fastened tight with a bandage. The stitches ran from right jaw to left collarbone, like an X with one stroke missing.

  ‘Missed by a hair’s width,’ said the barber, referring to some important tube.

  I lay back, scared to move and unable to speak. I wondered what sort of cravat might disguise the bandages. Would Vivaldi and the giraffe-keeper accommodate a postponement? The circumstances were extenuating. No, no, there could be no deferral; the invitations were out, the tables already glittered with cutleries. The wedding would take place. At all costs, I would be recovered.

  I drifted off to dreams of swallowed glass.

  The following day, I received a dispatch from the offices of The Lord Robert Harley, Earl Mortimer. The envelope was suspiciously thin.

  To Jonathan Wild, Thief-Taker General of London,

  I regret to inform you we cannot consider petitions made on your behalf to The Right Honourable House of Lords Spiritual and Temporal, owing to the large number of submissions received to the contrary. Additionally, immediate disqualification has arisen due to the impending charges brought against you in relation to the fencing of decorative pepperpots from Mister Geert Gyssels of Addle Hill Road, Blackfriars. You should consider your application set aside until notice is given otherwise.

  With Regards,

  Percival Cumberbatch, Esquire,

  for Lord Robert Harley, Earl Mortimer

  Had I the strength, I would have picked up my pistols and marched directly to that snivelling Gyssels and shot him through. I would have burned the letter. I would have demanded Langton Silver, my expert at law, give me sound advice. I would have ordered and swiftly drunk a strong and steadying ale. I would have paced my privy. I would have counted my money (I had more money than any of them: Gyssels or Cumberbatch or Lemon or Harley. Maybe not Harley.). I would have taken to the streets and arrested them all.

  I sat up, marched to my closet and began dressing. Stockings were quite an effort; I had to rest between each leg. I put on my pants backwards, took them off and began again. As I reached across the desk for my pistols, I heard a fizzle as my throat-cork dislodged. I coughed and spluttered and pressed my thumb back in. Blood oozed. I sighed, rang my bell, and with a waving of my hands gestured Patience Featherspoon to call the physician once more.

  ‘Mr Wild,’ reproved Dr Hugging, upon arrival. ‘Was I not clear? You must remain in bed. You must remain still.’

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘The smallest draught of water when only absolutely necessary. Avoid use of your throat and neck. No speaking. This for the pain.’

  He handed me a small phial with a murky
grey suspension.

  How long? I asked by pointing to my clock. Beneath it stood Patience Featherspoon. She watched carefully, her hands clasped at her waist.

  ‘Until my say so,’ replied the doctor.

  If I could have spoken I would have said, Bring me my ledger so I might write this doctor in it.

  Later that afternoon came another letter. It was from Sir Stephen Lemon, Baronet of Orkney. As I opened the envelope, playing cards littered about me.

  My Dear Boy,

  I’ve received unfortunate word regarding our petition to the House. I’ve also been made aware of charges brought against you in relation to a Flemish lawyer and some saltdishes. A man of your stature is sure to have his enemies, and I’m certain these charges will be rightfully quashed by your good and scrupulous name.

  As you would appreciate, in your wise and generous spirit, the House of Lemon cannot proceed with the marriage under these current circumstances. I’d have hoped to deliver the message in person, however business requires the family in Scotland immediately. Our tenants at Kirkwall, you see.

  Isobel, being too distressed to write, has instead selflessly given over her favourite and most valuable set of wax-coated playing cards. She says they were made in Russia and are best enjoyed beneath the steam of a samovar.