Dr. Sam Johnson, Detector

by Lillian de la Torre

  “Coloured crimson!” I ejaculated. “Were you drunk?”

  “No, sir. I hope I am a better soldier than to go drunk to my duty.”

  “Did you reek of rum?”

  “There was rum issued, it being the captain’s birthday; but the captain’s my witness I took but the one tot, he desiring me to pledge his health in it, and all the guard did the same.”

  Lucinda stirred and stood off.

  “I must go to Captain Donellan. But first we have some business.”

  “Business?”

  “For what do you think I came to the camp before the dawn? ’Twas for this.”

  She drew from her bosom a paper and a pair of rings and extended them wordlessly. The paper was a special license for the marriage of Allan Macdonald, bachelor, with Lucinda Locke, spinster. The young soldier gave it one glance, fell to his knee, and kissed her hand. She touched his red head tenderly.

  “I tired,” she said softly, “of sending you messages and having no answer, and hearing that the sergeant detained you at your duties. I resolved to have you at once or let you go forever. I came too late. They had you at the drumhead, and instead of the words of marriage I heard you condemned to die.”

  “Though I die you shall have me,” cried the boy passionately, “since now I learn that that is your will.”

  “We have missed the rendezvous with my clergyman, by some hours missed it,” said Lucinda, “but here’s a man of God may tie the knot, and I beseech you, sir,” (turning to the dumbfounded rector) “to make us one this instant, for there’s little time left to lose.”

  So saying, she sank to her knees beside her lover, and the rector plucked out his book and began:

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God and this company …”

  I looked about at the company. Never was a stranger wedding scene. The fat soldier slid down from the butt where he sprawled and shouldered his piece in deference to the solemnity of the occasion. The two on the stone step set down their pots and stared. The greenish, damp walls glistened in the half dark. The young soldier knelt like marble, the blonde lass lifted her head proudly. Only as she uttered “… till death do us part” did her clear voice break into a sob. When rings had been exchanged they clung together as if they had been made one indeed.

  “Sir and madam,” said Dr. Johnson, signing the paper as witness, “I give you joy, and if God wills it and I may prevail, for many years. I must be off; but if you be gone from hence before my errand is done, then look for me before Cumberland Gate.”

  So saying, he departed, leaving Mistress Lucinda to my charge; and as he mounted the stair in the half dark, the great bell tolled the hour: 11 o’clock.

  Captain Donellan was not to be found. Lucinda was nigh despair as at last we turned our way toward Cumberland Gate. The ill-omened “three-legged mare,” the triangular gallows of Tyburn, was in our eye as we neared the place where, saving a miracle, Allan Macdonald must die. The girl’s knees buckled, and but for my support she would have fallen, as we heard from the park the long drum roll of the Dead March.

  We pushed our way through the starers clustered at Cumberland Gate. There was Captain Donellan’s company drawn up in full regalia before the rifle butts. Many a recruit looked greenish and sick, many an old soldier was liquored; but they stood stiff and sombre to see their comrade die. Only on Sergeant Thacker’s greasy face was the grin still fixed.

  I supported Lucinda forward. Behind us other footsteps came on, and then Mr. Levett stood beside us. He wore an old broad-brimmed hat, and carried a large green baize bag, to which with many a jerk and beck he invited my attention. Lucinda spared him not a glance. Her widened eyes were fixed on the firing squad, standing waiting with muskets a-trail, while Captain Donellan, hand to sword, waited too.

  Against the towering twenty-foot earth rampart of the rifle butts, Allan Macdonald looked small and alone, though he stood proudly tall. His hands were free; I could distinctly see the wedding ring on his finger. I looked at my watch; it wanted but one minute to midday. Captain Donellan drew his sword.

  At that instant Dr. Sam: Johnson, dishevelled and dusty, ran swiftly, though with ungainly motion, through the brick arch of Cumberland Gate. As he neared the rampart, the first stroke of the hour sounded.

  One!

  Captain Donellan lifted his sword.

  “Make ready!” he cried.

  Two!

  I found I was counting aloud.

  “Wait!” cries Sam: Johnson.

  Three!

  “Wait for what?” cries Donellan. “He’s waited long enough.”

  Four!

  “For the last stroke,” says Johnson.

  Five!

  “Five!” counts Johnson. “Give him his chance.”

  Six!

  “His chance is over,” says Donellan.

  Seven!

  “Present!” The muskets went up to the shoulder.

  Eight!

  With deliberate calm Dr. Sam: Johnson stepped into the line of fire.

  “You’ll wait till the last stroke,” said he.

  Nine!

  “No!” cries young Macdonald, shaken out of his iron calm.

  Ten!

  “Quiet, boy,” says Johnson. “Don’t think I plan to be shot in your stead. Be still and listen.”

  Eleven!

  Lucinda put up her hands to her ears.

  Twelve!

  Donellan raised his sword again, but Johnson did not budge. “Hist!” said he.

  Unmistakable in the death-like silence sounded the stroke of—

  Thirteen!

  The silence broke in a wild burst of huzzas. Allan’s comrades threw up their hats, threw down their muskets, broke their ranks, and danced on the sward. Somehow Lucinda got from my side and into Allan’s arms. I found myself pumping my companion’s venerable hand. Little Levett jigged with his green baize bag. Only Captain Donellan, white with rage, shouted in vain to quell the tumult. We left him shouting, and rolled away, piled somehow hugger-mugger into the chaise, for the wedding breakfast Allan Macdonald had never hoped to eat. I little guessed that the full story was yet to be told.

  The scene of our rejoicing was the Hercules’ Pillars, where one short hour ago we had seen a wedding and an eternal leave-taking; but this time ’twas in the best room above stairs. There Lucinda took the liberty to laugh a little and cry a little, all at once; and Allan took the liberty to cherish her in his arms for a space; while Dr. Johnson, Mr. Levett, and I exchanged mutual congratulations on the happy outcome. With a gap-toothed grin Mr. Levett turned out his green baize bag; it contained a prodigious Leyden jar. At this Allan merely looked puzzled; but Lucinda began laughing in earnest; and the cloth being laid, we all fell to.

  We discussed a joint and a mighty veal pye, washed down with a bowl of Dr. Johnson’s “poonch” in which we repeatedly toasted the wedding pair, rejoicing over the wedding lines, and over a new writing which Dr. Johnson now produced from his capacious waistcoat pocket.

  “’Twas the best I could obtain, argue as I might, but it served.”

  ’Twas writ in Dr. Johnson’s elegant small hand, and signed with a scrawl by the commander:

  If the Clock strike Thirteen, Macdonald is pardoned, and let him he forthwith honourably discharged.

  GLOUCESTER

  General Commanding

  “Discharged!” cried Lucinda. “All’s to a wish!”

  Upon that refrain they departed; and indeed from that day all was to their wish, and now they have seven fine sons and a handsome competency.

  “Yet, sir,” said I as, left to our two selves, we prepared a fresh onslaught on the veal pye, “here’s somewhat that is dark. There’s a saying, ‘regular as clockwork.’ How comes a respectable clockwork to so far forget itself as to strike 13?”

  “Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “it does not so. Rather it strikes 12, and immediately thereafter without intermission it strikes the next hour, namely one; which being sum
med is 13.”

  “Yet why should it strike two hours together without intermission?”

  “The reason is found in the nature of the striking mechanism,” replied my ingenious friend. “A clock must strike when the minute hand comes full circle to the number twelve. Accordingly, it is so arranged that when the minute hand comes to twelve, it raises a catch which sets the striking mechanism going, and so many strokes result as the space before the next notch allows. When the time for the right number of strokes is past, along comes the next notch, the catch drops, and the bell is silent until after 60 minutes the minute hand again reaches twelve. Then again the catch lifts, the bell sounds and the catch drops again into the next notch. But if the notch between, say, twelve and one be worn smooth, then the catch does not fall, and the clock strikes 13.”

  “Remarkable!” cried I. “If Paul’s clock lacks a notch, then at midnight it struck both 12 and 1. But—”

  “But?”

  “At 1 it must then strike 2,” I puzzled; something seemed at the fingertip of my wits, almost within reach.

  “This follows.”

  “And so with every hour following, till at 10, ’twill strike 11.”

  “Sequitur.”

  “And at 11—” I rose to my feet—“’twill strike 12 and 1 together, which is to say that at 11 ’twill strike 13—” I levelled my finger at my majestick friend—“and at 12—’twill strike 2!’ In a word, sir, a clock that strikes 13 at noon can not have struck 13 at midnight!”

  “O ho, you have hit it!” cried Dr. Sam: Johnson, and putting back his head he gave way to his rolling Homeric laughter.

  “Trust me, sir,” said I severely, “this is no laughing matter. Am I to think that at your age and weight you scrambled to the belfry and tampered with this ancient clockwork?”

  “Aye, sir,” replied Dr. Johnson, sobering, “that is what you may think, for that is what I did. ’Twas easy to chip away the notch; but the climb to the belfry, that was the labour of Hercules!”

  “At midnight, ’tis certain, that clock had struck 12?”

  “’Tis certain.”

  “Then why did Allan Macdonald aver so stoutly that it struck 13?”

  “Because musing upon ill luck, he fell asleep and dreamed it.”

  “Then he was guilty.”

  “He was guilty; but so vivid was his dream or vision, that he did not know it.”

  “And to save a guilty man, you tampered with the great bell of St. Paul’s and lied to his Grace the Duke of Gloucester!”

  “I would gladly have proceeded in a manner less drastick, could argument have prevailed, for I take it for certain that Captain Donellan’s drumhead court-martial was irregular from end to end. But the Duke, being stupid, was stubborn. Only the stroke of 13 was strong enough to catch his fancy; so I gave him the stroke of 13, and saved Allan Macdonald.”

  “’Tis not like you,” said I, “to pervert the ends of justice.”

  “Nor did I so; but on the contrary, I thus baulked, at the last second, as covert and wicked a murderer as ever I beheld.”

  “A murderer?” said I stupidly.

  “Captain Donellan,” said my friend.

  “Captain Donellan?”

  “The penniless captain, who wanted the heiress for himself. When Allan impulsively enlisted, he fell into his enemy’s hands. The captain recommends him to his rough sergeant’s dislike by the surest means, as a dainty gentleman to be coddled. The captain carries messages, and conceals them, and lies to the lady, all the time making himself her greatest friend and confidant. Then the lady resolves to wed her lover out of hand, and the captain is notified. He sees that only death will remove his rival; and he goes about to contrive that death as speedily as may be; and he would have succeeded but for the stroke of 13.”

  “Yet,” I argued, “if Allan Macdonald had been shot for a military crime, how is that murder? For we know he slept upon sentry-go; and how is that to be imputed to Captain Donellan?”

  “If Captain Donellan did not plan that it should be so, how did he send word of it to Miss Locke before the event? The sergeant counted the stroke of 12 before he started his rounds; but the messenger counted it after he had delivered the captain’s note.”

  “Yet how can one man cause another to neglect his watch?”

  “The ingenious Captain Donellan,” replied Dr. Johnson, “is a disciple of Linnaeus. He grows the oriental poppy. With that cord-handled claw by his tent he scarifies the capsule of the poppy, as I have been told they do it in the East Indies where he served. He collects the gum that forms. To put a name to it, it is opium. I smelled opium in the affair when I was informed that Allan Macdonald had been hearing ‘sounds coloured crimson,’ as drugged men may do.”

  “Drugged men?”

  “Allan Macdonald slept because he had been drugged with opium. ’Tis plain, he had it of Captain Donellan in that tot of birthday rum, a coarse liquor well adapted to dissolve the drug and mask its bitter taste. Nor was it the captain’s birthday, I’ll lay you a trifle, but the excuse served, and Allan all unsuspecting drank the sleepy dose.”

  “A dastardly plot!”

  “And so simple and safe. ’Tis sure he’ll sleep, and as surely the malicious sergeant will catch him at it, snorting like a pig and scarce to be shook awake—an eye-witness description, you’ll observe, for Captain Donellan will make it his business to be watching to see that his scheam goes aright.

  “Well, I’ve baulked the scheam, but I can’t reach the scheamer. I fear another life, ere all be told, will pay. For Captain Donellan’s too clever by half. One day, with help of Dr. Mead’s physical volumes, he’ll distil a draught more lethal still; and they’ll hang him for it, mark my words.”

  And so, in fact, it fell out; for in 1781 Captain Donellan went on from Mead On Poisons, pag. 167, of opium, to Mead On Poisons, pag. 168, of laurel water, a very lethal draught; and then they hanged him. But that is another story—which may be read at large in the Newgate Calendar.

  [Neither Dr. Johnson nor the ingenious Captain (who in 1780 was already married to an heiress) was in fact involved in the affair of the stroke of thirteen, an early-century anecdote to be found in Chambers’ Book of Days.]

  THE VIOTTI STRADIFARIUS

  (London, 1183)

  The Viotti Stradivarius was detected by ear, a feat Dr. Sam: Johnson with his thickened and unmusical hearing could never have attained to; but so much does mind govern and even supply the deficiency of organs, that by mere ratiocination and knowledge of the world he was able to detect and restore, what the sharpest eye passed unseeing, the great Orloff diamond. The only loser by that night’s strange work at Dr. Burney’s was his daughter, Miss Fanny, whose little waxen figurine had to be destroyed beyond recall.

  Eagerly I had accepted of that invitation to make one in a musical party of pleasure in St. Martin’s Street. Men and manners are my study, and sure nowhere in London might one meet with such men, or such manners, as displayed themselves at the musical conversazioni of London’s first musician and our very good friend, Dr. Charles Burney.

  Behold me, then, James Boswell of Auchinleck, advocate and philosopher (if I may so stile an observer upon mankind) in my sky-blue sattin, attending, like a pinnace upon a man-o’-war, my stately friend Dr. Sam: Johnson. How well I remember the rugged countenance, the little brown wig, the massive figure, aye, the full-skirted snuff-coloured coat and the waistcoat with the brass buttons. How comfortably we were at home with handsome Dr. Burney.

  We sat in his fine withdrawing room, once the study of Sir Isaac Newton. Every candle was alight, every sconce blazed, every prism shook with light. Seated by the fire, moulding a little waxen figurine with nervous fingers, mousy Miss Fanny was attired in violet brocade under tissue. I wondered much at such gaudy attire in the house of plain Dr. Burney.

  The company that began to assemble was no great matter. First came the Bettses, father and son, violinmakers of St. Martin’s Lane, small men, neat and cheerful, with qui
ck brown eyes and respectful bows all round. Each carried an instrument, the father a violoncello, the boy a violin. The boy bore the flat cases with loving care into the little inner room adjoining.

  Now came in Dr. Burney’s favourite pupil, Miss Polly Tresilian, a Venus in miniature, a little perfection, with pouting red lips and her own yellow hair drest in the new round stile, set off with a baby’s gown of clustering gauze, the colour maiden’s blush. She was attended on the one side by her father, the portly rich jeweller of Cheapside, and on the other by his journeyman, young Chinnery, sandy and thin, and with eyes only for Miss Polly. ’Twas a trio known in every drawing-room and pleasure-garden of Mayfair.

  But the trio had become a quartet. If Chinnery had eyes only for Polly, Polly had eyes only for the dark graceful young man who entered behind her. He wore his own raven curls clustering about a well-shaped head. His figure, though small, was well-proportioned and graceful, and set off by a quiet suit of gold brocade. His olive features were expressive, amiable, and radiant, and he bent his melting black eyes upon Miss Polly. He carried a violin in its flat case. Tresilian presented him with pride:

  “Giovanni Battista Viotti, the wonder of the age! The sweetest fiddler that ever touched string! The favourite pupil of Pugnani, that has transcended the master! Honoured by Queen Marie Antoinette and the Empress Catherine! Yet now he comes to England as a simple fiddler, without fanfare; and had not my brother the lapidary of Paris sent him to me for a banker, he had been lost to us in the crowd.”

  Upon this encomium, the famous Italian looked mighty abashed and put about; he bowed low, and looked for a corner to hide in. Dr. Burney made him most cordially welcome, and I would have escorted him to the seat of honour by the fire, had not Miss Fanny drawn him to her on the other side.

  “Pray, pray,” I cried, “Signor Viotti, let us not delay, but give us a touch of your string!”

  Upon this an air of waiting settled upon Dr. Burney and Miss Fanny, and all was unaccountably delayed, so that I was constrained to whisper a question in Miss Fanny’s ear.