“Are all of us here?”
“All except Constable Brede,” said Benjamin Bailey. “He had to stay with the coach. We’ll have to make it through the crowd to get to him out there.”
“Well and good,” said Sir John. “Now, you’ve all done this at least once before. Cutlasses out.”
There was a nasty, sharp, slithering sound as the swords left their scabbards.
“Hold the cutlasses high so they can be seen. If any in the crowd gets too close, then use the flat of the sword on him. If there is an actual attack on any of us, you may use the sharp of the sword, or shoot to wound. Form a ring round us, and remember that your first responsibility is to protect Dr. Franklin. Are you all ready?”
There was a bit of shifting about as the constables sought their places, but soon there was an affirmative chorus from them.
“All right then, let us go forward!”
Without a weapon, I felt somewhat at a loss. Yet what would I do with a cutlass? Only harm to myself, no doubt. And Sir John had forbidden me to carry a pistol into the Cockpit. (“Of course it is done,” he admitted, “but it is against the law and should be. I will not have you breaking the law in my company.”) And so, as a result, I was one of three protected within what Sir John had described as a “ring.” In truth, it was more in the nature of a square. I walked between Benjamin Franklin on my left, and on my right. Sir John (who held lightly to my right arm). Forward on the left corner was Mr. Bailey, and to the rear on the left was Mr. Oueenan; on the right forward was Mr. Perkins, with Mr. Rumford in the right rear.
(Just one more point, reader; though I have described myself as unarmed, that was not strictly so. While I had with me neither cutlass nor pistol, I did carry with me, concealed in my coat pocket, the cosh Mr. Baker had given to me so many months ago. I had taken to carrying it quite everywhere with me.)
And so, in the odd configuration which I have just described in some detail, we seven set off into the crowd. Those directly before us backed away, allowing us passage, but they did so unwillingly, even sullenly. As Mr. Perkins had said, the individuals making up this great mass of men appeared to be shopkeepers and clerks, — well-dressed, not poor, and generally law-abiding. They fell back in respect for Sir John — and also for the drawn cutlasses of the four Bow Street Runners who surrounded him.
That did not, however, prevent them from shouting abuse and invective at our troop, most of it (though not all) directed at Dr. Franklin.
“Traitor” he was called, and “Dr. Treason.”
“Have you no shame?” demanded one.
“You owe the East India Company a hundred thousand pounds!” dunned another.
“The colonies must pay!”
And so on, as we marched through them.
The coach lay near seven rods away, yet I did not fix upon it. I kept scanning the crowd, looking for George Burkett, as Sir John had urged me to do. It had come to me that it would be difficult for that giant of a man to hide, even in a gathering of eight hundred; for at six feet and four or five inches in height, and eighteen stone in weight, give or take a few pounds, he would be hard to miss. The only way he could avoid towering a head above the rest would be to walk about upon his knees. And not even Burkett could keep that up for long. So it need not be difficult to see him from a distance. Yet I kept trying.
Much nearer than I had been looking, I heard something that caught my ear and kept my attention:
“Make way!”
“Make way for the veteran.”
“Yes, by God! I am a veteran. I’ll tell them about it.”
It was close by. I could tell that. This conversation of shouts came from off to the left, not far beyond young Oueenan.
“Push him up front, I say, so he can tell Franklin up close.”
“Yes, I’ll tell him, I wall! Just let me get near him.” There was something familiar about that voice. It was … it was … no, I couldn’t yet say who or what it was.
No, I could not — not until he was pushed — or propelled himself — into the front rank, coming nearer and shouting louder.
“I am a veteran of the French War, I am. Fought the French and the Hurons and lost the power of my legs there — all for these ungrateful colonials.”
And then did he raise his head, displaying his face. But he did so perhaps a bit too early, for I saw him and recognized him at just about the moment that Sir John recognized his voice. “Jeremy!” he cried in alarm.
It was George Burkett, pushing himself along in a contraption which was built upon the small wheels of a child’s goat cart. Had I seen something like it bearing a beggar in Covent Garden? But now it bore him straight at Dr. Franklin.
I dove forward, cosh in hand, but managed only a glancing blow at his face before he swept me off with a single swing of his huge hand. I was down on the ground, slightly dazed, when I witnessed a most singular event.
He made the mistake of attempting to jump to his feet whilst still upon the beggar’s cart. He was simply too much for it — too much size, too much weight. The contraption that supported no longer supported him. It went off skittering from beneath him, leaving him flailing the air with his hands, one of which clutched in it the biggest knife I ever saw. Yet try as he may, he cannot balance himself — and he falls, dear God, how he falls, right on his belly!
I see my chance and dive upon his back that I might beat upon his head with my cosh. I hit him again, hard as I can, yet it seems to do nothing, less than nothing, for he begins to rise.
I throw my left arm round his throat and rise with him. It is like riding the back of some great fish. While I still can — for I feel myself slipping — then do I put all of the strength I have left into a single blow aimed at the base of his skull.
I fall. He falls. And that is all I remember.
TWELVE
In which Sir John
receives a letter
from Massachusetts
Though my head was concussed, I was not seriously hurt — or so Gabriel Donnelly informed me when I was taken round to him. True, I was briefly unconscious, yet Mr. Perkins told me that Samson himself would have fallen with that first blow delivered me by Burkett.
The wonder was, said Mr. Bailey, that having been knocked out once, I managed to rise again and attack that huge villain from the rear.
“It’s like you put off fainting for fair till after you’d laid him low with your cosh,” said he. “Wouldn’t stop beating on his head till you’d got him proper.”
I had killed George Burkett. I was in no wise sure how I felt about that, nor would I know for years to come. Mr. Donnelly had called it to my attention that the wounds I had inflicted were quite like those suffered by Albert Calder at the hands of Tommy Skinner. “You quite thoroughly destroyed the back of his head, you know,” said he. “I never knewyou had it in you.”
He prescribed two days bedrest for my concussion. ‘Twas lucky for me that Mr. Marsden chose that as the proper time to return to his post as clerk of the Bow Street Court, for I confess now (though I protested otherwise to Sir John) that I was in no condition to perform the clerk’s duties, as I had been doing in his stead. Had he not resumed, Clarissa would probably have stepped forward and satisfied Sir John that she would make a better clerk than either Mr. Marsden or I.
That, in any case, was the impression with which I was left when she came to visit me in my attic room.
“I was fully prepared,” she told me, “to step in and take your place.” Yet that was not all she had to say.
I recall that she entered the room very quietly, evidently fearful of waking me. But I was not asleep, and if I appeared so to her, I could only have been dozing, for my eyes flickered open the moment she came close.
“Ah,” said she, “you’re awake.”
“Yes, it’s dark out now. What time is it? Any idea?”
“Not exact, no. But Molly is preparing dinner. It must be round six.”
“I should get dressed for dinner.”
<
br /> “You’re not to come down,” said she quite firmly.
“But I’m quite famished!”
“Have no fear. It will be brought to you — on a tray, by me.”
“Indeed? I have not been treated so well since we visited Mrs. Keen’s tearoom in Deal and were served a plate of her ‘best.’”
I thought that might at least coax a smile from her — but it did nothing of the kind. She stared down at me in a manner most severe. It was then, as I recall, that she reported to me that Mr. Mars-den had returned to his duties, and added that had there been any need, she would have taken the role of Sir John’s clerk for as long as might have been necessary. When I said nothing to that, she lashed out angrily.
“Do you doubt I could have done it?”
“Of course I do not, but … but … what in the world has made you so ill-tempered?”
“All right, all right, I shall tell you. I have heard Mr. Perkins’s account of what you did today, and I think two things about all that.”
The girl was trembling with fury — or upset of some sort. I could not tell which.
“I think, first of all,” said she, continuing, “that it was terribly brave of you. But I also think it was very foo — ” Her chin trembled so that she could hardly speak. “It was very fool … ish of you.” Then did she give in to the tears she had held back all through the last speech. She s-wept down upon me, and she began covering my face with kisses, “Oh, Jeremy,” she wailed, “how could ‘ou? You might have been killed!”
I comforted her as best I could from my prone position, returning her kisses, hugging her to me. I struggled to rise in bed, but she would have none of that.
“No, no, you mustn’t. Mr. Donnelly’ has said that you must rest.”
“Well, I’ll have to sit up in bed to eat, won’t I? ‘
“Oh, I suppose so, but for now, you will stay in bed, won’t you? I promise I’ll behave better next time. I’ll … I’ll be back.”
So saying, she left me.
Though Clarissa was the first to visit me during that evening and the next day or two, she was but the first of many. Mr. Donnelly appeared twice to assure me that I was responding well to his ministrations. Sir John also looked in on me twice, as did Constable Perkins. Molly made sure that I had plenty to eat, and Lady Fielding came to display proudly the new coat which she had bought me to replace the one quite ruined in my tussle with George Burkett.
Mr. Perkins brought news of great import, which Sir John confirmed: The constable had decided to take the job offered him by Peter Hollaby, magistrate of Robertsbridge. Not only that, but he explained that the move would make it possible for him to marry Bess, with whom he had been living, it seemed, for months — the two of them together above the stables.
Once I had heard the news, Sir John told how negotiations had taken place, more or less behind the scenes. Mr. Perkins had come to him and told all and made the point that the move was tied to his marriage plans. Sir John was glad to hear of it, so glad, in fact, that he offered to write the magistrate of Robertsbridge and “explain” the situation to him. In the letter, which he dictated to Clarissa, he commended Mr. Perkins to him as one of the finest, if not the finest of the Bow Street Runners. He declared that he would go to great lengths to keep him, yet he had heard from the constable of his desire to marry, and Robertsbridge offered much more suitable surroundings in which to begin married life and start a family. “I know, sir, that you are correct in saying that money would go farther in Robertsbridge,” Sir John said in the letter. “Nevertheless, he is particularly eager to find a suitable place for him and his bride to live. Could you, in some manner, guaranty this?”
Mr. Hollaby rose to the challenge with grace and ingenuity. He admitted that he could not pay more than his original offer to meet Mr. Perkins’s London pay. Still, he understood perfectly the difficulties faced by those beginning married life, and he wished to help in whatever way he could. As it happened, he had a small cottage on his property in which his son and his bride lived during the first years of their marriage. “All that it would need would be a bit of fixing up for it to be made comfortable,” wrote the Robertsbridge magistrate. “This cottage can be his rent-free for as long as he wishes it.”
Thus it was settled. Wedding plans were made. Banns were posted. And Oliver Perkins and his Bess were married at the earliest opportunity at a side chapel in St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. ‘Twas a joyous occasion attended by nearly all in Bow Street, including those constables whose duties permitted.
During Sir John’s second visit, the matter of Benjamin Franklin came up. He asked if I had received a visit from him. I said I had not.
“No, I thought not,” said he. “A letter? A note?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“Ah well, I hoped for better, but I can’t say that I expected it. He owes you a good deal, Jeremy. You saved his life, you know.”
At that I could not help but give an embarrassed chuckle. “That sounds strange to me.”
“That you saved his life? Why should that strike you as strange? You’ve saved mine often enough. Never quite so spectacularly, however. In fairness to him, I will say that he was quite solicitous for your welfare, tut-tutting and insisting that you be taken direct to Mr. Donnelly in the rented coach. You came to your senses bouncing about upon the cobblestones.”
“And what happened to Dr. Franklin? Don’t tell me he took a hackney coach — surely not! “
“No, he said he would walk home. I understand that he lives quite near to Whitehall.”
“Well, yes, he does, but what about the crowd? The mob?”
“What crowd? What mob? When they saw what had happened to Burkett, they scattered in all directions. Nevertheless, I ordered Oueenan and Rumford to accompany him. They made it to Craven Street without incident, in any case. That was the last we heard from him.”
“What a shame, sir, that he should part from you in such a way,” said I.
“And from you!” Then, with a sigh, he added, “I’ve a notion what now preoccupies him. He is no doubt quaking for fear that he will be charged with treason. There was some talk of that. As a matter of fact, Wedderburn’s attack upon him, before the Privy Council was supposed to open the way for it. But as I understand it, Burkett’s attempt upon his life, which you countered, has ended all such plans. No doubt Dr. Franklin will be returning soon to America. I would if I were he.”
(As it happened, reader, Benjamin Franklin stayed on in London till sometime in 1775. He had already resigned as agent for the Massachusetts House of Representatives soon after his ordeal in the Cockpit. Yet though he was still agent for three of the North American colonies, he transacted little business on their behalf. Things simply went from bad to worse between Britain and the thirteen American colonies. Why did he remain here in London? Because, at bottom, he liked it. After all, he had spent more than half his life in London. He had friends here — the philosopher Joseph Priestley, the Earl of Chatham, and Mmund Burke, a member of Parliament, and, of course, IVlrs. Stevenson. I believe he would have been happy to spend the rest of his days in Craven Street.)
On the third day, Mr. Donnelly visited, looked me over, and pronounced me fit for light duty. What that would mean, he explained, would be taking letters in dictation from Sir John and going about town to deliver them. No more than that for a while.
“Let Molly do the buying in the Garden for a while,” said he. “If there are loads to be carried, I shall carry them.”
“Agreed,” said 1. “And I’m sure she’ll be glad for your assistance.”
As he packed up his black bag, he took notice of something inside. He reached in for it rather carefully.
“By the bye, I’ve brought you something. Call it a gift, or perhaps a trophy — but it’s yours.”
Having said that, he brought out a large and dangerous-looking object. I recognized it as the knife wielded with such grisly results by George Burkett.
“I’m not entir
ely sure how it came to me,” he continued. “Yet as I have supposed it, Constables Bailey and Perkins must have brought it to me along with you. Big, ugly thing, isn’t it? More sword than knife. I wouldn’t keep it, if I were you, but it belongs to you, more than anyone else. I’ll let you decide what to do with it.”
With that, he placed it carefully upon the chest of drawers, closed up his black bag, and made ready to depart. Just then — I cannot say why — it came to me to inquire after Mr. Donnelly’s friend, Oliver Goldsmith.
“It’s strange that you should ask,” said he. “Just two nights past he had that collapse that I have so long predicted. Luckily I was present and managed to get him admitted into St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.”
“What is his complaint?”
“Oh, a combination of one thing and another — blood in his urine, a weak bladder, and, judging from his jaundiced complexion, a liver complaint.”
“Will he recover?”
“Oh, I hope so — no, I believe so. Yet next time he may not, for unless he stops eating and drinking as he has been, there will certainly be a next time. But I must go now and visit him at St. Bart’s. I’ll tell him you asked after him.”
“By all means do so,” said I, waving good-bye to him as he disappeared through the door.
(Though Oliver Goldsmith did, in fact, recover under Mr. Donnelly’s care, he was soon consuming alcohol and rich food in the same way as before. Just as his friend had predicted, another collapse came later in the year, from which Mr. Goldsmith did not recover. That delightful and irresponsible man died in that year of 1774.)
I worked at taking dictation and delivering letters in and around the City of London and Westminster, just as Mr. Donnelly had suggested — for Sir John would have it no other way. After a week of that, there was a letter which he dictated and directed to the City of Liverpool in Lancashire. (I cannot now recall the matter with which it dealt.) In any case, it called for a trip to the Post Coach House, which I managed without difficulty. The man at the post window accepted the letter for Liverpool without comment, but just as I turned away, he called me back.
An Experiment in Treason Page 30