by Peter Sirr
Kitty glared at him. ‘He asked for it.’
‘Get on with it, we don’t want your confession,’ Hare snarled. ‘How do you know what happened?’
‘I was going there to meet him when I saw him being taken out by the sheriff’s men and the cut man with him.’
Kelly looked at Kitty suspiciously. ‘Strange how you happened to arrive after he was taken,’ he said.
Kitty was indignant. ‘There’s nothing strange about it. And it was lucky I wasn’t taken too – lucky for you that you have me to tell you the tale.’
‘What will happen now?’ James asked.
‘The cut man will file charges with the magistrates,’ Kelly answered. ‘Then they’ll prosecute Jack and if they find him guilty, he’ll be sentenced to hang.’
‘Then he’s doomed,’ James said. He wasn’t sure what he felt about Jack Darcy, but he didn’t relish the prospect of any man being hanged.
‘Don’t be so quick,’ Kelly came back at him. ‘Jack won’t go down so easily. But we’ll need to get to him quick. He won’t thank us if we let him stew in Newgate. They’ll already have taken what coin he had on him.’
‘Who will get to him?’ James often wished he wasn’t so quick with his questions. This one was met with a thoughtful pause as all three looked long at him.
‘He’s perfect for it,’ Hare said. ‘No one there knows him.’
‘No,’ James began. ‘I couldn’t–’
‘Oh, he’s afraid, lads. Poor James is afraid of nasty Newgate,’ Kitty interrupted.
‘Why don’t you go?’ James asked.
‘Do you think they’d ever let him out?’ Kelly asked angrily. ‘He’s known all over the city for his knife-work.’
Kitty smiled with gratification.
‘He’ll need money for his rent and his penny pot,’ Kelly continued. He seemed happy to slip into the role of leader in Darcy’s absence.
James supposed all gangs must work like that, their members swapping roles interchangeably as the circumstances demanded. He couldn’t imagine himself leading a gang, but then he didn’t even really want to be in one.
He thought it strange that Darcy had to pay for his imprisonment but, this time, he kept his mouth shut. Then another thought occurred to him. ‘Can we help him escape?’
Kelly snorted. ‘This isn’t some boy’s adventure,’ he said. He looked at James as if this question had been the height of idiocy. ‘No one escapes from Newgate. It might have been possible once. The last keeper helped some lads escape for a handsome fee, but they got rid of him, and it would be more than Hawkins’ job’s worth to let anyone go.’
‘The horrible Hawkins,’ Hare added. ‘Him and his harridan wife who’d charge the fleas if they could.’
‘Are we safe here?’ Kitty suddenly asked. ‘I mean, what if–’
Kelly broke in abruptly. ‘What if what? Do you think Jack would lead them here?’
‘No,’ Kitty said, but he didn’t sound convinced. ‘What if Hawkins tortures him? They say he loves money more than anything. What if he made Jack tell where the hide was?’
‘Jack wouldn’t tell. He’d be too clever for him.’ Kelly’s voice was very definite, but he was rattled by Kitty’s question, James could see.
‘Maybe we should wait and see,’ Hare said. ‘See if anyone tries to come to the hide tonight.’
‘Alright,’ Kelly said at last. ‘We’ll wait one night and see what happens.’
They ate some bread and smoked fish and drank what small beer was left in the hide, then took turns as lookout through the night.
James tried to sleep, but it was bitterly cold and his mind was racing. He was terrified of the mission they had assigned him, and as he tossed and turned he began to wonder what might happen if he didn’t stop at Newgate but fled westward through the gate and out along the great road that led into the heart of the country. Had he not said he must change his life? Why did life keep opposing his plans, putting fresh obstacles in his way at every turn? If he didn’t go to the prison, what would happen? Darcy would be badly handled by the keepers, enough to kill him maybe, or he’d be hanged after his trial. What difference would his visit make? And if Darcy was dead, who would come after him? He saw the brutish faces of Kelly and Hare, and knew they wouldn’t think twice about wringing his neck if they found him. Kitty he couldn’t care less about; he’d relish the chance to fight him. But the three of them?
Yet it wasn’t just his fear of what might happen if he fled that bothered him. He couldn’t find it in himself to betray Jack, even if he was a ruthless thief he shouldn’t care a fig about. It wasn’t that Jack was a great friend of his, but still James looked up to him. It didn’t make any sense, James thought, as he edged towards a fitful sleep.
It was still dark and very cold when Hare shook him awake to take his turn on watch. So far no one had come near the hide. James walked to the edge of the clearing and looked into the distance as far as he could. He could see nothing other than the vague shapes of trees, but there was plenty to be heard: bird-cries, the shufflings and brushings of unseen parallel lives, the stealthy night animals about their business in the dark – if they were animals, James thought, and not some other strange creatures – ghosts, maybe, desperate and desolate forms living out some demon life. James shivered. He couldn’t decide if he wanted the grey light of a winter dawn to percolate through the trees or if he wanted to stand in this blackness forever, frozen in time.
* * *
James made his way down the northern quays. If his mind had been racing last night, it was swimming now in a flood of information. There was the under-keeper, Bullard, to be paid, and he must also try to speak with, and offer money, to Hawkins the keeper. He was not to leave the prison until he had done so. The most important thing he learned in the schoolroom of the forest was that the prison ran on money, and the life of a prisoner depended on a plentiful supply of it finding its way into the hands of the gaolers.
As he crossed the river, he was nearly knocked down by a low cart pulled by two scrawny dogs.
‘Get out o’ the way, can’t ye,’ a cripple shouted from his cart, as James jumped awkwardly to one side.
‘Have ye e’er a few pence for the King of the Beggars?’ The cripple’s voice was wheedling, yet confident enough to suggest he was successful more often than not. This was Hackball, a familiar figure who took up his position on the bridge and lived on what he could extract from those who had to cross it.
He was one of the reasons James tended to avoid the Old Bridge. Shrugging his shoulders, James showed his empty palms to the beggar, who let fly a stream of oaths so virulent that James felt their violence would cling to the back of his coat like a stain. James climbed up the hill with slow feet, every step bringing him deeper into the dark old city. He could hear the butchers calling out from the market square behind the houses on his left. It made his heart sink because it reminded him that he’d already reached the dismal district that housed Newgate and its sister-prison, the Black Dog, where debtors and many others languished. Some dreaded the Black Dog more than Newgate itself because the gaolers were even greedier, and many who entered it had never come out again. At the border between the Liberties and the old city a heavy throng of people flowed in both directions. He stood there a few minutes watching the people and listening to the sellers from the Glib Market shouting their wares, gathering his courage. Finally, he turned into the narrow, crowded alley and arrived at the prison. As he stood in front of its mean-looking door, he again thought of bolting away, but he found his fist, almost of its own accord, banging on the wood. A slat shot back and a pair of eyes considered him.
‘Please sir, I wish to see the prisoner Darcy. I have a message for Mr Bullard and Mr Hawkins.’
The slat was closed again and James heard the working of iron bolts from inside. The door opened and he was admitted to a dark antechamber. The gaoler looked him up and down. For a man in a position of authority, even if it was a low one, he looked dis
mayingly unkempt. His clothes were filthy and his face unshaven and grimy.
‘Been here before?’ he asked James.
James shook his head.
The gaoler seemed to find his response funny. He unlocked the inner door of the antechamber and they entered a corridor, at the end of which James could see another iron door. The stench hit him immediately – foul, stale air and rank human odours all mixed together. There was yet another door on the right about halfway down the corridor and the gaoler now stopped in front of it and unlocked it.
Inside was a throng of prisoners, men and women as well as children no older than James. They stood or sat or lay on the bare stone floor. There was no bedding that James could see, not so much as a handful of straw. If the stench in the corridor had been overwhelming, the stink coming out from this packed room was barely endurable. They looked at the gaoler and James without interest.
‘This is the Felons’ Room. Do ye see yer friend?’ the gaoler asked James.
His voice was mocking, but even so James scanned the room to see if Darcy might be there. None of the ashen-faced, emaciated figures was familiar to him. They all seemed to have been rotting in this room for years. How long would it take it to look like one of these? James wondered. Suddenly one of the women prisoners lunged towards them, as if she meant to leave.
The gaoler lifted his arm. ‘Get back out of it if you don’t want the back of my hand on yer gob,’ he said.
The woman halted abruptly, then turned on her heel, raising her middle finger at the gaoler as she slipped back towards the far wall.’
The gaoler stepped back and slammed the door.
‘Well, maybe he’s not there yet, but we’ll save a place for him just in case,’ he said.
‘If I could see Mr Bullard,’ James said. He willed his voice to be strong and clear, but he heard the hesitation in it as he spoke.
‘Oh don’t worry, you’ll see him soon enough,’ the gaoler said.
They went to the end of the corridor. The door was already open and James could hear the sounds of commotion inside. The gaoler led him in. The room was slightly less crowded than the other. A slit near the top allowed some light in and James noticed a covering of very thin straw on the floor. A short, stout man was berating and striking one of the prisoners, who was secured by two guards. Blood poured from the prisoner’s nose. From the corner of his eye James saw Darcy in the far corner, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. He didn’t look too much the worse for wear. He raised an eyebrow at James, and James nodded slightly in return.
‘This gentleman was asking for you, Mr Bullard,’ the gaoler said, indicating James.
‘Was he indeed?’ Bullard replied without looking up.
He removed his coat, handed it to the gaoler who had brought James in, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Then he began calmly and methodically to punch the prisoner in the stomach, ribs and face. The prisoner groaned.
‘Did you think I was joking when I said the money was due today? Do you think you can stay here for nothing?’
Eventually he tired of beating the man. He rolled his sleeves down and the gaoler helped him put his coat back on.
‘Get him out of here. Let him taste the comforts of the Felons’ Room.’
The two gaolers who had been holding up the prisoner dragged him, feet first, out of the room and down the corridor.
Bullard now turned his attention to James. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘I am here to see Mr Darcy, sir.’
‘Mister Darcy? I don’t think we have a Mister Darcy here. Anyone know of a Mister Darcy?’ He addressed the question to the room; no one dared to answer.
Darcy remained sitting impassively where he was.
‘Might you perhaps mean the thieving scum Jack Darcy?’ Bullard asked him.
‘Yes,’ James said. ‘Jack Darcy, sir.’
‘Well then say it, boy, if you’re not another deaf one. Who are you here to see?’
‘The thieving scum Jack Darcy, sir.’
Bullard looked at him, as if trying to decide whether James was being insolent or properly deferential.
‘Have you got his fees?’
James took the purse Kelly had given him from his pocket and counted out the week’s rent, then added a shilling and fourpence for the penny pot, the alcohol ration which the gaolers doled out at great profit. Bullard took the money and pocketed it.
‘Might I speak with him, sir?’ James asked, the purse still in his hand. Bullard eyed the purse. James loosened another few coins from it and slipped them to him.
‘Five minutes,’ Bullard said, and left with the gaoler.
Darcy jumped up immediately and beckoned James over. There were no niceties or greetings.
‘I have a lot to say,’ he began in a low voice, ‘and I want you to listen very carefully and miss nothing.’ When he had finished, he made James whisper everything back to him directly into his ear, and when he was satisfied that James had retained all the information he’d given him, he told him to go.
‘And don’t forget to give Hawkins his due’ were his last words.
The door swung open long before five minutes were up and the gaoler ushered James out. He had barely turned into the corridor when he met Hawkins, who had evidently been waiting for him.
Where Bullard was short and fat, Hawkins was tall and rangy. He was neatly dressed, and he put James in mind of a doctor or a lawyer from the Four Courts. He had none of the gruffness or obvious brutality of the under-keeper.
‘So this is the young visitor?’ He examined James closely. ‘What do they call you?’
‘James Brown, sir, and, if it please you, I have a message for you.’
Hawkins seemed not to have the slightest interest in what message James might have for him. He continued to peer intensely at James.
James could feel his cheeks flush under the pressure of the gaze.
‘You’re very well spoken for a thief, James Brown.’ Like Darcy, Hawkins pronounced the surname as if he didn’t believe it.
‘I’m not a thief, sir.’ James should probably have kept quiet. Had he not taken part in robberies? Had he not crept around houses in the city, putting silverware into a sack? I did not choose this life, he thought, but it seemed like a thin argument, and not one he could easily put to the keeper of Newgate.
‘No, of course you’re not,’ Hawkins replied evenly. ‘And everyone here is innocent; it is a house of saints, a holy sanctuary. And when your friend is hanged, it will a terrible injustice. The thought of it makes me want to weep.’
James said nothing. He took the purse from his pocket as casually as he could.
Without taking his eyes off James, Hawkins scooped the purse from James’s hand and deposited it in his pocket.
‘Yes,’ he said, as if nothing had happened, ‘it makes me want to weep my poor sentimental heart away.’ And he turned on his heel and marched off.
The gaoler led James out the way he had come in and he found himself blinking in the sunlight of Cornmarket, like someone just woken from an unpleasant dream.
Eighteen
The Trial
The courtroom was crowded. Most of the crowd was made up of friends and relatives of the accused, as well as a few who seemed to be there out of simple curiosity. A good many of them were friends of Jack. Well, maybe friends was too strong a word. James recognised many of them from Red Molly’s, including some who were rather better dressed than they usually were. That was part of the plan, of course. James had to admit it was a good plan, even an ingenious one, but he knew that even elaborate and beautiful plans can go wrong, often.
At least he had done his part. Once he was released into the light again he had rushed down the street and didn’t stop running until he came to Red Molly’s. Molly herself admitted him and he immediately began to babble out Darcy’s instructions.
‘Calm down, boy,’ she laughed, ‘if it’s urgent business, you must tell it to me calmly.’
‘Now tell me about it, nice and slowly, and we’ll see what must be done,’ she said.
She knew that Darcy had been taken, and had been expecting James. ‘I knew he’d send the only one of his crew with something between his ears.’
James blushed, as he always did when someone praised him.
Molly smiled. ‘How does a boy like you get mixed up with Jack Darcy?’
Maybe someday James might be able to explain. But the question went unanswered for now, and he just shrugged his shoulders before telling her everything that Darcy had told him. When he’d finished, she was silent for a while.
Then she was all bustle. ‘Alright, we’d better get to it. A doctor, an apothecary, and the apothecary’s assistant. Are you sure no one saw you that night?’
‘Pretty sure. I stood back, and it was pitch dark there.’
Darcy’s plan was to deny the charge and insist it was a case of mistaken identity. He had been ill on the night in question, and he had the witnesses to prove it. It seemed a risky strategy to James, but then what choice did Darcy have? Molly took it all in her stride, part of a day’s work. She seemed to like Jack Darcy, but there was no shortage of Jack Darcys in the city, and if one were undone, another would immediately step up to take his place. And there is probably a plentiful supply of James Lovetts too, James thought; boys down on their luck, cast out from their families and fending for themselves in the dark alleys of the city.
* * *
The gaolers brought in the morning’s prisoners, two men, a young woman, a boy not much older than James, and lastly Darcy, more expressionless than James had ever seen him and looking, in that group, like just one more prisoner.