“No one appreciates me,” Bancroft complained.
Leaving Oxford Road, we turned down a narrow street lined with mellow tan and gray brick buildings, painted wooden signs hanging over the pavements. An aproned man was selling apples from a cart. A knife sharpener was busily turning his wheel, sharpening a pair of scissors for a plump matron in blue bonnet. Sparks flew. Pedestrians thronged the pavements, but no one paid the least attention to us. A tall, lean, dour-faced gent in black restraining a filthy urchin in violet blue rags wasn’t at all an unusual sight, it seemed. A carriage rumbled down the street, the horses leaving a steaming deposit on the cobbles. A nimble street sweep with straw broom scurried to sweep it aside. We passed a shabby square, turned again, started down a narrow, shadowy street of old brown shops, the dusty windows cluttered with yellowing prints and folios and discarded furniture.
Gordon had relaxed his grip on my wrist somewhat, holding my arm loosely behind my back, and the pressure against my throat was feather light. Could I make it? Could I break away from the demon? I knew I could out run him if only I could get out of his clutches. I tensed myself, bracing for the attempt. His fingers clamped tight around my wrist, jerking upward. His forearm pulled back against my throat.
“I wouldn’t advise it,” he said harshly.
Bloody sod could read minds as well!
“Please, sir,” I pleaded. “I didn’t mean no ’arm. I don’t want to ’ang. I don’t want to ’ave my ’and lopped off. I—I just wanted to be able to buy food an’ medicine for my mum and my wee baby sister.”
“It was your wee baby brother a few minutes ago.”
“Bleedin’ scum. ’Ave a memory like an elephant, don’t you? So I picked ’is pocket. I was ’ungry. I ’adn’t eaten in two days. ’E ain’t squawkin’. ’E ’as his watch an’ ’is bloomin’ purse back. Why don’t you let me go? You don’t want to ’ave my death on your conscience, do you?”
“If I ever had a conscience, I fear it atrophied a long time ago.”
“Bugger you, then! I ’ope you fry in ’ell!”
Bancroft looked mightily amused, brown eyes twinkling, a wide grin curling on his full pink mouth. This was all a merry lark to him, dragging a poor girl to her doom. In his way he was even worse than Cam Gordon, and I could expect no help form that quarter. I realized that now, and there was a terrible sensation in the pit of my stomach as the full enormity of my situation struck me for the first time. It was going to happen. I was going to be thrown into the roundhouse. I wasn’t going to be able to break away, and I wasn’t going to be able to talk my way out of it.
I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I didn’t struggle, not even when I saw the roundhouse up ahead, brown and bleak and forbidding, a large gray cart in front of it, two Runners loitering on the steps and looking far more vicious than any of the ruffians in St. Giles. The smell was awful, noxious fumes emanating from the sooty brown stones and hanging in the air like a poisonous cloud. Bancroft made a face, whipping out a handkerchief to hold to his nostrils. Ignoring the surly Runners, Cam Gordon marched me up the steps and into the building, Bancroft trotting along behind. The corridor was dim, the yellowed plaster walls speckled with brown stains. The stench was so strong I thought I was going to faint.
A beefy constable with a square, florid face and dark, blazing eyes sat behind a desk. He looked up angrily, bristling with belligerence. Cameron Gordon told him what had happened in a cold, indifferent voice. The constable glared at me as though I were the most despicable vermin. He took out a ledger and began to ask questions, scribbling in the book with considerable effort. The Scot released me. A gaoler came shuffling down the corridor with a ring of jangling black keys at his waist. I rubbed my arm, glancing around, weighing my chances of escaping. It was hopeless. The odds were against me. The constable fixed those belligerent black eyes on me and demanded my name.
“Mi—Miranda,” I stammered. “They call me Randy.”
“Last name?” he barked.
“I—I ain’t sure. My mum’s name was James. I never knew my pa.”
“Figures. Miranda James,” he said, writing awkwardly in the ledger. The ink splattered. He cursed under his breath.
“What’s your mum do? Whore?”
“My—my mum’s been dead for nine years. She wudn’t no whore. She was a fine lady.”
“Yeah. Yeah. You gotta place-a residence?”
“I sleep in a coal cellar. In St. Giles.”
My voice was quavering. My cheeks were burning after his implication about my mum. I had never felt so lonely, so lost, so vulnerable. I wanted to cry, but I wasn’t going to. I held my chin high, trying my best to maintain a shaky dignity. The Scot looked bored. Bancroft looked exceedingly uncomfortable, his mouth turned down at both corners.
“Any livin’ relatives?” the constable asked.
“I ain’t go no one,” I replied.
He asked more questions and made more scribbles in the ledger and handed a sheet of paper to Bancroft. Bancroft studied it for a moment with dubious eyes, and then he signed. The constable gave him the name of a magistrate, told him he would be expected in court at three the next afternoon and nodded curtly to the gaoler. The gaoler took me by the arm and led me away. I heard Bancroft say something to the Scot. He sounded terribly distressed. The gaoler took me down a long corridor and unlocked a heavy door at the end of it. He shoved me inside and clanged the door shut behind me. I heard a key turning in the lock and the sound of his footsteps receding.
I stood at the top of a flight of wide stone steps gleaming with patches of moisture. A few thin gray rays of sunlight streamed in from a single barred window set very high in one wall, well above street level, but they merely intensified the gloom. The steps led down into a huge black hole, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the dark I could discern dark forms shuffling restlessly below. A coarse voice called out, ordering me to come on down and join the party. There was a cackle of laughter and the sound of someone urinating on the stone floor. An enormous rat scurried up the steps, sniffed at my bare feet and made a squeaking noise before disappearing into the shadows. I had never known such terror. I began to tremble, gnawing my lower lip. Several moments passed as I struggled to control the trembling.
You ain’t dead yet, Randy, I told myself. They ’aven’t chucked that dirt into your face. Buck up. Idn’t goin’ to do you no good to stand ’ere cowerin’ like a baby. You ain’t really afraid. You can take care of yourself. Remember who you are.
“Come on, luv,” the coarse voice called. “All-a us down ’ere ’re eager to make your acquaintance.”
I squared my shoulders. I took a deep breath. Slowly, defiantly, I started down the filthy stone steps.
15
I sat huddled in the corner on the damp, filthy hay that was strewn over the icy cold flagstone floor. I was wary, alert, not daring to close my eyes no matter how much I longed to sleep. How many hours had passed? Thirty? Forty? Morning had turned into afternoon, afternoon into evening, and then, after hours of total darkness, thin rays of sunlight had begun to slant through the barred window again like ghostly fingers reaching down to torment all the doomed souls locked up here in hell. The other prisoners prowled around like caged animals, snarling and spitting, striking out viciously, but no one bothered me, not after I made my stand.
They had surrounded me immediately as soon as I reached the bottom of the steps, a whole pack of them, leering and laughing and ready for sport. It was traditional for a new prisoner to pay “garnish” to those already in gaol, but I had no coins, no valuables, nothing but the ragged dress I stood in. One of the men roared with delight and declared he’d take his garnish in flesh, and I smiled at him and looked delighted myself and told him he’d catch the pox, the worse case of pox in th’ ’ole bleedin’ country, but I assured him it would be worth it, what was the clap compared to havin’ Duchess Randy? No whore at Big Moll’s was ever more brazen, more provocative. The man backed off, convinced I was riddled with the dread disease. I laug
hed, taunting him, and then I put my hands on my hips and offered myself to any man who had a few pence to spend on paradise. It worked. There were no takers. I was not going to be brutalized and raped repeatedly by every man who still had the strength to do so. I called them names, playing my part with gusto, and all the while I was shaking inside, so frightened I could hardly breathe.
The women were not so easily put off. They continued to crowd around me, vile, vicious and, I knew, far more dangerous than the men. An ancient crone with stringy gray hair spat at my feet and jabbed my arm with her finger. I doubled up my fist and drove it into her stomach with all the force I could muster. She crashed to the floor, shrieking like a banshee. When she tried to get up I hit her again, slamming my fist into her jaw. A hefty woman with pockmarked face and short-clipped black hair grabbed me and tried to pull off my dress. I fought like a wildcat. I kicked and clawed and used my teeth. I was much smaller than she was and not nearly as strong, but after five minutes she crawled away, cursing and bleeding and vowing revenge.
I was a pariah after that, a savage, diseased whore, and the other prisoners kept away from me, soon finding new diversion as other poor souls came down those slimy brown steps after the door clanged shut behind them. I picked out the corner, brushed as much hay as possible into it and sat down, glaring like a tigress whenever anyone dared come near. My arm and shoulder were still sore from the Scot’s manhandling of me. One of my legs was badly scratched from the fight, and the roots of my hair stung from the brutal pulling. I felt bruised and battered, but I had come through the initial ordeal with great success. I wanted to curl up and sob my heart out. I folded my arms across my knees, not daring to let down my guard for a single minute.
Through the haze of semidarkness I saw the pockmarked woman muttering to two of her friends. The three of them stared at me, making plans. I made a face at them and extended a stiff middle finger. Had they known how weak, how tremulous, how terrified I really was, they would have been on me in a minute, would have beaten me senseless, but they didn’t quite dare. They’d wait until I fell asleep. And so I hadn’t slept at all. All night long I’d kept my vigil as the rats scurried and squeaked, as prisoners slept and snored and coupled on the stone floor like farm animals. I nodded now and then, true, but never for more than a few minutes at a time. The ticks and fleas and lice would have made real sleep impossible at any rate.
In the morning the gaoler had brought in a basket of stale bread and buckets of thin, tasteless gruel. I tried to eat. I couldn’t. Those prisoners with a few coins were able to purchase meat and cheese and fresher bread, but most of them bought gin instead. All morning long various prisoners were shackled and taken out to be sentenced on Bow Street and new prisoners were brought in. The ancient crone I had knocked down was led away, shrieking in anguish. The gaoler dragged her up the steps as those below hooted and laughed and applauded. Two men got into a bone-crushing fight. A pale girl with lank blonde hair took on three men in exchange for a hunk of cheese and a pint of gin. Scenes of horror abounded on every side, and I knew that this was just a taste of what one would experience in a real prison like Newgate or Bridewell.
Would I be sent to Newgate? To Bridewell? Would I be pilloried? Hung? Anything could happen. It all depended on the magistrate. Any prisoner with access to money could hire an advocate and, if enough money passed hands, sail away from court free as a bird, no matter how serious his crime. The advocate would gather up three or four straw men and “prove” his client’s innocence. A hundred or so men always loitered around Bow Street, the straw stuck into their shoe buckles indicating their readiness to be a friendly witness for a minimal fee. An advocate could step outside and gather up half a dozen of them for no more than a sovereign or two, and the straw men would solemnly swear that the prisoner had been elsewhere at the time the crime had been committed. The magistrates were quite accustomed to seeing the same witnesses appear before them over and over again, but there were very few men more corrupt than those who passed sentence on Bow Street, and the appearance of straw men meant the prisoner had money, most of which would end up in the worthy official’s own pockets. The system worked beautifully for all concerned.
But I had no money nor any way of obtaining any. Like thousands of other penniless souls I would be totally at the mercy of the magistrate, my sentence depending on his whim, his mood. There were laws, of course, dozens of bulky journals crammed full of decrees and edicts and stringent regulations covering every eventuality, but few of the magistrates who dealt with criminals on Bow Street ever bothered to consult them. As I huddled in the corner, bruised and hungry and terrified, I knew I might well be sentenced to hang, and I knew that in all the world there wasn’t a single person who would really care. Big Moll might shed a tear or two, true, but then she’d sigh and shrug her shoulders and get on with life. I had no one, no one at all.
Ain’t goin’ to do you any good feelin’ sorry for yourself, Randy, I told myself. Ain’t goin’ to do any good at all. You’re a fighter, not a whiner, and you ain’t givin’ up. When they march you into that courtroom you’re goin’ to ’and that bleedin’ magistrate a story that’ll ’ave ’im bawlin’ in ’is beer. You’re goin’ to break ’is bleedin’ ’eart. Before you’re through ’e’ll probably pin a bloomin’ medal on you.
Ever the optimist, I consoled myself with these fancies, but a small voice deep inside told me I was whistling in the dark. My sob story hadn’t worked with the Scot, hadn’t moved him a bit, and Bow Street magistrates were hardly celebrated for their compassion: It took a certain kind of individual to sentence other men to hang or undergo the most hideous and inhuman tortures, and that kind of individual wasn’t likely to be moved by a dirty little pickpocket caught red-handed at her craft. I plucked a flea from my scratched leg and ran my fingers through my hair, refusing to listen to that inner voice, refusing to give up hope. Once you did that you were sunk for sure.
The gaoler came for me a short while later. He pulled me to my feet and snapped shackles on my wrists, two tight iron bracelets with a heavy length of chain dangling between them. He gave me a shove and told me to climb up the steps. The pockmarked woman spat at me as I passed. I didn’t even bother to give her the finger. I marched up the steps with the gaoler close behind me. He unlocked the door and shoved me into the hallway. One of the Runners I had seen out front yesterday was waiting, a stocky lout with coarse black hair, a broken nose and glowering black eyes. His trousers, vest and coat were a noisy green and brown check, ill-fitting and worn, his stock a hideous shade of yellow.
“’Ere she is,” the gaoler growled.
“Fletcher’s court?” the Runner asked.
“Fletcher it is. ’E’ll be waitin’ in ’is wig, ready to pass sentence on ’er, an’ I ’ear ’e’s in fine fettle today. Already sentenced four to ’ang an’ two to th’ pillory an’ one to be publicly flogged—woman caught cheatin’ ’er customers at the fish stall.”
“’Ow many lashes?”
“Fifty.”
The Runner grinned. “Don’t wanna miss that ’un. Oughta be fun to watch. You, wench,” he continued, “you can come along without givin’ me any trouble or you can make it ’ard on yourself. What’s it gunna be?”
“I won’t give you any trouble,” I said meekly.
“Should-a shackled ’er ankles, too, Bullock,” he snarled. “Why th’ ’ell didn’t-ja shackle ’er ankles?”
“Pitiful-lookin’ lass like this ’un too much for you to ’andle?”
“I can ’andle ’er, all right. She gives me any trouble, I’ll break both ’er legs for ’er. ’Ear that, lass? You give Jim Elsom any trouble an’ ’e’ll make you wish you ’adn’t.”
“I ’ear you, Jim.”
“Don’t give me no lip, neither! Come along!”
He took hold of my arm and led me down the hall and past the deck and out of the building. Although it was dim enough, the sunlight was blinding after the darkness in the roundhouse. I blinked, stumb
ling a little. Jim Elsom muttered a curse and dragged me along the pavement, shoving aside any pedestrian who happened to get in his way. He walked briskly, jaw thrust out, expression menacing, and I trotted along beside him. The rusty iron bracelets were pinching my wrists. The chain rattled, banging against my knees every step I took. Elsom gripped my arm just above the elbow, his fingers digging tightly into my flesh, pulling me on.
We moved down Long Acre with its stretches of shambly houses, its small shops and the huge sheds that housed carriage makers and wheelwrights. I was weak physically and emotionally drained and so hungry my stomach seemed to be squeezing together. As we passed the Church of St. Anselm and the sooty, rundown cemetery in front of it, I knew it would be futile to try and escape. I’d never make it weak as I was, with these bloody heavy shackles, and Elsom would be on me like a vicious bulldog. We crossed Bow Yard and started down Bow Street. It was narrow and dingy, brown and gray and green, and everything was stained with soot. Carriages and carts rumbled down the street, coachmen cursing, cracking their whips. The pavements were thronged with villainous-looking men who loitered outside the shops and alehouses. The din was deafening, the air foul, the atmosphere threatening.
Elsom dragged me toward a squat, ugly building with brown wooden beams and yellowing tan plaster marbled with soot. The gray slate roof was oppressive, giving it a top-heavy look, a forest of crumbly orange brick chimneys and thin black chimney pots crowning it. Other buildings pressed close on either side, squeezing it tightly. Elsom took me up the steps and into a large, dusty foyer and turned me over to a skinny clerk in black. His face was pale, pinched-looking, shadows of weariness beneath his sullen brown eyes. His peruke was gray with stale powder and slightly askew, his bony fingers ink-stained.
“’Ere’s th’ James wench,” Elsom said, handing the clerk the key that unlocked my shackles. “I ’ear th’ old man’s in rare form.”
The clerk sniffed disdainfully. “I wouldn’t know;” he said in a thin, prissy voice. “They’re in chambers.”
Once More, Miranda Page 20