Fletcher's Fortune

by John Drake

  Fletcher’s Fortune

  John Drake

  © John Drake 1992

  John Drake has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1992 by New English Library hardbacks.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  In fond memory of

  David Burkhill Howarth

  ----------- DBH -----------

  1946 – 2009

  PATRIFAMILIAS AMATISSIMO

  MAGISTRO DOCTISSIMO

  INGENIOSISSIMO TECHNITAE

  OPTIMO AMICO

  Table of Contents

  – 1775 –

  1

  – 1793 –

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Epilogue

  Introduction

  In 2012 I bought at auction, a set of leather-bound volumes constituting the memoirs of the notorious Jacob Fletcher (1775–1875) together with the Fletcher Papers: several large boxes of letters, paper, prints, newspaper articles and memorabilia.

  The memoirs were dictated by Fletcher to a clerk, Samuel Pettit, in the early 1870s causing huge embarrassment to Pettit because of the subject matter and coarse language used. But Pettit was terrified of Fletcher who regularly threatened to “gut and fillet” him if he did not take down every word, leaving Pettit to take his small revenge by adding footnotes to the volumes after Fletcher’s death.

  What follows is therefore Fletcher’s own speech, interspersed with chapters of my own creation, based to the utmost of my ability on the evidence of the Fletcher Papers.

  John Drake, Cheshire, 2013.

  – 1775 –

  1

  Such a tale of blood and vile perversion have I to set before you, that I know hardly how to begin.

  (From a letter of 14th November 1775 from Erasmus Bolton, Surgeon, to Mr Richard Lucey, Solicitor of Lonborough, Cheshire.)

  *

  Grayling shivered in his nightshirt as the wicked draught shot up his spindly old legs. Grease from his candle spattered over the bed as he tried to wake his master.

  “Sir! Sir! Oh, dear sir!” he whined, and lightning blasted out of the night to show the rain, blown horizontal against the window. He jumped at the thunderclap and an old man’s tears of self-pity ran down his nose. But at last Surgeon Bolton stirred in the bed and sat up. Thick with sleep he blinked at the candle and cursed the cruel world that dragged him from cosy slumber.

  “Godblessmysoul! Godblessmysoul!” he said. “Whatever is it?”

  “Sir! Sir!” cried Grayling. “’Tis a mad man, God save us all! He’s downstairs. He’s all but broke in the door! Did you not hear him, sir?” Bolton saw his servant shaking in terror, and the spectacle stirred nasty thoughts in his own mind. Could it be an escaped lunatic? Could he be violent? In any case, he was already inside the house … Bolton sighed and threw back the covers.

  “Never fear,” he said, trying to be confident, “’tis a surgeon’s duty to be summoned thus. I shall come at once.”

  Having dressed in haste, Bolton went downstairs in wig and black coat, with his box of instruments under his arm. In the parlour was a large man, spurred and booted, pacing like a tiger, with water running off his coat on to Bolton’s best Indian rug. At sight of the surgeon he lunged forward and seized Bolton’s arm.

  “Mr Bolton!” he cried in a wild voice. “All hell and damnation is broke loose at the Hall! You must come at once!” Bolton recognised him. It was Stanley, Head Groom to Mr Coignwood of Coignwood Hall, and normally a sober and steady man. But Stanley dragged the surgeon ruthlessly out of the house and into the black night. Lightning split the sky, shadows leapt diabolically across Stanley’s face and Bolton shivered with more than cold as thunder rent the world to its roots.

  “Up sir! Up!” said Stanley, hurling Bolton bodily into an open cart with a pair of terrified horses stamping and pulling to be off. He leapt to the box, cracked his whip and sped away at a pace that blew Bolton’s hat and wig to the four winds, and left him hanging on to keep his seat. The horses were mad with the storm and Bolton cringed at such a gallop through the foul night, with stinging rain, sizzling lightning, and gouts of mud thrown up by the pounding hoofs. Coignwood Hall was only six miles down the Chester road but by the time they arrived, Bolton was breathless, battered, soaked to the bone and freezing in every limb.

  As they drew up at the front doors, servants ran out into the pouring rain to meet them, calling and shouting and clutching. The place was alive with mischief: blazing with light and figures scampering about in their night clothes. Hands pulled Bolton down and dragged him inside.

  In the Great Hall, things were worse. On one side Bolton saw Mrs Maddox, the housekeeper, in screaming hysterics, with a pair of little servant girls clinging to her skirts and wailing along with her. On the other side was a group of fools with bowls of water and bloodstained bandages, making a dog’s breakfast of ministering to a wounded man in an armchair. And all around, the household folk ran like chickens with a fox in the hen-house. The Coignwood family themselves were nowhere to be seen.

  “Thank God! Thank God!” cried a frantic voice. “The surgeon is come! ’Tis Mr Bolton!” A thin cheer rose up and Mrs Maddox paused to gulp for breath.

  “Let me pass!” said Bolton, and forced his way through the press to the injured man. “Porter!” he said, recognising Mr Coignwood’s butler. “Who did this to you?” All he got for an answer was groans, but examining the man he saw that Porter had been hit in the face and right forearm by a charge of small shot. He must have raised his arm instinctively to protect his eyes, and the arm, chin and forehead were spotted like a currant cake. The wounds bled freely but they didn’t look dangerous. “Stand clear there!” said Bolton, taking charge. “Stanley! Get these people back. I must operate at once to remove the shot. And you there, Mrs Maddox! Fetch a fresh bowl of water at once!” Soon he was picking out the shot with a pair of forceps and this roused Porter.

  “Mr Bolton!” he said in a feeble voice. “Sir! Spare your skills for one who needs them more than I … Poor Mr Alexander, sir, shot through the heart and bleeding his life out!”

  “What?” said Bolton. Alexander Coignwood was Mr Coignwood’s eldest son, “What happened man?” Porter dropped his voice still lower and beckoned Bolton to come close.

  “A dreadful quarrel in the library … among the family!” Sensing what might follow, Bolton looked furtively around and saw that everyone was listening with ears the size of donkeys’ ears. Porter continued, “At first I ignored it as a good servant should, sir. But then there was a gunshot! So I had to go then, sir, didn’t I? What else could I do?” He groaned and nearly fainted with the pain of his wounds.

  “Go on man,” said Bolton, and the mob of listeners edged closer.

  “Sir,” he said, “I’ll never tell all that I saw … Torture couldn’t draw it from me! But when I entered the library, my master whom I have faithfully served these twenty years ... he abused me, sir, with filthy oaths! And then he ordered me out! And then ... as I he
sitated at the threshold, he raised a fowling piece and ... and ... he shot me!” From the look on Porter’s face it was clear that even with his wounds to prove it, he still couldn’t believe what had happened. But the listeners believed him all right and they nudged each other and whispered behind their hands. “Mr Bolton,” says Porter, staring round-eyed at the Surgeon, “shall I die?”

  “No,” said Bolton. “The shot was nearly spent when it hit you. Mr Coignwood must have been at some distance from you ... Now! Who else is with him? You must tell me.” Porter frowned in concentration.

  “The mistress, Mr Victor, and Mr Alexander ... Oh sir! Poor Mr Alexander is a-dying even this moment as we delay! Will you not go to him?”

  “Yes!” said Bolton, making a swift judgement. “Your wounds are superficial.” He snatched up his instruments and made to be off, but Porter spoke again.

  “Be careful sir!” he said, biting his lips in anxiety.

  “Why?” said Bolton.

  “The master has his pistols sir ... ”

  “What?” said Bolton, incredulously. “He’d never shoot me ... would he?”

  “My master is not himself sir,” says Porter, “but will you not go to him, sir, you who has treated him for the gout these five years? You who are his doctor? Will you not go in and save poor Mr Alexander?”

  There came a silence. All present had closed in to listen to Porter’s tale. Bolton saw a circle of faces who’d clearly fastened upon him as the saviour of the hour — they were nodding in approval of Porter’s words. Thoughts raced through his mind. The pistols would be the pair of Wogdons, with hair-triggers and made to Coignwood’s particular fit. With those he could blow the pips out of a playing card at twenty paces ... If he’d shot Porter, his own butler, what chance was there for Bolton? And a charge of shot was one thing but a pistol ball was another. The length of the library would not save him from that.

  Yet Bolton had his reputation to consider. Twenty pairs of eyes were on him, with tongues to report his actions to the world. His position in society was imperilled. What would Lonborough think of a surgeon who was a coward? And of course, he told himself, he feared for the innocent lives of Mrs Coignwood and her sons. Finally, it was the thought of Mrs Coignwood being in danger that decided him.

  With a sigh, he gathered up his courage and his instruments and proceeded to the library with a train of servants in his wake. Candles burned everywhere and the rain and thunder beat against the house. An evil hour indeed, but not as evil as the actual moment when Bolton reached the library doors. He was quite alone; the servants had kept back out of harm’s way, even the stalwart Stanley. He could hear raised voices within, and as he reached out for the door handle he suddenly had the most awful feeling that he would faint, like a student seeing his first operation, and so make a complete ass of himself.

  But he was spared that, and he tried the door handle. In his heart, he prayed it would be locked, but it gave easily and he looked inside. Two ladies knelt by the body of a groaning lad in a dark-blue coat and bloodstained shirt. The huge bulk of Coignwood, florid and sweating, was leaning on his stick with a long pistol in his hand. He glared at Bolton.

  “Get away!” he said in a fury, and Bolton felt the most appalling fear as Coignwood stretched out his arm, and levelled the weapon at his heart. Bolton saw nothing in all the world but the dreadful black dot of the pistol’s mouth. But the practice of surgery doesn’t breed weaklings and though his knees were knocking, he stood his ground.

  “Now, now, Mr Coignwood,” he said, as best be could, “how are you today?” These were the words with which he’d always greeted Coignwood as a patient, and false though they were that night, they penetrated. Down came the pistol and Coignwood’s fury collapsed into sorrow.

  “See what they’ve done to me!” he said, indicating the others. “Not a penny shall they have of mine. I am resolved!”

  “You bastard whoreson!” shrieked Mrs Coignwood and leapt to her feet with obscene filth tumbling from her lips. Bolton was staggered. Like every other man in the county he was captivated by Mrs Sarah Coignwood, and had been since the first instant he met her. She was the stuff of fantasy: the men dreamed of her and the women died of envy. She was the queen of local society. She set the rules and lesser mortals followed as best they could ... But there she stood with hair loose and no more clothes on her than a thin silk robe! As she screamed and stamped, it swirled open and her naked flesh gleamed in the candle light. Shocked though he was, Bolton’s eyes bulged.

  What with this and his close delivery from death, Bolton thought that his capacity to be shocked was now exhausted. But he was wrong, for another wonder came up as if he’d trodden on a garden rake and been smacked between the eyes by the handle. The young man in the uniform coat of a Naval officer, was Master Alexander Coignwood. But the lady kneeling at his side, in a fine gown, powdered and painted, and with white arms that any girl would envy ... was not a lady at all, but his brother Victor! This young gentleman clung to Alexander like Juliet to Romeo. Mr Coignwood saw Bolton’s jaw drop.

  “Aye!” he said, in his grief and bitterness. “My son! My Alexander: a filthy sodomite! How can it be? A son of mine? All the expense to raise him as a gentleman and how does he repay me? Playing ‘bedroom backgammon’ with his own brother! Tonight I caught ’em at it, here in this very room where any servant could see. And that woman,” he waved the pistol at his wife, “she joins ’em in their sport to glut her filthy appetites with her own sons!” He turned to the surgeon in agony. “Jesus Christ!” he groaned. “Can you believe that, Bolton? Her own children?” Then his face twisted, as rage mastered all else. “By God,” he cried, “I swear I’ll murder them all with my own hand!”

  “Hypocrite!” screamed Mrs Coignwood and gathered her sons to her arms. She kissed each one full on the lips and turned again to her husband. “Hypocrite! I know you! And I shall never forgive!” Then she spat at him like an animal.

  Coignwood raged at her and slapped his thigh in anger. But he’d forgotten the pistol, which barked into life, scorching a line down his stocking and blowing a hole through his shoe. Bolton saw his chance at once, and rushed forward, yelling for the groom at the top of his voice.

  “Stanley!” he cried, as the big man entered. “Get Mr Victor away this instant and lock him up where none shall find him! And throw your coat over his head. Nobody must see him as he is!” Stanley obeyed at once but Bolton saw the eyes peering into the room and knew that thing was hopeless. The whole of Lonborough would have the tale within days unless the servants could be made to hold their tongues. But that was Coignwood’s problem and Bolton had a busy couple of hours ahead of him.

  There were two patients to deal with and Bolton was only too pleased to have the work to occupy his mind. He went to Alexander first, and found the lad’s wound was not mortal. It occurred to Bolton that, given the elder Coignwood’s skill with the pistol, this might be no lucky escape, however murderous the threats that had been uttered. In fact Alexander had been drilled neatly through the flesh of his armpit. Bolton noted the ball’s entry point in the pectoralis major and its exit through the teres major. No nerves or vessels were torn, nor bones broken. The injury was modest and a full recovery could be expected. Bolton cleaned the wounds, extracting material from Alexander’s coat and shirt, and bound him up.

  The lad himself was stoic in the extreme, staring steadily into Bolton’s eyes even while the latter was probing the wound. Mrs Coignwood too had calmed down and knelt at Bolton’s side, chaste as a nun, while he worked. She thanked him for his help and begged him in her silky voice to keep quiet about the night’s events. Busy as he was, her close proximity and that voice in his ear prickled the hairs on the back of his neck.

  Mr Coignwood’s injury was more serious, and Bolton had to amputate the big toe of his right foot. As he was very drunk Coignwood bore it well. In any case, he had something in his mind which left no room for anything else. He revealed this to Bolton as soon as his wife an
d sons were out of earshot.

  “Bolton,” he groaned. “Send for me damned lawyer. Send for Lucey, damn ’im. You’ll do that won’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Bolton, stitching away.

  “Not a penny shall they have of mine, Bolton, damn ’em all three!”

  When all was finished and the last of the blood wiped up, Bolton kindly tried to comfort his patient with the thought that now, at least, he would be spared the pain of the gout. But Coignwood fell into a rage again and called for his pistols. Under the great stress of the moment Bolton had forgotten that Coignwood’s gout afflicted the big toe of the other foot.

  – 1793 –

  2

  God only knows why I’ve ended up where I am. I never wanted to be a sailor and I’ve done everything imaginable to escape the Navy, including murder and mutiny. I just wanted to be left alone to make a fortune in trade. And I’d have done it, too, given the chance. Instead of that, the Navy took me and as far as I knew it at the time, they only got me because of dog-fighting. Dog-fighting and a cross-bred monster by the name of King Bonzo.

  King George caught me in 1793 when I was eighteen and an apprentice clerk at Pendennis’s Counting House in Polmouth. Polmouth was one of the biggest seaports in Cornwall in those days and I was king of the castle in my little world; a fine strapping fellow who everyone liked (or so I thought). I’d bought King Bonzo the previous year though he wasn’t entirely mine. I was just a partner in the ownership of him, with my friends Enoch Bradley and David Ibbotson. Enoch, David I and I were bosom friends in those days, being the three eldest apprentices at Pendennis’s. But it was me that bargained for Bonzo, because I could do that better than the others. We got the dog from a gypsy tinker and the sly rogue wanted ten guineas — salt of the earth, gypsies, provided you keep upwind of ’em and remember they’re all liars — so I beat the gyppo down to two guineas, which was still an awful lot. But I’d made some money from one or two enterprises of my own, and the others put in what they had, and I let ’em pay me off for the balance, on reasonable terms (they were my friends, after all). In any case, the dog was worth every penny.