Bruce Alexander - [Sir John Fielding 01]

by Alexander, Bruce

  I came awake with a start. Although the morning light streaming in through the narrow windows half-blinded me, it was rather the racket in my ears that brought me abruptly to my senses. “Just look at vou, bov, look what vou’ve done! Fallen asleep reading, have vou? And let the candle burn down to nothing at alll For shamel Tallow candles as Sir John buvs are ever so dear—and vou’ve wasted one. Just look!”

  And look I did—from Mrs. Gredge, who was of course the source of these accusations, to the table bv the bed. And indeed it was so. There stood what was left of the candle, guttered down to the merest stub, the holder now a crusted cone of white rivulets.

  ‘Has no one taught you that—’

  ”Mrs. Gredge!’ There thundered a voice from below that was recognizably Sir John’s.

  She turned from me. this scolding corbie of a woman, now suddenly meek as a wren. ‘Yes … Sir John?”’

  “Leave the bov in peace. You have wakened me and my poor wife with your wrath. Desist at once.”

  “As you wish. Sir John.” She turned back to me then, just as cross as before but now much quieter: “Well, you’ve done wrong, and I’ve told you. Here. I’ve brought you your things.” She hefted an armful of clothes which she then dumped on the bed. I had failed even to notice them before, so overwhelmed was I bv her vehement indictment. “Get vourself dressed, and you may have breakfast.” With that, she left Just as quickly as she had the night before.

  I crawled out of bed and examined my clothes. All that could have been washed had been washed. The rest—coat and pants— had been so well brushed that most would have judged them clean. I dressed quickly and with the promise of breakfast hurried downstairs.

  Afterwards, having eaten my fill of bread and butter. Mrs. Gredge put me to various tasks about the house, sweeping and scrubbing up, at which I satisfied her. But soon she exhausted her fund of work, and I was left free to resettle mvself in my garret room and return to my book. Mrs. Gredge shuffled quietly about downstairs. Indeed there was a stillness in the house through most of the morning that evidenced illness within its walls. I recalled such quiet from my mother’s last davs in Lichfield and wondered at the gravitv of Lady Fielding’s maladv.

  But well toward midday I heard a great symphony of sounds from the floor below—hawking, wheezing, spitting, groaning, followed bv a loud, long splashing in the chamber pot. At last he had risen to meet the world. I found such noises reassuring with regard to Lady Fielding’s condition. More time passed during which I heard the voices of Mrs. Gredge from the first floor, then later, from the floor below me, the muffled, gentler tones of a woman in quiet discussion with Sir John. Visitors came and went, one of them unmistakably Benjamin Bailey. At last toward the end of the day, I was summoned to the study.

  The magistrate of the Bow Street Court sat comfortably at a desk which was quite clear of paper. As I entered the open door, he turned to me, immediately aware of my presence. “Ah, Jeremy,” said he, “well rested and well fed, I trust.”

  “Yes, Sir John. Thank you.”

  “No need. Mrs. Gredge informs me of your willingness to work about the house. For that I thank you. Let us say that you earned your keep. Her only objection, which I recall being voiced loudly early this morning, was that you had fallen asleep and allowed the candle to burn down. I count that not at all objectionable. The price of a candle is nothing to the education of a mind. You discovered what little is left of my brother’s store of books above, I take it.”

  I started at that. Had I done wrong to help myself? “Why, yes, I hope that—”

  “In all truth, Jeremy, I’m pleased to have you put them to use. I know my brother, were he with us, would be delighted. My own library, as you see, is much more modest and has to do with the practice of law. Some of these were also his. He was a remarkable man—an excellent barrister, a superb magistrate, and a marvelous and entertaining creator of romances and plays.”

  “What was his name. Sir John?”

  “Henry. Henry Fielding. In point of fact, he was my half-brother. His mother was not my own. Had you heard of him?”

  “My father had a book of his, which he read with great delight but forbade me to open.”

  Sir John laughed heartily at that. “That would have been Tom Jones, I venture.”

  “It was, sir. The story of a foundling.”

  “More or less, Jeremy, more or less.”

  “He … he must have been a man of great wit and learning.”

  “Henry? Oh, indeed he was. But he was something more—something altogether rarer. He was a good man. He was a fine husband to two wives—not simultaneously, let me assure you—a good father, and the best brother a man could want. I read law with him.” With that, Sir John hesitated, then added, “He gave me my life.”

  He had turned from me, and I had the feeling that his last words were addressed not to me but to himself. He was silent for a moment, as though lost in thought, but then he roused himself from his musings and said to me, “Well, enough of that. We’ve a dinner to eat, we two, and a man to seek out in your behalf. And I had thought to show you a bit of London before the sun goes down.”

  And so, after Sir John had taken time to say his goodbye upstairs and warned Mrs. Gredge that we might be late, we set out on our excursion. He started us off on Bow Street in the direction opposite the one from which I had come the night before in the company of Mr. Bailey. There was more to London than I had dreamed, and my guide to it all was to be a blind man. Although in retrospect this may strike me strange, as indeed it may you, there seemed nothing odd about it as I set out with him, for he went not as a blind man but as one alive to all the sights of the great city. He carried a walking stick but for the most part used it as any man would, moving along at a swift pace with sure step. He did, however, slow somewhat at street crossings, reaching out and testing the way before him, tapping at the cobblestones and listening at the curb for horse traffic, of which there was plenty even then.

  At the first crossing to which we came, I touched Sir John’s elbow to indicate that the way was clear, thinking merely to be helpful. Yet he shook his head firmly at me and said, “No, Jeremy, please. I should prefer to make my way alone. Short of saving me from certain death before a team of horses, or great embarrassment from a patch of dung, you must resist the temptation to help. Now, are we ready?” With that, he stepped boldly onto the cobblestones and led me across the street.

  People who passed seemed to take no special notice of him, not out of callous indifference, though some simply hurried by intent on their own affairs, but rather because most seemed to be accustomed to seeing him moving about in their midst. In the streets nearby he received many respectful greetings from passersby and shopkeepers which he returned in friendly fashion, almost invariably by name.

  “… And a good day to you, as well, dame Margaret.”

  “Ah, Joseph! Business going well, I hope.”

  Et cetera.

  We continued on our way, then turned onto the Haymarket, which surprised me by its great size and what I judged to be the modishness of its strollers. The women who walked there were powdered and painted and, to my young eye, quite pretty; they were decked out in the gaudiest raiment that ever I beheld. They offered smiles quite readily.

  Sir John must somehow have perceived my interest. “You have observed the plenitude of unaccompanied females hereabouts?”

  “I have. Sir John. Who are they?”

  “Unfortunates,” said he, and hurried me on.

  Although that seemed not a suitable description of their state, I offered no word of contradiction. However, I noted that he seemed quite well acquainted with several. In fact, one, whom I detected to be a bit senior to the rest, halted him with a hand to his arm and after exchanging a few pleasantries and being introduced to me, lowered her voice and said in an earnest tone, “I would only say to you, Sir John, that I received a letter from Tom—all the way from India. He asked to be remembered to you.”

  �
�Ah, Kate! How good to hear it. And how is the boy?”

  “Quite well, I think. He claims to have grown three inches in the year he’s been gone—though I can hardly credit it.”

  “Oh, quite possible. At his age they sprout just so.”

  She inclined her head in my direction. “Is he for the Navy, too?”

  “Jeremy? No, I think not. The lad has a trade, and I should like to see him pursue it.”

  She addressed me directly: “And what might that be, Jeremy?”

  “Printing, ma’am.”

  “Well, you’ve a fine man to look after your interests in Sir John. None better.”

  “I know that, ma’am.”

  “You’re too kind, Kate,” said he to her.

  “Don’t talk to me about kindness, John Fielding. Why, the way you dealt with Tom was more than I could …” Her voice trembled. Through all her paint I saw her on the verge of tears.

  He seemed slightly abashed at the display of emotion he sensed. His feet shuffled, and he beat the walk with his stick. Clearly, he wished to be on. “He’ll make you proud of him, Kate.”

  “I believe it. I do. Well … oh, just one more thing.”

  “And what is that, Kate?”

  “I’ve moved to a more respectable location at Number Three Berry Lane. There is a side entrance that is quite discreet. I should be pleased—honored—to have you come for tea some weekday afternoon. Only as a friend,” she added, “to show my gratitude.”

  “Very kind of you. By all means I shall try to accept your invitation.”

  And then with a goodbye and a God-bless-you she hurried away. Without a word to me, he started off suddenly, and I ran to catch him up. He said not a word for quite some space, and I wondered that he even knew I was by his side. But at last he addressed me: “You may have wondered, Jeremy, that I characterized these women of the Haymarket as unfortunates. I offer Katherine Durham as an example—a widow of intelligence and breeding forced to pursue this life on the street. It is a sad matter indeed.”

  “Her son was one you sent off to sea?”

  “He was—and it was not easy arranging it. He and his two fellows were guilty of a theft in which severe bodily injury was inflicted upon the victim. They truly wanted to hang those boys, Jeremy, and not a one of them older than you.”

  The thought made me most uncomfortable. “But you sent them to sea?”

  “Two of them.”

  I dared not ask what became of the third.

  He remained silent until we emerged from the Haymarket and turned onto Pall Mall. I exclaimed at the sight, and he brightened considerably: “Ah yes, I wanted you to see this. Isn’t it beautiful? It certainly smells beautiful. So much of London could be like this, and so little of it is.”

  I looked about me. There were trees and flowers—gardens as I had never seen them—and gentry as I had never imagined them. They were dressed finely but not so gaudily as the courtesans and their gallants whom I had seen in the Haymarket. Ladies and gentlemen ambled carelessly along as we passed them by, and there were groupings of a few posed most decorously here and there, all of them conversing in modulated tones. Even the horse traffic differed notably from what I had seen elsewhere. Only carriages and single mounts seemed to be allowed here. I saw no wagons or drays.

  We walked Pall Mall up one side and down the other, which gave me a glimpse of Green Park and St. James and of many fine houses along the way. It was all so much more than I had expected that I felt quite the bumpkin there. Even Sir John, whom I had judged to be well dressed, seemed plain by comparison to the gentry around us. And here he did seem to be treated with a certain cold indif- ference. Little notice was taken of him, and he received no salutations. When attention was given, it came in the form of rude stares. And thus, much as I was impressed by what I saw there, I was relieved when at last we turned down Charing Cross and found our way to the Strand.

  There was a swarm of people before us, the great ocean of humanity in full tide. Sir John halted there at the head of the great street, listening, smelling, taking it all in. “Is it not wondrous?” he asked. “This great gang of people before us, all of them so different and yet all human and therefore much the same. Is it not glorious? A man who has written many foolish things and a few wise ones once said that when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, for there is in London all that life can afford.”

  “That must have been one of the wise things he said.”

  “Indeed it was. He, by the by, is the man whom we shall now seek on your behalf.”

  “Who is that, Sir John?”

  “Samuel Johnson.”

  ”Dictionary Johnson?”

  “The same, my boy, a man of many admirable qualities, though overvalued in certain respects.”

  “Which respects are they?” For I had only heard good spoken of him by my father, both natives of Lichfield, after all.

  “For his wit, chiefly. He feels qualified to speak to every subject, including the law, in which he has no foundation, and when he speaks he wishes to be listened to by all and sundry. The man is a bore, and he has the way of all bores: that practice of talking at you, not with you. Even in literature, where he is held to be a great judge, his opinions are quite fallible. Mr. Johnson—or Dr, Johnson, as he styles himself—had the audacity and bad sense to write ill of my brother and his work.”

  Reader, you will recognize this last as the true cause of Sir John Fielding’s restrained animosity toward Dr. Johnson, though I did not for many years. One should rather have spoken ill of the King in Sir John’s presence than criticize his late brother.

  “But let us be off, Jeremy,” said he. “It is dusk, and we must try to find him at the place he often takes his supper, an inferior eating place frequented by scribblers and their masters that is known as the Cheshire Cheese.”

  And so we plunged into the throng there on the Strand, swimming along with the tide, he calling my attention to shops for the gentry along the way. I was then quite surprised when, somewhat past these, my nose was assaulted by a stench as foul as any I had known in the country. Involuntarily, I exclaimed at it.

  “At last you smell it, do you?”

  “Would that I did not, sir!”

  “That is the Fleet River, so called, yet hardly more than a stream flowing into the Thames. Actually, it is little better than a sewer running beneath Fleet Street, open at some points, one of them nearby. I he odor will lessen somewhat as we leave here, so let us do that with haste.”

  At last he halted me at a small alleyway hardly noticeable from the street itself. “Just here, I believe, is it not?”

  I looked down the alley and in the gathering dark I saw a sign giving announcement to the Cheshire Cheese. I conveyed this to him. Yet how could he have known his location so well?

  “Johnson lived just around the corner in an alley square, and he takes his meals here. His housekeeper is, by all reports and unlike Mrs. Gredge, a foul cook. I have no wish to knock upon the man’s door in search of a favor, but I had thought, were we to meet and talk with him at his eating house, it might be easy to present you and your predicament to him. He is not without good qualities. I’m sure he would be moved to help.”

  With that we proceeded to the Cheshire Cheese, yet just at the door he halted once again. “One more thing, my boy. When we meet Johnson he may be in the company of one James Boswell, a popinjay and a libertine who calls himself a lawyer. He is visiting and has attached himself to Johnson as a veritable lamprey. My point in mentioning this to you is that Boswell is a Scotsman from Edinburgh and has that manner of speech common to his countrymen. You must in no wise laugh at him, nor even show notice, for he is very vain.” I promised, and we entered.

  Although outside darkness had nearly fallen, inside it was darker still. Sir John found a waiter and inquired after Dr. Johnson. He was informed that although the lexicographer had not yet arrived, he was expected and that Mr. Boswell awaited him in the Chop Room. Thence we were conducted.
The man whom I rightly took to be James Boswell jumped to his feet and welcomed us—or rather, the magistrate—with great ostentation. In truth, his accent was not much pronounced. It could be detected, certainly, in his rolling of the letter “r” and in the flat nasal inflection he put on nearly all his vowels. However, I found him not in the least amusing.

  If Dr. Johnson was a bore, what was I to make of this man who claimed loudly and at length to be his friend? A popinjay? No doubt, and a gossip and a wiseacre, as well. I am aware of the tradition that charges us to speak well of the recently dead, and in the main I hold to it, yet I saw this James Boswell exhaust the time and patience of Sir John on so many subsequent occasions that I find little good in my heart to say of him. Worse still, later, as a young man, I myself heard him deride the chief magistrate of Bow Street, and I hesitated not to take him to task for it directly. Yet I anticipate somewhat. I cannot pretend that my first estimate was as fully formed as this nor as prejudiced. He seemed to me then only a tedious and long-winded man, one so keen to make a good impression on Sir John that he would continually solicit the opinion of the magistrate, and before it was half-stated rush in with his own.

  It was thus they discussed a range of topics, chiefly the then notorious John Wilkes, the Parliamentarian who had previously been jailed for fomenting riot. When Boswell noted to Sir John that Wilkes had recently been returned to Parliament in absentia, he then swore the fellow should be clapped in the stocks forthwith, but it soon turned out his objection to the riotous Wilkes was due chiefly to the latter’s abusive pronouncements against the Scots.

  “Is it true that he went to you to recover the blasphemous papers His Majesty’s Government had seized?”

  “Why, yes,” said Sir John, “he—”

  “He had the gall, had he? Why, if you were to ask me, I …”

  Et cetera.

  They went from Wilkes to the French and on to Boswell’s book on Corsica, which he advertised shamelessly to the magistrate; they spent over an hour on the voyage. I was by this time quite famished. Sir John must have perceived this, for he managed to silence Boswell long enough to order a steak and kidney pie for me and a joint of beef for himself. By that time the place was quite packed, but there was no sign of Dr. Johnson.