by Edward Cline
They sat at a table in a box and watched the leisurely, talkative parade of guests. A bejeweled lady in the next box flirted with Redmagne, but his stare was distant. Jack Frake knew that his mind was on Millicent Morley, and that he was desperate to find some trace of her in the city before he left.
“Is this all one does?” asked Jack Frake, looking at the people with amazement.
“This is all one does,” confirmed Redmagne. “It is human company of a sort, I suppose. I thought it would be more enchanting. But it is not. Now it is reminiscent of a racecourse. One may place bets on who speaks first to whom. It is an aspect of London I don’t miss.” Then his whole body became alert when he spied someone in the crowd. Jack Frake looked to see who it was. A family had come in and was being shown to a table near the fireplace by a splendidly attired assistant master of ceremonies. He recognized Millicent Morley, who held Etain McRae’s hand as they followed the parents at a discreet distance. He smiled, and was pleased to see Redmagne beaming.
“Jack,” said Redmagne, “there will be a short delay in our departure from here. We will not leave until I have a moment with her.”
That moment came half an hour later, when the governess rose and took the daughter for a turn around the promenade. In the meantime, Redmagne, between snatches of conversation with Jack Frake, had taken out his brass box and penciled a missive on five pieces of paper. Into these he folded two golden guineas.
Redmagne left the box as Miss Morley and the girl passed them. Hat under arm, he followed the governess and her charge for a moment, and then strode up beside her. “Milady, you are again about to be accosted by a bandit.”
Miss Morley started, first at the sound of his voice, then at sight of him. She stopped with a gasp. “It’s Redmagne,” said Etain McRae, pointing up at him. Then she hid behind her governess’s skirts, and would crane her neck now and then for a peek at him.
Redmagne said, “Do continue walking, Miss Morley. Your employer and others will simply conclude that I am just another Ranelagh rogue.”
Miss Morley obeyed. “Have you been stalking me?” she asked in a whisper.
“No,” said Redmagne. “I asked about for your employer, Mr. McRae, in the city, but no one there knew him.”
“He has been here only a year,” said the governess, “and is only a junior partner.” She paused, then said, “Oh, Mr. Trigg! I did not think I would see you again!”
“Have you recovered from your trip?”
“Yes, thank you. As soon as we reached Ealing, the Neaveses went to the constable there, and told them about you and your nephew. And then the constable sent a messenger to the city.”
Redmagne chuckled. “I’m afraid the hue and cry was raised long before the Neaveses had the notion. The book I recommended to you may be banned. I am in danger, and cannot stay here for long.” Redmagne twirled his cane. “But — what is your employer’s address, Miss Morley?”
“Crooked Lane, by St. Michael’s church, near the Monument.”
“I know the street.” Redmagne paused to study the governess’s profile. He noticed a white ribbon peeking out from beneath her cape. “I see that you are a sympathizer, Miss Morley. Does Mr. McRae tolerate such a display of politics?”
“A sympathizer of what, Mr. Trigg?”
“Of the Jacobites, or of Lord Lovat, who is to be axed soon, I have heard.” Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat of Scotland, was one of the Young Pretender’s chief plotters.
Miss Morley raised her head and stared hard before her. I do not wear it for Lord Lovat or for any cause, Mr. Trigg.” Her voice lowered to a near-whisper. “I wear it for you.” Before Redmagne could reply, she said, “I did not thank you for the gallantry you showed yesterday. I thank you now.”
“Gallantry?” asked Redmagne. “No, it was not gallantry, milady. There were two reasons why I acted so quickly. I do not like being robbed — which is why I am an outlaw.”
“You admit it? That you are an outlaw?”
“Freely and with no shame.” Redmagne chuckled again. “I daresay I am wealthier than your employer and all his partners combined — excluding the firm’s assets, of course. There are many men like me in the country. We are outlaws, but smuggling needs capital, investors, and smart direction, too.” He paused. “But, were I standing before you in the rags of an Alsatian footpad, I would admit the same as freely and without shame.”
“And your second reason?”
“You, of course, though I suspect that you know that. Mind you, I would have taken the same action had we not befriended each other. But you were there, and that made my aim the truer.”
He felt Jack Frake come up beside him. “Redmagne, look!”
The boy was pointing to the entrance near the orchestra far across the promenade. Standing with a group of people waiting to be seated were the Neaveses.
“Damn!” said Redmagne. He took Miss Morley’s elbow and hastened her to a point in the promenade where the great column of the fireplace obstructed their view. “Milady, we must go, as you can see. Here are some verses for you.” He reached into his coat and handed her the mass of folded paper. “They are not quite as stirring as Lovelace’s, but I will improve with time. I promise you.” He smiled down at her. “And, should you not have as many shillings to spend as did Pamela, you will find enclosed in that packet something which will enable you to purchase the adventures of a man who could not love her.”
“Adieu, my cavalier,” said Miss Morley, clutching the paper and holding it close to her breast. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, then turned sharply and led her charge away. “Good-bye, Redmagne,” said Etain McRae, who had managed to turn her head and wave to him.
Redmagne grinned, and swept his hat in a low bow, then led Jack Frake to a side entrance.
In the morning they stepped out of the Three Swans, valises in hand, and had a hearty breakfast at the Bedford Coffeehouse in Covent Garden. The place attracted the London literati and Redmagne pointed out some notable wits and writers to Jack Frake. “This would be my second home, if things were otherwise.” He perused a newspaper, The Morning Advocate, and read a short item in which it was noted that “John Smith, notorious smuggler, is reported to have entered the city under the name of John Trigg, gentleman from Devon, in the company of a boy, whose true name is unknown, and is thought to be staying at one of the better inns. The Sheriff of London has offered a £50 reward to anyone who first lays hand on him in arrest. Innkeepers are advised to scrutinize suspicious-behaving travelers applying for accommodation.”
“That was cutting it close,” remarked Redmagne, handing the paper to Jack Frake. “Another few hours and we would have found ourselves in irons and sitting in the Fleet Prison.”
He had planned to retrace their route back out of the city, but the newspaper item made him cautious. He hired another waterman to row them to Battersea, and in the village there they boarded a coach at an inn on Lavender Hill.
Two days later, they reached Marvel and the caves. Skelly, alerted by the watchman on the hill that they were coming in on the path through the brush, met them at the entrance to greet them.
“Back so soon?” he asked with a grin. “You had leave to spend a week.”
Redmagne shook Skelly’s hand, and then gave him his copy of the London Gazette. “It was a trying but satisfying trip, Augustus,” he said. “But you were right. I have been marked for extinction.”
Skelly glanced at the proclamation. “But you always knew that,” he said.
“Yes. But not for that reason.”
Chapter 20: The Courier
AUGUSTUS SKELLY NOTICED CHANGES IN REDMAGNE AND JACK FRAKE. He was not sure if these changes boded good or ill. He viewed them from the perspective of a leader who could do little about them.
The reason for Redmagne’s change was clear, for it had been confided to him: a woman. The man had, after a series of discreet episodes over the years, met his match, and the man was happy. And miserable. Skelly knew the
pain of separation from such a woman, and also a pain that he hoped Redmagne would never know: that his action years ago had probably driven his own wife to suicide. He still did not know which thing moved her to poison herself: remorse, the prospect of a shameful future, or perhaps — and he was willing to concede this last possibility — the loss of the man she had truly loved, the man he had killed. But he would never know which was true, for his wife had left no note.
He understood Redmagne’s agony. The woman was not here; she was not in the next room, nor at the market, nor just down the lane chatting with a neighbor. She was fifty leagues away in the maw of London. Since July, in the idle times between contraband runs, Redmagne would steal away and be gone for days at a time, returning elated and desperate. His tutorials, which many in the gang paid him for, had almost ceased. His evening entertainments were also missed by the men. His desk was growing dusty. Skelly did not question him and could not stop him, for when there was no smuggling business and none to plan, his time was his own. He had broached the subject with Redmagne of eloping with the woman, of setting her up in a house in Marvel, of even going to the colonies with her. “It can be arranged with Ramshaw,” he told his lieutenant one evening. “He would do it for nothing. He knows men in New York, Philadelphia, Charleston and Boston. In all the principal towns. You needn’t worry about finding an occupation or trade.”
Redmagne had shaken his head. “I’ve thought of those things, too, Augustus. But it’s her father. He’s a clerk for one of McRae’s partners. And he owes this employer his life, for this man paid a surgeon to have her father’s arm and leg set after an accident. The man is otherwise a nasty piece of goods. He’d make her father’s life impossible, if she left. And she won’t leave.”
Jack Frake was another matter. Ever since his return from London, Skelly had watched him grow more and more restive. Not in any way that interfered with his tasks, nor in any manner that affected his character. The change lay in the way the boy now looked at things; a greater knowledge of the world showed in his eyes, and his self-assurance was more pronounced.
One day in late September, they sat together on the hill above the caves. Skelly had gone up to the watch post, a patch of grass concealed by outcroppings of rock. The leaves in the brush and trees surrounding the caves were fast turning into a palette of autumnal colors.
“I’m growing envious of Redmagne,” he said to the boy. He knew the story about the highwaymen. “When will you save my life?”
“At the first opportunity,” replied Jack Frake.
“Let’s hope one doesn’t present itself,” said Skelly. After a moment, he said, “You ought to think on that subject he told me you raised in the coach. On government reports and mythical lost revenues. You put your finger on something that’s eluded me for years. Perhaps you, too, could have a letter printed in a newspaper.”
Jack Frake was silent for a moment. Skelly saw a spark of interest in his eyes, but this was not the bright eagerness he was accustomed to seeing. The boy shook his head with a pensive frown. “No, sir. Not a letter. I’d want to write a book on it.”
“Another book?” chuckled Skelly. “My gang is producing so many scriveners!” Then, in a serious vein, he added, “Jack, I envy you your future. I truly do.”
“I’d dedicate it to you, if I ever wrote it,” said Jack Frake. “You shouldn’t be living like this. You ought to be living there.” He pointed to the vacant Villers mansion in the distance. “Or in London.”
“Thank you,” said Skelly. He lit his pipe, then asked, “Are you beginning to regret your shadowy life with us?”
“No, sir. I’ll never regret it. I think I’ll be a better man for my time with you and Redmagne and the others.”
“You do us proud now. But — there are saner ways of becoming a man. And of being one. I told you in the beginning that ours is not a normal way to live.”
“No, it isn’t. But it’s more honorable.”
Skelly sighed with impatience. “‘Honor’ is such an empty notion nowadays. There is a better word for what you mean. The vilest rake in Parliament can claim honor. No, what moves us, Jack, is something more substantial.” He smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find the right word for it someday.”
Jack Frake’s sight was fixed on the surrounding countryside. Skelly studied his face for a moment, then asked, “Have you thought on Captain Ramshaw’s proposal? You could ship out with him as a cabin boy. This time next year you could be somewhere in the colonies, starting anew. There’s no future for you here, living like this.” His pipe swept the panorama and dipped to the ground to include the caves below.
“No, sir,” said the boy. “I mean, I’ve thought on it, but I’d rather stay. I’d like to see London again.” Jack Frake was not thinking of escape, or of relief. His imagination was still dazzled by the possibilities in his life in his own home.
“Can’t say I blame you,” said Skelly. “I may visit London myself again, soon. And you’re welcome to come with me. Well, Redmagne — blast it, Jack, you’ve got me calling him that, now! — he’s brought a letter from Ramshaw. The Sparrowhawk will be laid up in Boston for a while, having her hull scraped and all new rigging strung to her. We won’t see her again until next spring at the earliest. Give his offer a farthing’s more thought, Jack. Promise me?”
Jack Frake looked at Skelly with alarm. “Have I displeased you somehow, sir?”
“Displeased me?” scoffed Skelly. “Huh! Quite the opposite, Jack. I value your company highly. I simply want to see you put your energy to better use.” He paused. “I said I envied you your future. I didn’t mean as a smuggler.”
The boy smiled in gratitude. “I promise I’ll think on it. About Ramshaw, I mean.”
Jack Frake did not immediately find the right word, nor did he identify the last piece of a puzzle, the rivet that sealed the independence of his mind.
Until London, he had been content to remain with Skelly and the gang; indeed, prepared to remain indefinitely outside the bounds of what he observed passed for normal human existence. Skelly, Redmagne and the others — but especially Skelly and Redmagne — were his measures of all other men, including himself. Skelly he regarded as a kind of father, a model of practical wisdom and moral rectitude. Redmagne he saw as an ideal older brother, even though the man was not many years Skelly’s junior.
But there comes a time in every man’s life when he must make himself the measure, not of any others, but of all else. “All else” encompasses animal and inanimate matter, and so it is implied that he should command these, and not men. This is a bold but necessary step; growth and the ineluctable cementing of character require it. It is a time when character sets itself for life, and all other aspects of oneself become derivatives and extensions of it. A few men are able to reach this state of autonomous self-possession; others cease to be their measures or models. The world begins when such a man is born in this sense — to paraphrase an American poet — and the world is his to win. He reaches this state, thanks neither to divine favoritism nor to special pedigree, but because he has retained a tight grip on his original, uncorrupted, and undiminished perspective.
Far at the bottom of this scale of character, many, many more men fail utterly, do not even try to reach that threshold, and become the puppets of things as they are. To cement one’s character requires one to commit oneself to one supreme, achievable thing, and these latter men wish only to indulge everything and devote themselves to the minuscule or to nothing.
Jack Frake was of the first echelon. The Whitehall Stairs were his threshold. Handel’s anthem, “See, the conquering hero comes,” informed him of this moment. It had been sung with heartfelt gusto by the soprano and chorus, hurled imperiously by them at the audience, and Jack Frake was a ready subject of this spiritual assault. He did not sing with others in the audience, but remained solemnly still and surrendered to the music. One does not join in a tribute to oneself.
He had seen things in London that he would not care t
o see every day, or ever again. He did not think he would want to live there, except on his own terms. Skelly and Redmagne belonged there, too: Skelly with his business acumen, his ability to buy and sell, his talent for juggling the wealth of the world and redistributing it in ingenious ways, to his own profit; Redmagne with his literary vision, and his need to address men of like mind, if not of like spirit. But Jack Frake had seen the devastated lot of Skelly’s former emporium, and had witnessed the sabotaging of Redmagne’s chances.
He was of two minds, concerning London. It was a city that granted the possible to everyone but these two men, and for that should be put to a fiercer torch than that which leveled it in the Great Fire. It was a city that could be conquered and remade so that he and Skelly and Redmagne could live in it and thrive. He hated London; he loved London. London with its various species of customs men — the beggars, the footpads, the court sycophants, the dilettantes, the yes-men — as well as the appointed ones at Customs House, was uninhabitable by the likes of him. The London that birthed and reared all the wonderful things possible only in a great city was his natural field of action.
It was October. He sat on a length of driftwood on a beach with four other men. A dozen ponies stood tethered together in back of them. They were waiting for the first galley to return from the Ariadne with its contraband, which they would quickly unload and secure to the sides and backs of the ponies while the galley returned for another load. It was dark, the clouds scudded past the moon, but the wind and waves were calm. He could not help but think of all the ships anchored below London Bridge in the bright sunlight, waiting to be cleared or unloaded by the lightermen.