Edward spun around. “Where the hell are you!” he whispered as loudly as he dared.
“Here!”
“Damn you and thank you!” he whispered sincerely. “And why aren’t you gone?”
“I was afraid. I stopped and hid just back there. Please don’t kill me,” she said.
Edward sensed she was not nearly as afraid as she pretended, and had stayed behind to see if the incident could be turned to her advantage.
Or am I being too cynical? he wondered.
“Fool, why would I kill you? You helped me—you hit the bastard with a brick, for which I thank you again,” Edward whispered sharply, then realized her fear might be entirely warranted under the circumstances. “Look, I’ll not harm you, I think you know that already. You helped me, after all. And I wouldn’t harm you anyway unless you attacked me. Lend me a hand, I want to search the body. This man is a Jacobite assassin.”
“The twat-scouring pimp! But my crew are not Jacobites!” she whispered, then stepped backward. “Mayhap you are the Jacobite!” she hissed. “There’s Scots in your tongue!”
“And Scots plaid in your clothing. If I were a Jacobite the crown would arrest me, not send an assassin after me, you little fool.”
“I’m no fool!”
“And indeed you aren’t. My apologies, mistress.”
Edward worked quickly, even more so when he heard voices in the distance. Far away a watchman called the hour, his voice barely audible. Edward worried that the sound of sword on sword had drawn interest, for there is no sound like it in the world. But there was no sense of alarm in the voices, although this did not obviate the need to hurry. Quickly he checked to see if Lynch were really dead, using what little light there was in the alley. The man’s unbloodied eye was open but stared vacantly into the darkness. He had no pulse at his throat; Edward could feel no breath from his mouth or nostrils.
Dead, Edward thought. Warm, but dead, deservedly dead.
For a brief moment he wondered if he should call for a watchman or bailiff, or present himself before a Justice of the Peace.
I can’t. The only witness is a whore, and none will believe her; they’ll think we worked together to murder and rob the bastard. I’ll be damned before I’m jailed again in London, and again for a crime I didn’t commit. Suppose someone says that it must be murder because he has two wounds?
Edward had no time to consider why Lynch had been following him, but he assumed the worst, that he was after the letters he carried. He searched the corpse quickly and found a small purse and silver watch, but no correspondence. He knew he’d probably missed some items, but had neither the time nor the light for a close search.
“Take the money for yourself,” he said, “but leave the rest. Now go! I promise I won’t know you if I see you again, and I ask the same of you.”
“But the watch and cutlery—I know those who can sell them!”
“And the thief-takers can track you by them if anyone recognizes them. And if you’re taken with them, you’ll hang, but not before identifying me to try and save yourself. Only his coin will leave no trace. Now go, I’ll nae tell you again!”
Yet still she did not. “You should be rid of the body,” she whispered.
“Too dangerous,” he replied.
“It can be done, you should dump it in the Ditch.”
Fleet Ditch, actually the River Fleet leading to the Thames, which in three decades would begin to be bricked over and turned into a closed sewer rather than the open sewer which for all practical purposes it was at present, was flanked by wharves, warehouses, and oak palings. It was notoriously noxious, with excrement, dead animals, and other refuse floating in it. Some joked that more bodies were found here than at the undertaker. So filthy was it that barges and dung boats collected its “dirt” where it entered the Thames, and sold it for fertilizer. Even so, men and boys were known to bathe in the Ditch. Edward would be glad to see the body dumped there, but, “Too dangerous, I said!”
Growing angry, Edward ordered her to be gone for her own sake, and stepped toward her as if to force her if necessary.
“A guinea,” she said.
“What?” he demanded coldly. “Are you trying to make me pay black-rent, you damned jade?”
“I’m a tradeswoman, not a black-renter,” she whispered indignantly. “And I’m no friend of any Jacobite! A guinea and I’ll see the body dumped in the Ditch, sir, and the rest too. It’ll be better for you this way.”
“A guinea! You are a damned black-renter!”
“It’s what I charge for intimate services in private places, sir. I’m a tradeswoman, I must make a living.”
“If that’s the case, why then only a guinea when you might make much more by turning me in?”
“Why’d you pink that talley-man trying to feel me up when you could have walked away last time you were here?” she whispered back.
Touché! thought Edward, a small grin ranging itself on his face.
“I guess it’s best not to have dead bodies at your door, either,” he whispered. From his purse he pulled a gold coin. “Get to your canting crew swiftly and have done with this. Good luck, mistress—and my thanks.”
“And to you, sir, my Gentleman of Fortune.”
She kissed him on the cheek, turned, and ran down the alley, south toward its more usual connection to Water Lane.
With one more glance around to see if anyone might have observed him, Edward walked as circuitous a route as he could back to his lodging, first ducking back onto Fleet Street by the almost secret entrance to the Alley, then along the filthy Ditch, past Bridewell Prison to the Thames River, then striding past the Queen’s Theater and across Salisbury Court, and finally, near the Dorset Steps on the Thames, to the bottom of Water Lane clogged with wagons, carts, and sleeping drivers. His bed at the Black Horse beckoned.
He quashed the turmoil in his mind. As he passed the Water Lane entrance to Hanging Sword Alley, he thought that never had Fortune sent him a more appropriate omen.
Chapter 23
And two or three days afterward, all of a sudden, came down news from London of a bloody and horrid plot...
—Capt. Edw. Barlow, his Journal, writing of 1696
It was well past midnight before Edward fell asleep in his room at the Black Horse, and when he did he slept much too lightly, constantly starting at sounds and wondering who would next come for the letters, or who would come to arrest him for the murder or manslaughter of John Lynch. It was not that he was squeamish about the killing—he had taken life too often during his decade and a half of following violent trades— rather he was uneasy about the circumstances, no matter that it was self-defense.
Here he was, waiting for a privateering commission, a license to commit violence in the name of profit, yet he had drawn blood with sword or pistol ashore half a dozen times in recent months, and twice more at sea.
It was too much.
And too much subject to Fortune, too much ensnared in women and their secrets.
Too many damned coincidences, he realized, yet too many rational arguments they’re nothing more than coincidences.
He must, however, assume the worst: the meeting was no accident, and Lynch was after the letters.
He must disregard the possibility that Lynch had spotted him by accident and tried to have his revenge for his humiliation and new name. Still, who would not contemplate revenge for being named Double Bung? What bothered Edward was how Lynch could have followed him, given the pace he had ridden from Bath, or even how Lynch could have found him in London.
And yet, Edward had to accept that it was possible. Lydia could have learned his agenda, even his place of lodging, from Deigle, and sent a messenger the same day to Lynch, to arrive before Edward. The Scotsman’s delay with the flying coach would have given a Jacobite messenger time to get to London a day before him. The connection between Lydia and Lynch was obvious—but Lynch was too stupid to have acted in any significant capacity as a Jacobite intriguer.
Someone had to have given him orders.
Edward did not want to believe that Lydia could be so involved, or worse, go so far. He saw her as a more scheming version of Molly: a husband hunter who lived off of men, rich and not so rich, until one would provide her with the material security she sought as wife or mistress. And yet, just as Molly might well be more than she seemed, so might Lydia.
One hell of a damned mess all around.
And now, as he tried to sleep but could not stop thinking about the encounter in Hanging Sword Alley, Edward wished he had searched the body more thoroughly for papers or other evidence.
He awoke earlier than usual the next morning and got up immediately, realizing he would not fall back to sleep in the time that remained before dawn. He took the extra time to brush his hat, comb his wig, smooth his shirt with a smoothing iron, dust off his riding clothes, and polish his boots. Although the combination of wherry and walking was common, he would ride instead. He refused to consider hiring a sedan chair, a pretentious mode of carriage and one from which he could not defend himself.
Ruefully, he suddenly recalled that King William did not hold court at St. James, nor at Whitehall, which had burned, but at Kensington where the air was cleaner. Edward would need directions. The innkeeper happily provided them.
The Scotsman found himself lost among the crowd several times as he rode at a walking pace up Fleet Street. He had been to London only a few times, and during his longest visits he had been under arrest for much of his stay, and avoiding creditors most of the rest. Even so, he had come to know parts of the city, a great one in every respect, good and bad.
Half a million people, or more than that some say, he thought, almost as big as Paris. The Thames with its merchant fleet. The Crown, Parliament, and merchants. Great, grand buildings.
Here, he could find anything and everything. Wine, women, and whiskey of all sorts. Books and booksellers, arms and armorers. Plays and music. Coffeehouses and taverns of every sort. Prize fights. Bartholomew Fair in August every year.
Anything and everything was for sale. Here on the street were tattered children selling lengths of thread from sticks, and there a man and his wife selling sheet music, and over there a woman selling mops from a bundle atop her head. Down by the Thames were entire cargoes for sale.
The atmosphere was rich and cosmopolitan, yet there was a sense of anonymity too: here one could rise in renown or be lost forever to history.
At Kensington the wait was interminable. Edward was left to loiter among a throng of petitioners, most of whom had been waiting days for an audience. He had assumed his letter of introduction to King William’s most trusted advisor, Lord Hans Willem Bentinck, Earl of Portland, would have admitted him immediately. He was wrong.
While he waited, he read one of the London news-letters, the Gazette, someone had left behind. He was surprised to read of his brief escapade on the road:
“Capt. Edw. MacNaught, the once famous Buckaneer, charged upon two Highwaymen near Reading two Days past, believed to be Will Hollyday and Rich. Pollynton, and put the Highwaymen to Flight, for which he received a small Reward. Capt. MacNaught recently briefly commanded the Virginia Galley after her Master was killed by a Shot from a French Privateer. The Captain brought the Ship safely to Bristol, to the great Joy of her Investors.”
And in the advertisements:
“Capt. MacNaught, of Privateering Fame, is in London seeking Investors for a Privateering Venture. Inquiries should be directed to Him at Lloyd’s Coffeehouse.”
Edward knew nothing of reward or great joy in regard to Bristol merchants, was unsure if once famous was a good or bad thing, and was a bit surprised that the account and advertisement had been published in London, with details of where to find him and what his ultimate business was. But hacks and journalists had their many sources—the newspapers were all in competition with each other for the latest news—and perhaps someone thought it a favor to him to post his information in the advertisements, inviting inquiries from investors. Still, the fact of publication irritated him: if anyone else were seeking him, he would not be hard to find.
Four hours later Edward was admitted and escorted silently on a warren-like journey that seemed deliberately tortuous and designed to get him lost, as if in imitation of the Dutch gardens outside. At journey’s end he was introduced into a room occupied by two men, one of whom he recognized as the Earl of Portland, the other an unknown gentleman.
Of them, only the Earl spoke. “Captain MacNaughton, I assume.”
“Aye, your lordship.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“I seem to recall that you served as a volunteer in a regiment of Inniskilling dragoons at the Boyne?” the Earl asked in his Dutch accent.
“Aye, my lord.” Edward thought it better not to relate the fact that his service in the regiment was somewhat involuntary.
“I thought I knew you. It’s not often that a vryjbuiter from the sea serves as a soldier.”
“Circumstance only, my lord. I prefer the sea.”
“Except, apparently, when there is a Spanish town on its shore,” the Dutchman remarked dryly. “The Spaniards are now our allies, if you recall. You have the letters indicated by Lord Deigle’s missive?”
Edward removed the several letters from the wallet beneath his shirt and passed them to the Earl, who shared them with the gentleman at his side. The pair spent half an hour reading and rereading the letters, often consulting with each other in whispers.
“My thanks to you, sir,” the Earl said finally, standing and looking at Edward with a steady military gaze. “You have my leave to go.”
Edward cocked his head slightly but said nothing. As he turned to leave, the earl addressed him again.
“Where may we find you?”
“At Lloyd’s coffeehouse.”
“And where do you lodge?”
Edward gave him a curious look. “At the Black Horse on Water Lane.”
“You may go. And thank you.”
Edward wandered London the rest of the day, assuming rightly that no action would be taken on the letters—if at all—for hours if not days. He inquired regarding plays at the theaters, ate a heavy meal of lobster with vinegar, fricassee of chicken, and cheesecake, all washed down with two large cups of sweet Malaga, and wondered how soon he should check at Lloyd’s for a message from the palace, not to mention how many days he should wait for an answer. He worried that the Earl of Portland would see nothing in the letters from Ireland, or would find in them the mere imaginings of a man too strongly influenced by gossip and coffeehouse intelligence.
In his meandering he heard word of a duel or affray, of a man found floating, in spite of a mail shirt, dead in Fleet Ditch. The man had been thrust through the eye with a sword. No witnesses had come forward, no reward was offered, no one was accused or even speculated about. An old grudge, or an argument over a rich widow or common whore, or of cheating at cards or dice, the rumors suggested. There was no hint of Edward’s involvement.
Edward remained nervous, though, wondering if another would come in Lynch’s place, or if authority would come, seeking to charge him with murder.
He rose early the next morning, intending to stop first at Lloyd’s, then to see more of the sights and sounds of London, this time by wherry and afoot.
As soon as he was dressed there came a knock on the door.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“The maid, sir, with a message,” came a high and slightly tremulous voice.
Edward, one hand on a turn-off pistol in his pocket, opened the door—but instead of a maid found a lobster-coated officer and four soldiers, all armed.
“Captain Edward MacNaughton?” the officer asked sternly. He did not wait for an answer. “Captain MacNaughton, I have a warrant for your arrest. I am under orders to take you peaceably, but take you I must, and take you I will whether you resist or not. Your sword, sir, and any other arms you may have.
”
That traitorous black-renting jade! Edward thought as he complied, and with angry resignation silently cursed Fortune, her minions, and his philosophy.
Two hours later he found himself locked away in a small room in the Tower of London, having passed through Traitor’s Gate to get there.
Chapter 24
False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,
So Mat may yet chance to be hang’d or be drown’d.
—Matthew Prior, “For my own Monument,” 1714
Ten days later came an older man alone and unarmed to escort Edward from his room in Beauchamp Tower on the west curtain of the Tower of London. The emissary was nondescript, except for his expensively tailored clothing: a Court functionary perhaps, or some nobleman’s secretary, a man more accustomed to the duties of office than of field or sea, a man more accustomed to taking orders than giving them. His manner was friendly but professional.
Now for answers, Edward thought with great relief.
For an instant when soldiers had appeared at his door at the Black Horse, Edward was sure he had been betrayed by the woman who had helped him in Hanging Sword Alley, and that he was being arrested for Lynch’s murder.
Quickly he had realized this could not be the case. A common murderer would not be confined in the Tower, nor would soldiers have come to arrest one. Nonetheless, for several hours after his arrest he considered that he would rather have been arrested for murder, because a crime worthy of the Tower must surely be treason. Yet incarceration here made no sense: even among traitors, usually only those of great rank were lodged here, although there were exceptions.
Further, Edward had been treated well since his arrest, although no one would name the charges against him. He had decent food and drink for which he was not expected to pay, an extraordinary curiosity. His personal effects, minus his arms and correspondence, were provided. No one harassed, harangued, interrogated, glared, or glowered. It was all quite unusual.
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