Under his burlap hood, Jack hears Bess calling to him from her chambers high in the eaves of the bat house.*6
The House of the Dead is the common house; the House of the Dead is the common house. All things held in common across That River. I’ll meet you there, in the Eternal Free Waste Lands, my love.
* * *
—
But is Bess at the bat house? Is she, indeed, even alive?
* * *
—
The hood smells like the shit-soaked hay at the bottom of a cackler’s ken*7. The low afternoon Sun blinks dark gold through the fibers. Jack can no longer feel his leg, but for some distant throb that seems not quite to belong to him. He breathes slowly, the bag’s muck itching against his lips. He catalogues the things he knows for certain, or near-certain.
He knows the Mob gathered around the cart must be about the largest London has ever seen. The Town is aflame with talk of him.
It had begun when Wild carried him over his shoulder from the Thamesshore to the Magistrate’s stables. With his face press’d against Wild’s broad back, he heard passers-by congregating, gawking—’S that Sheppard?? And Wild??—and then a swirling wind of Whispers, the rumor-mongers flying off to inform the Town.
Wild had taken his time at the stables, ordered the execution-cart festooned and glory-fied with flags and ribbons while Jack hunched within, bound and soaked, a pile of bloody legs and riverwater.
Word had had time to spread. When Wild was finally satisfied that the cart looked pompous enough, they set off again. A Thunder had begun to collect over Tyburn—voices upon voices rising as he was brought to the gallows.
He knows they’re there to see if he’ll effect another escape—his greatest yet. They expect him to slip a file from his sleeve, unlatch his wrist irons in the Bedlam after the cart is yanked from underneath his feet, and be found later that evening quaffing ale at the Pig and Roses in Fleet Street.
A Sob rises—catches—scalds his throat.
Aurie, where are you?
* * *
—
The cart tilts under the weight of the Yeoman leaning on its edge—pulling the long end of the cord free from its loop around Jack’s waist. A tug and the end is toss’d up to the beam, where the Yeoman’s assistant perches. Smaller tugs as the cord is knotted tight from above.
The thud of boots hitting the ground—the assistant’s secured the knot, and scuttles off to the side. More boots walking away—the Yeoman’s job is done as well.
The Din deepens. The Mob knows what’s coming.
* * *
—
Heavy footfall approaches. The Executioner.
His hand is on his whip, slapping leather against his palm with each nearing step. Jack has seen enough executions to know by the sound that this is the last suspended Moment before he lays into the horse and the cart is yanked out from under him. He’d long entertain’d the possibility of dying by hanging—most rogues had—but in all his Imaginings, he’d never thought he’d be hang’d on his knees. On his knees and quaking uncontrollably. He focuses on the crowd’s roar—“Hang the politicians instead!” “Hang the constables!” “Hang the stockjobbers and the banking-men!”—
The Executioner hisses the whip in three long circles through the sawdust surrounding the stage. The Executioner is a showman, letting the crowd build until just before the second that the Spectacle turns into furor and they are uncontainable. At that precise moment, the Executioner will let them have it—he always lets them have it—and he’ll pull the cart—
* * *
—
O God of the Streets—God of the Underworld—God of Rogues—God of Women, God of Softness, God of Sex-Shaking, God of Muff*8 and Tuzzy-Muzzy*9 and the Fruitful Vine*10—O God of the Boiling Spot*11 please inter me at the foot of her Bed. Please—so I can still see her—still hear her murmuring—still sense her. God of The Monosyllable*12 please let me still smell her and feel the throb of my unnameable Something when I do—
O death that comes for me—O God of the Water-Mill*13—at least she once took me in her hands and mouth—at least she once spread her legs for me—at least I once dilat’d with her musk in every pore—at least once was I thus Found and Lost—*14
*1 Deep-drinker
*2 Pussy
*3 Such lionizing of Jack’s prowess is typical of Sheppardiana, and thus signifies neither one way nor the other as to the authenticity of this document. Viz., The History of the Remarkable Life of John Sheppard (1724); Authentic Memoirs of the Life and Surprising Adventures of John Sheppard (1724); A Narrative of All the Robberies, Escapes, &c. of John Sheppard (1724); “A Dialogue Between Julius Caesar and Jack Sheppard” (British Journal, December 4, 1725); The History of the Lives and Actions of Jonathan Wild, Thief-Taker, Joseph Blake Alias Blueskin, Foot-Pad. And John Sheppard, Housebreaker (1729).
*4 Tongue
*5 Sex workers. I settle on this annotation rather than “prostitute” as, in the anti-vagrancy laws of the period, the doxy was condemned specifically (though not exhaustively) as someone who would not go gently into the good night of the capitalist workday.
*6 Brothel. I’ve arrived at this translation by supposition (more on this below; see footnote *14).
*7 Hen roost
*8 Pussy
*9 Pussy
*10 Pussy
*11 Pussy
*12 Pussy
*13 Pussy
*14 Regarding footnote *6. In none of my reference books does “bat house” turn up. “Bat,” however, is a different story. Cited in one of the more reliable dictionaries of rogue’s slang of the period—Bailey’s Canting Dictionary (1736)—as a “low whore” (not a complimentary term, by any means); I’ve extrapolated to conclude that “bat house” indicates the abode where bats congregate. I.e., a brothel.
But the point is this: as this precise slur—“bat house”—is not corroborated in any reference materials, I must surmise that it is in fact not meant cruelly here, but is used in a loving and familiar manner, such as would be exercised only by a member of the subculture to which it applies.
But I’ve gotten ahead of myself. We’re only at the beginning yet.
2.
Some say that Jack’s road to the gallows had been paved the day the Plague Ships arrived in the Thames.
At first, it was only the sneaks and scamps who notic’d, bringing word back to the inns and pubs. The East Indiaman Repulse was anchored just off the shore of the Tower Wharf, its boards creaking as it bobbed, its massive rigging billowing and slapping in the breezes. The river was achurn with slick gray Rat heads making their way towards the Booty on board. Rats chugged through the water from all directions towards the lower holds. Claw’d their way up the sides—slipped out of view onto the decks.
Within days, other ships joined the Repulse. Two more at the Tower Wharf and another lurking in the shallows at Blackfriars dry dock. The Thames was quickly dotted with stalled behemoths, an Archipelago of brigantines kitted out with guns and cannon dangling heads-down at rest.
The Hum at all the pubs was that the ships were being quarantined.
3.
But others say it went back much further than that. That the road to the gallows began before the Plague Ships. Before Bess. Before Aurie. Before Jack became the most notorious Gaol-breaker London had yet known. Back when he stumbl’d through life delirious as a light-bedevil’d Moth.
* * *
—
His mum made clear she’d had enough of Jack the day she brought him to the master carpenter Kneebone’s doorstep in October 1713. As she marched him down Regent Street, sweat formed at the edges of her hairline, pinkening her alabaster face paint.
“Be a good girl.*1 Do what you’re told. Behave. Don’t act shameful,” she said, regarding Jack sourly. They crossed dubious, slough-filled Tyburn a
nd headed towards Cavendish Square. Sparrows nattered on hedges, tumbled in dust baths Underfoot, disregarding the burghers*2 and high-toned ladies sweeping by.
His mother snapp’d her knuckle into his ribs as they approached the brown oak door.
“And walk like a lady! Try not t’ stomp like an animal.”
Jack tried to imagine moving his legs more smoothly, like she said. But it didn’t feel right to glide like jewel bearings in the guts of a well-oiled Clock. He liked to sprawl through Space, landing hard on the edges of his feet.
His mother glared down, her nose crinkling like he was a piece of spoiled mutton. Then the door opened.
It was Kneebone. Startled. Then angry.
“What’s this?” He wav’d his hand at the hard-negotiated outfit that Jack had arrived in. Tweed trousers and rough muslin smish*3 that had belonged to his brother, Thomas, long Gone now on his Indenture to the colonies and probably Dead of Cold. Or Overwork. Or incorrigible Tendencies.
“She’s a bargain, sir, and you won’t have to keep her in any skirts.”
Kneebone’s eyes widened, narrowed. His upper teeth munch’d at his bottom lip. Then he gestured to Jack with a long-boned hand full of splinters and slits of dried Blood. “Does she work a handsaw and an awl?”
Nodding. “Strangely adept with Tools.”
“And her name?”
—Jack’s brain turned off in that way he’d perfected when he felt all the muscles of his Body clench up. Which was often.
He knew his mother said something in response—because he saw her Mouth move.
Kneebone took a piece of Balsam from his pocket. Chewed it. Talked and gesticulat’d angrily. Camphor puffed from his mouth with each word. Jack unheard she—unheard it into the swarm of the rest of the sounds Kneebone was making— She’s ugly, isn’t she— Quite— But a bargain’s a bargain— Still, what am I meant t’ do with this.
* * *
—
Jack imagin’d dropping into the Thames on a summer day, the heavy press of Water ’round his Ears muffling the shes and the shes and the what am I meant t’ do with this. He peered ’round Kneebone’s scrawny limbs—now parked on his hips in a belligerent-chicken posture—into the entry room. It was stuffed with woodworking. The Odor of raw timber and oils hung just inside the threshold. The scent calm’d him.
Sounds began to come back as through a muffling Fog.
“She’s dexterous—very,” he heard his mother saying and nodding, her voice bouncing. “Always gettin’ into things at home. There isn’t a Doodad that she hasn’t undone and redone much the better for ’t.”*4
* * *
—
Looking up at his mother as she turned to leave, Jack felt his usual flicker of unaccountable sympathy. Maybe even Compassion. The scent of whiskey drifted down. His Heart twist’d in its red socket deep in his chest. He knew it then: he would never see his home again. As bitter as his home was, it was his. Never again to hear the urchins tumbling down Neal Street, the din ricocheting up the close-packed passageway—never again to smell his mother’s particular tart scent—the citrusy Anxiety and disappointment that wafted off her Body like a Wind. He was being left here with the merchants and the accountants, the barristers with their busyness and hollow Eyes and looking-away. Even if his mother looked at him with Horror, she looked at him. To these folks he was a scuttling servant—a dog who spake English.
Pinched between these two Torments—a home in which he was a thing of Nightterrors, and a servitude in which he was another moving Part churning product towards profit—there was no course of action but to try to feel Nothing.
His mother bent down and kiss’d Jack’s face. She touched his cheek with her hand, and held it there for a moment—she whispered something in his ear.
Then walked away with nary a backward glance.
* * *
—
At dinner that evening, Lady Kneebone presented Jack with a dress to wear while serving. “Our servant has taken ill, so we’re in quite a pinch. You’ll have to replace her for now.”
As the Kneebones stuff’d their bellies with mutton and hot boiled water, Jack stood to the side. He was a Shade haunting the boreal dining room. The yowl of a nasty wet Cough descended through the wide wooden slats of the ceiling—the regular servant making quick progress towards Death.
Jack shiver’d in his duds, his skin shrinking from the touch of the organza and lace—girl textiles that seemed only to make the chill worse. He had imagined that the wealthy would keep their houses toasty. This was very much not so. And why didn’t the Kneebones drink cider? Surely they could afford it. Yet they sipp’d spring water bought from a water-cart merchant. Maybe all of them were different than he’d imagined. A dusty, Bland, bitter lot.
“P——” Lady Kneebone—not looking up from her uninspired progress through a wad of meat lying just inches from her nose—called to Jack.*5 “Make a Gargle of cumin seeds, the mashed rootstock of an iris, and one blistered long pepper.”
She said this as if Jack had any idea how to make a Gargle.
“For protection against the croup,” furthered Kneebone, swallowing a gulp of hot water and waving Jack back into the kitchen.
When Jack brought it out at last—having assembl’d it as best he could from an array of items that must have been purchas’d earlier in the day by the ailing servant and set on the counter in what would prove this poor soul’s last labor, save the labors of dying itself—the Kneebones proceeded to throw their heads back and Shriek bubbles, then hack the mucus-broth into their empty mugs.
* * *
—
Standing in the corner of the dining room, watching these two sour Wraiths spatter and drool, Jack tried to recall his mother’s departing words.
—I love you—despite everything
—I smooth’d your dark curls, once—
—Remember that afternoon we walked what seemed forever on the riverbank?
To the latter of which Jack would have recalled without flaw the exact weather that day—their most leisurely, closest day together. It had been early November. That time of year when the whole City gloams by late afternoon, and the effluvium of dried leaves crunched underfoot inflicts the inexorability of the Seasons upon the Senses. An autumnal Terror had fluttered in Jack’s stomach as horsecarts blasted by, thwacking wet wheels on wet leaves. Wake turbulence swirl’d leaf-fragments in small vortices up and down the darkening Riverbank.
His mother had reached down through the dusking Gloom.
And held his hand.
* * *
—
Tho’ frankly, she may have said—and this is the most likely—
—You’re the greatest Shame of my life.
* * *
—
Better to just imagine Mum dead, he’d shush’d his pounding heart. Lots of urchins have lost their mothers, he reasoned. He saw it daily when he batter’d down the streets with the gang on one of their common ruses, knocking into the apothecary carts, spilling Oils and Emollients on the cobblestones “on accident” in order to descend upon the blanched almonds, mint leaves, and barley seeds like a gabbling Flock of pigeons, scraping them up to sell at a cut rate to the next cart ’round the corner.
None of them seemed to have any parents at all.
He’d be just like them, now, he supposed.
* * *
—
Jack consum’d the Kneebones’ scraps while he tidied the kitchen. Then Kneebone fetched him and walked him upstairs to his sleeping quarters. A filthy dark garret in the upper reaches of the spindly townhouse. The unmistakable piercing scent of Mice and rot blasted out of the room when Kneebone opened the door.
Jack’s body ach’d from standing, serving, and cleaning. His neck was prickled with pain. His fingers were stiff and cold. His extremely circumscribed h
orizon of hope fix’d entirely on the prospect of sleep. But as they approached the bed—Kneebone almost projecting him towards it with the negative magnetism of his Nearness—Jack was thrown into wakefulness. An unwelcome, exhausted awakeness. He heard something jangling, and peered behind him. Kneebone held a heavy Lock and Chain in his hand.
“Receiv’d this from a Swedish importer.” Kneebone cough’d. “A gift for an especially profitable exchange—a Polhem Lock,” he continued, with what appeared an Erotick excitement concerning Lock mechanicks. He caressed the curve of iron, his gray skin sparking to a pinkish gray.
“This Lock,” he said, fixing Jack in his weak, watery glare, “is unpickable.”
Jack lay down. He did so without instruction because it was impossible to keep his Body from trembling and crumpling to the bed.
Kneebone reached into his torso jerkin pocket and produc’d a Key, which he slid into the Lock. Four teeth yawned open, and Kneebone wound the oiled iron Chain around Jack’s ankle, then the bedpost, and threaded the Lock’s jaw through. He snapped it shut.
Every nerve in Jack’s body fir’d against his skin— His jaw tensed and the muscles of his scalp bunched and held themselves, frozen in aching Huddles— He willed himself not to look at the Lock—to Unfeel it against his skin—Unfeel its weight on his ankle and foot.
Confessions of the Fox Page 2