My dearest beloved,
The prayers of a sincere heart are as acceptable to God from the dreary Gaol as from the splendid Palace. The love of a prisoner as pure and sweet as that of a prince. . .
The cost in delivering such a letter to Ireland was prohibitive and would often mean that the sender must sell all that she possessed. But for the comfort it brought her, and the gift of love it was thought to bestow on the receiver, it was thought among the Irish women to be but a pittance to pay.
The inmates, usually the women, would often bring their squabbles to Mary to settle. Her judgments, using the peculiar logic of the criminal, left each with a portion of self-respect, and neither party’s guilt confirmed. This would indubitably stop further trouble in the bird cages. When Mary was forced to judge one or another to be guilty this was seen as an exception, and her verdict, with the penalty she imposed, accepted by all and duly carried out.
This did not stop the drunkenness and lechery, the fighting and the cruelty, for these things were as much a part of Newgate as the bricks, and damp, the excremental filth and the gaol fever. But there was observed to be some small measure of calm about the bird cages. Mary was tough and her talons fierce and she was one of their own kind. Hers was a light which had not been dimmed and was a great source of courage to them all.
The most cherished moment of Mary’s life came the day Abraham Reuban arrived at Newgate to visit her.
The excitement of Ikey’s escape from custody was on everyone’s lips that day, the story of his escape having spread like gaol fever among the inmates. The tale of how he had persuaded the two turnkeys to take a coach which had been ‘conveniently upon the spot’ when it was needed, and how he had persuaded both turnkeys to unlock his manacles and be his guest at the Pig ‘n Spit was the cause of great laughter in Newgate. The simple device of picking the pocket of Titty Smart, the fat turnkey, and letting himself out of the door of Mary-belle’s parlour, leaving the key on the lintel, was told with glee and constantly repeated with not a little admiration for his brazenness.
Ikey Solomon had, after all, escaped from the most notorious gaol in Britain without resort to violence and had been gone a full hour or more before the dunderheads realised anything was amiss. Moreover, the cunning of Ikey had seen to it that Popjoy, the more diligent turnkey, with the help of a strong potion, was locked in the arms of Morpheus, slumped in the corner of Marybelle Firkin’s parlour, while his older partner was too drunk to take two steps in pursuit of a quarry without falling full upon his own face. By the time the constabulary was alerted, as one of the penny papers reported:
Ikey Solomon was allowed time enough to row himself to France with sufficient over to fish midstream for a rack of herring to sell in Paris to the Frenchies!
Moreover, when the police had been alerted, they had immediately contacted the City division who had informed them, somewhat pompously, of the Bank of England’s recapture of the villain. It had been a full eight hours later before Reuban Reuban revealed his true identity, and at least nine or ten since Ikey’s initial escape from the Pig ‘n Spit. By the time the hunt for him was under way again, Ikey had already slipped down the Thames, his ship long buried in the coastal mist as it headed for the North Sea and the kingdom of the Danes. In fact, even at the point when Reuban Reuban had revealed his true identity, the City police officials on duty that night had not believed him, thinking that Ikey had merely shaved his head in some clever ruse. But no amount of logic applied to the conundrum could reveal what intention this clever ruse might serve. Ikey had, after all, presented himself as himself at the premises of Coutts & Company, and if this be a ruse it was a most mysterious one. It was only then that Sir Jasper Water-low had been visited at his home in Kensington and aroused from his bed to be informed of the presence in the cells of the duplicate Ikey.
Ikey’s double had been duly charged with complicity but this was small consolation for Sir Jasper who knew that, unless he brought the true Ikey Solomon to trial, his hopes for an illustrious future as Britain’s foremost police officer, and ultimately a seat in the House of Lords, had been completely dashed.
He swore silently that Hannah, whom he immediately believed responsible for his humiliation, would pay dearly for her husband’s escape, though, on further thought, this conclusion made little sense, for his detective’s mind reasoned that if she had not told him of Ikey’s intended escape she would have been thought by him to have been equally guilty of complicity. Sir Jasper was therefore reluctantly forced to conclude that Hannah had been telling the truth and that the cunning Ikey had outsmarted them both.
The curious thing was that neither The Times nor any of the penny papers made mention of Ikey’s subsequent visit to Coutts & Company in the guise of a gentleman of means returned that very day from abroad.
It may only be supposed that the directors of the bank, not wishing to be the laughing stock of all England, had remained silent about the presence in the bank of the real Ikey and the transaction he had made. In fact they had suggested to The Times that the abortive ruse by Reuban Reuban was merely an attempt to gain notoriety. He was not to know at the time that the real escape of the notorious fence was taking place. A difficult coincidence to believe, but a coincidence nonetheless, life itself being so often stranger than fiction.
In actual fact, the Bank of England had deliberately conspired with Coutts & Company not to release the story of the real Ikey’s visit in the supposed interest of national safety, thus making the story of the hapless actor’s attempt at publicity necessary to explain the arrest of Reuban Reuban. In any event, Ikey’s transaction was allowed to go through without hindrance to New York and the banker, Nathaniel Wilson, found himself somewhat of a hero for the manner in which he had conducted himself.
Furthermore, Sir Jasper Waterlow, conscious that royalty itself made use of the great private bank, was not in the least keen that the notorious Ikey Solomon’s patronage of the same facility be known to the public at large. He had therefore dropped the conspiracy charges against Reuban Reuban, merely holding him in solitary confinement for a week, charged with being a public nuisance. When the greater part of the public furore over Ikey’s escape had died down, he was sentenced to twenty-five lashes and released on the condition that he would say nothing more to the newspapers than was already known.
This was thought by Reuban Reuban to be the mildest of sentences. He had received the sum of one hundred pounds for his role as a thespian, the highest salary he would ever be paid for plying his craft. Realising that he had just completed the greatest performance of his life in a real life drama, Reuban Reuban hit upon the idea of using the money Ikey had paid him to mount a grand theatrical production in which he starred and was titled: ‘The Jew who Bankrupted England!’
Though this, when the sensibilities of the times changed under the new young queen, would be altered on the poster hoardings and outside the theatre to read:
‘The Man who Bankrupted England’
****
Presenting, in the title role:
The great Reuban Reuban himself!
The original and real life impersonator
in the escape of the notorious Ikey Solomon!
His role playing Ikey Solomon, Prince of Fences, in his own production was to earn the previously struggling actor a handsome living for the remainder of his career.
When Abraham announced his visit the day after Ikey’s escape, Mary withdrew with him to a dark corner of the dungeons, taking a candle so that she might see the truth in his face. It was here that he told her the entire story, though the young tailor omitted the details of Ikey’s passage on a Danish ship carrying ballast back to Denmark. Instead, he suggested that Ikey had left their coach on the road to Southampton and had been met by another, which was presumably to take him to a ship bound for America.
He told Mary of Ikey’s most earnest resolve that she should have money to facilitate her voyage to Australia and that it was Ikey’s fondest hope an
d desire she should lack nothing in order to extract the maximum comfort from so arduous and unpleasant an experience upon the high seas.
Abraham stressed Ikey’s most heartfelt regrets at what had happened to Mary, and then took great pains to explain Ikey’s reasons for making no attempt to contact Mary while they had both been incarcerated in this very same gaol - the explanation being that Ikey, thinking only of Mary’s personal welfare, was mindful that their past association might reflect badly upon her and cause needless suffering and humiliation.
It was a succinct enough explanation and Abraham, who had watched his father at rehearsal since he had been a small boy, delivered Ikey’s message with sufficient ardour to suggest that he might himself have enjoyed a career upon the stage.
Mary became at once so bemused with Abraham’s message containing Ikey’s solicitude that she could scarcely believe her ears. It was with great difficulty that she forced into her mind the true picture of the rapacious, greedy, whingeing, entirely selfish and self-serving Ikey she knew as her erstwhile partner.
‘What does ‘e want?’ she demanded sternly, pushing the candle close to Abraham’s face.
‘In truth, I swear, he seeks only your high regard, Mistress Mary,’ the young tailor protested, much enjoying the sound of such highminded phrasing. ‘Those are the words from his own dear lips,’ he added.
‘Ha!’ Mary replied. ‘Ikey never done nothin’ in ‘is whole life what wasn’t for profit! ‘Igh regard, you says? Where’s the profit to be found in that?’
‘His sentiments were most soft in your regard, most spontaneous soft, Miss,’ Abraham protested again. ‘ “Abraham, my dear," he says to me, “you must convince Mistress Mary of my high regard, my most ‘umble ‘igh regard!” He said it three times, I swear it, Mistress Mary. There was tears in his eyes when he spoke them words and then he handed me the soft. “You must give ‘er this fifty pounds, for she ‘as been done a great wrong and it is I who is responsible!” That’s what he says to me, Gawd’s truth!’ Abraham concluded.
Mary looked genuinely startled. ‘Ikey said that? Ikey said it were ‘im what was responsible?’
Abraham nodded. ‘He was most sad, most very sad indeed at the inconvenience he’d caused your fair self.’
‘Gawd ‘elp us! Miracles will never cease!’
Despite her deep suspicion, Mary could think of no way that Ikey, at the moment of his escape, could possibly profit from her by a further penny. So why, she asked herself, had he parted with a small fortune? Could it possibly be for the reasons Abraham had given? Had Ikey grown a conscience? She could not imagine a repentant Ikey, nor one who was capable of feeling the slightest remorse for a fellow human. We all want to feel the love of another and Mary had not been loved since she had been a small child, when she had briefly known the tenderness of a consumptive mother. Did Ikey really love her, not simply regard her as a profitable partner, as she had always quite contentedly supposed? It seemed too bizarre for words that he might do so, or for that matter, that she could harbour in her breast, unbeknownst to her, a love for him in return.
Love was not a word in the vocabulary which had existed between Mary and Ikey. Even on those rare occasions when she had taken him to her bed, there had been no thought of love. Mary had long since packed that hope away, concealing it in the darkest corner of her soul. Love was not for such as her. And so she simply shook her head, silently forcing back a tear, truly not knowing what to think of the whole matter of Ikey’s amorous protestations brought on the importuning lips of a young man with a strong sense of melodrama.
At that moment Abraham Reuban produced Ikey’s Duke of Wellington medal.
‘Ikey wishes you to have this as a further token of his most remarkable esteem, Mistress Mary,’ he said, holding the medallion and chain against the light of the candle. ‘It be pure gold an’ all!’
‘So, where’d ‘e steal it, then?’ Mary asked tartly, though her heart thumped within her breast at the sight of the medallion.
‘No, no, missus, it be his luck, what be called his talisman!’ Abraham then told Mary the story of the medallion as Ikey had related it to him in the coach.
Mary had a dim recollection of having once observed a gold chain about Ikey’s neck. Stripped down to his vest and long johns, the gold chain had disappeared into the top of his tightly clinging woollen upper garment so that she had no knowledge of what might be contained at its extremity. Now the thought that it might be his medallion, Ikey’s talisman, opened her heart like a summer rose. She took the Wellington medallion from Abraham and, turning it over, read the inscription nestled between the garland of laurel leaves. Whereupon Mary’s broken hands pressed Ikey’s talisman to her bosom and she knew with a fierce certainty that she would survive, that she would never surrender and that somehow she had inherited Ikey’s uncanny luck.
At that moment, despite his innumerable faults and thinking him no more than she knew him to be, Mary loved Ikey Solomon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mary was to spend five months in Newgate Gaol, two months longer than her original sentence, this to await a convict ship bound for Van Diemen’s Land. On the 15th of May 1827, with eighteen other female convicts, she was placed in light irons and transported by open cart to Woolwich, where the convict ship Destiny II was berthed to await its full complement of female convicts.
The weather was grand, the winter frost well past, the elm and larch and sycamore, the bright green oak, in new leaf all. The orchards showed a bedazzlement of white and pink, the fancy dress of pear, apple, cherry and of summer’s blood-red plum to come. The woods through which the cart rumbled were carpeted with bluebells and the yellow splash of daffodil, in an England ablaze with bud and blossom and the joyous fecundity of spring.
Several of the convicts were heard to sigh that this was a poor time to leave the shores of England, their most ardent wish being to make their last farewell in the fiercest needle sleet and howl of north wind. This, so their memories might be consumed by the bitter gales and so send them, half cheerful, on their way to the hell of Van Diemen’s shores.
This sky of clear blue with the high call of larks and the singing of thrush in the hedgerows was too much a bittersweet parting. This single memory of the darling buds of May would linger with them for the remainder of their lives. They would hold their grandchildren in their laps under a different sky, and tell of the soft shining of the English countryside. They would remember these two days, when they had rocked and bumped in shackles along a rutted road, as if, for this short space in time, they had been transported through the gates of paradise itself.
It was an unbearable wrench for several of the younger women, who wept piteously for the time it took to arrive at Woolwich, where Destiny II creaked and groaned to the slap of the tide. They came upon it suddenly at the turn of a large warehouse and they immediately forsook the rattle and rumble of the cobblestones and turned into the quay, where the wheels of the cart squeaked and lurched along the uneven dockside timbers. Only then, with the cart drawn to a halt beside the squat vessel and with the sudden silence, into which dropped the call of a gull and a soft phlurrr from the nostrils of one of the cart horses, did the finality of the sentence of transportation come to each of them.
Standing on the dockside next to the gangway was a diminutive male in frock coat, dirty shirt with a sweat-soiled neckerchief, breeches, hose and tiny brass-buckled shoes much in need of repair. His hair was cropped, though not evenly or in the convict style, and stuck up in raggedy bits an inch or so all about his skull, with whiskers, once dark and now densely speckled with grey. These also stuck out and framed his face from sideburns to the circumference of his chin. Heavy tufted eyebrows, black as pitch, seemed to entirely encase his small bright eyes. Jutting at right angles to this furry visage were two large thin-skinned ears to which the light from the sun behind him gave a bright crimson glow. The total effect was of a remarkable likeness to a simian creature, a monkey dressed in a frock coat,
breeches and hose.
‘Gawd, look at that!’ Mary exclaimed.
The tiny man chuckled and threw an arm upwards pointing to the sky. ‘ “Gawd”, now that be a partickler name what Mr Smiles don’t like folks to take in vain! That be three punishments all at once!’ He tapped the first finger of his left hand with the forefinger of the right. ‘Short rations and no port wine for the father!’ He tapped the finger beside it. ‘Two days’ bread and water in the coal hole, for the son!’ He tapped the third. ‘Attendance to Bible study for a month, that be for the Holy Ghost!’ He looked up at Mary. ‘Swear away, me dear, help yourselfs, last chance afore comin’ on board to be rid of all that bile! What’s your name then?’
‘Mary Abacus. What’s it to you if I swear?’ Mary challenged.
‘Ah, yes! For me? Well it be a delightful hopportunity, Mary Habacus. A most pleasant task to do you. . .’ He paused in mid-sentence and pointed to the abacus under Mary’s arm. ‘What be that? A contraption is it? Them black and red beads, it ain’t witchcraft is it?’
‘Abacus. It be an abacus.’
‘A habacus, eh? An’ pray tell us, what be an habacus if it ain’t your name what is also Habacus?’
Before Mary could reply Ann Gower asked, ‘What day o’ the month and year ya born in, then, mister?’
The small, hairy creature thought for a moment, then decided to co-operate. ‘April seven in the year o’ our Lord, seventeen seventy-six or near enough, I reckons.’ His voice had a cackle to it, his words sharp and fast and somewhat high-pitched like Chinese crackers going off in a bunch.
Ann Gower turned to Mary and whispered from the side of her mouth, ‘Show lover boy, darlin’.’
‘Lover boy, is it?’ The little man had the most astonishing acuteness of hearing, for Mary had barely heard Ann’s whisper herself.
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