Death on the Rocks

by Deryn Lake

  Still, he woke refreshed the next morning and, having breakfasted with his father, who today was declaring his intention of plunging into a bath of Hotwell water, called for Irish Tom and made his way to the city of Bristol.

  The thing that struck him again about the place on this visit was the smell, which emanated partly from the docks at low tide, and partly from the streets and middens of the tenements. He was used to London and its various odours, but these raw stinks were strange to him.

  Irish Tom shouted from the driving box, ‘Aw, there’s a terrible aroma around, Sorrh. It’s making me eyes sweat.’

  John opened the window a crack and shouted back, ‘Tie your handkerchief over your nose.’

  ‘No, Sorrh. ’Twould make me look like a high-lawyer, so it would.’

  The smell was also of manufacturing: the brass works at Baptist Mills, lying north-east of the city and situated on the River Frome, combining with the iron foundries, the soap manufacturers, the glass works, to say nothing of the sugar houses, the turpentine and vitriol houses, and the china manufacturer. Industry was in the air and pervaded the atmosphere of this restless, active port. Looking towards the harbour, John could see it bristling with the masts of ships like trees in a forest and thought of what havoc must be wreaked when the tide withdrew and left them lying totally encased in mud.

  He had arranged to meet Horatio’s black slave at The Hatchet Inn in Frogmore Street and had travelled to Bristol by way of the slippery track running along by the river. At some point Tom had turned inland and found his way along a fashionable road, still under construction. This was called Park Street and leading off it was a curved back alley in which stood The Hatchet. John entered the inn with some trepidation, wondering what sort of lowlife frequented it and prepared to defend himself if necessary. But the place was strangely quiet and peering through the gloom he could see little custom was present. Ordering himself a pint of porter he went to sit at one of the small tables. From the back of the inn, deep down and far away, there came the mighty roar of voices and beneath his feet the floor shook. Slightly puzzled, the Apothecary cocked his head on one side, but at that second the door opened and the black man stood framed against the light.

  ‘Good day to you, Sir,’ he said in his deep, rich voice.

  John smiled and said, ‘Greetings, Commodore. Come and sit down.’

  Thus invited, the slave sat opposite the Apothecary, giving him a remarkable opportunity to study his features. He had a good face with large, lustrous eyes and an unusually thin nose for a man from the West Indies. When he gleamed a smile he showed a perfect set of white teeth, which set John wondering how a man of his age could have maintained such a healthy mouth. Yet how old was Commodore? Forty, perhaps?

  John was opening his lips to ask him when there once more came that distant roar and the floor shook beneath them like a minor earthquake.

  Commodore smiled. ‘There’s a Rat Pitt beneath, Sir.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Do you want to go and have a look?’

  ‘No thanks. I’m a bit squeamish.’

  Unlike ninety per cent of the male population, John hated sports that involved cruelty to animals, even the lowly rat. He had never been in a Rat Pitt but had a mental picture of the hordes of drunken men hanging out of the balconies or over the sides, while in the arena below one dog killed rats at a rate of knots, bets being taken on how many he could destroy in a given time. He knew that there were champion dogs – knew of one in particular who had lost an eye and had half his ear bitten off, being proudly exhibited by his owner. But John was sickened by the very idea. Along with bear and bull baiting, the very thought turned his stomach. He realised that some of his friends might consider him a Miss Molly for having such an opinion, but he clung to it nonetheless.

  ‘He used to love it down there,’ Commodore said softly.

  John knew at once who he was speaking of. ‘You mean Augustus?’

  ‘You see, the trouble was when he found the dog.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow you.’

  ‘When he was out one day Augustus saw a dog wandering in the streets. It wasn’t a handsome creature, in fact it was a downright cur. It was squat, though heavily built, and was black with a white chest. It had a great mouth on it with nasty looking teeth and small eyes. But despite its ugly appearance, Augustus fell in love with it and took it home.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Mrs Huxtable – as she was by then – let out an anguished shriek and forbade the boy ever to bring such a creature into the house again.’

  ‘Did he obey?’

  ‘Not he. He kept it in a kennel down on the wasteland and made it his own cherished pet. He called it Sam and it wasn’t long before he discovered it killed everything in sight: rats, cats, squirrels, rabbits. It had a truly vicious bite.’

  ‘Sounds horrible.’

  ‘It was a monster. However, young Augustus – aged fourteen – started to frequent the Rat Pitt, here in this very inn, and began to win money with the savage brute. And that was the start of all the trouble.’

  John took a sip of porter. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was when he had enough money in his pocket that Augustus began to fall out with his mother and left home, complete with dog, and took a room in a nasty little dwelling house down on the docks.’

  ‘I thought Mr Huxtable said he ran away to sea?’

  Commodore sighed and shook his handsome head. ‘He did, eventually. But not before he had caused a lot of problems not only in the Rat Pitt but also among the dockland fraternity; they even say he got several girls into trouble and ran away to avoid his responsibilities, though I must admit that I know little about that.’

  ‘So how old was he when he eventually left?’

  ‘About twenty-five and a good-looking chap. Slim, with hair the colour of marigolds and twinkling eyes. That was how I will always remember Augustus.’

  Unexpectedly, tears appeared in Commodore’s eyes and one ran down his cheek. ‘Forgive me, Mr Rawlings, but as you can tell I was fond of the fellow. I even saw him off on his boat headed for New Zealand where he hoped to trade with the natives.’

  ‘Did he take the dog with him?’

  ‘Yes, decrepit though it had become. It was minus an eye and its ears were covered with rat bites. Still he took it. He was a strange fellow, with many misplaced loyalties. But I was devoted to him.’

  ‘And you believe this newcomer is a fraud?’

  ‘Sir, I would stake my life on it.’

  ‘Is that because he doesn’t resemble the old Augustus?’

  ‘Not only that. His character is utterly changed. When I ask him questions about the past he says he cannot remember. When I ask him about Sam he just says that the creature died but without giving me any details. I tell you that this chap probably met Augustus and now is masquerading as him in order to get his mother’s diamonds and his stepfather’s money.’

  The Apothecary would have answered, but at that moment a side door opened and a positive army of men walked in, all shouting and yelling at the tops of their voices. The session at the Rat Pitt had obviously ended for the day. A particularly obnoxious-looking dog bounced up to John and began to bark unnervingly.

  ‘Go away,’ he said between gritted teeth.

  The owner, a fine-looking buck wearing the tightest pair of breeches that John had ever seen, came up and drawled, ‘You don’t like my dog, eh?’

  ‘I don’t like any dog until we have been properly introduced,’ John replied evenly.

  The youth grinned. ‘Well, damme, I’ll introduce you then. Sir, this is Tray. Tray, say how d’ye do to the nice man.’

  Tray growled discouragingly and the Apothecary said, ‘I really don’t think he likes me. Excuse me but I’ll pass on this proposal if you’ve no objection.’

  The young man bowed, somewhat drunkenly, and said, ‘Then I’ll introduce myself. I’m Henry Tavener, well-known figure round Bristol. And you, Sir,
are …?’

  John rose and returned the greeting. ‘John Rawlings of Nassau Street, London.’

  ‘Ah, the big, bad city, eh? Do you have spectator sports there?’

  As the reference was clearly to Rat Pitts, John decided to treat the remark seriously.

  ‘We have thousands, Sir. Arenas in which the human race can leer and shout and show its ugly face at the cruelty meted out to defenceless animals. I personally long for the day when a young man, such as yourself, should be pitted against a team of bulls or bears for the delectation of the audience.’

  Henry pulled a face, then said, ‘I see that you are not my sort, Sir. I’ll bid you good day.’

  And with that he rejoined his bellowing crowd of friends, who were banging on the bar and demanding service.

  Commodore let out a sigh and said, ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Mr Rawlings. He is just one of the many young men who hang round Bristol trying to find something to relieve their boredom.’

  John felt terribly old as he replied, ‘Has he thought of working?’

  Commodore gave him a sideways grin and said, ‘He couldn’t possibly do that, Sir. You see, he is the adopted son of Lady Tavener, widow of Sir Charles Tavener.’

  ‘And what did Sir Charles do?’

  The black man gave him a sideways grin. ‘He was Mayor of Bristol, Sir. Have I said enough?’

  ‘Quite enough.’ John smiled crookedly. ‘Shall we get out of here? I think the place is getting a little overcrowded.’

  Six

  As they left the inn they were joined by Irish Tom, who had parked the coach at a nearby livery stables and gone into The Hatchet for a swift pint of porter.

  ‘Oh, Sorrh, but there were a lively crowd in there.’

  ‘Yes indeed. Now, Commodore, how are we going to get you home without traversing that terrible road again?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, Mr Rawlings. I came in a trap and left it in the care of a chap I know down on the docks.’

  ‘Well, I could do with a little exercise. May we escort you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  The crowd on the quayside was immense. John felt as though he was in London’s trading quarter as he thrust his way past hawkers selling everything that one could possibly imagine, even a skinny woman surrounded by children offering a baby for adoption to any kindly soul. Sailors were everywhere, paid off and heading towards the taverns, or working on the ships, hoisting or lowering the sails for inspection. Sledges, covered with goods for repair, swished past at speed, their use necessitated by the fact that carts were not allowed into the city. Everywhere was that great stink, of industry, of sewage, and of the population of this lively and bustling town.

  Commodore marched through unperturbed, but Irish Tom, swearing a hearty oath, put his fists up at a sailor with a greasy little plait who trod on his foot.

  ‘Leave it, Tom,’ John ordered, and the coachman reluctantly obeyed.

  A man with a red and green parrot on his shoulder was spinning a yarn for a small crowd which had gathered round him. John stopped to listen.

  ‘… and there was waves, huge green monsters, aroaring down on our little ship which clung bravely on. Then the Cap’n spied an island through his telescope and shouted out, “That be it, boys. That be the place we’re seeking” …’

  There was a murmur of anticipation from the audience and John, moving on, threw a sixpence into the tin can which the ruffian had placed before him.

  ‘You shouldn’t pay rogues like that, Sorrh. He’s probably never left Bristol in his life.’

  ‘Oh come on, Tom. He’s a good raconteur and that is enough.’

  Further along the quay a monkey was doing tricks for the crowd. It had a small, sad face and was dressed in a red jacket and matching fez. John watched as it stood on its tiny hands and waved its little legs in the air. He wondered what it was thinking, or if it thought at all, beyond food and shelter, that is. Again he gave a coin, but this time the monkey itself brought a tin and held it out. The Apothecary only wished that Rose were with him because he knew that she and the small creature could have communicated in some strange way. And not only could she communicate with animals; he suddenly recalled the extraordinary bond that had existed between his daughter and the twins, even when they had been tiny babies.

  When he thought of Rose’s love for her brothers it brought the sudden sting of tears to his eyes and he had to look out at the water and pretend that the sun’s dancing rays, which caused it to reflect a million brilliant lights, were the reason for the purposeful application of his handkerchief.

  ‘Are you all right, Sorrh?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Yes, I was just thinking, that’s all.’

  ‘About the boys, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  John glanced at Commodore, but he had drawn a few paces in front of them and was talking to the man who had been watching the pony and trap for him.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I miss them, you know.’

  ‘’Tis a wicked woman who will keep a father away from his sons.’

  ‘But I walked out on her, Tom. She has every right to keep them from me.’

  ‘If I was you, Sorrh – which I’m not saying I am, mind – I would go and see her and sort things out.’

  ‘Even after all this time?’

  ‘Yes, Sorrh. It’s never too late on these types of occasions.’

  But there their conversation had to end because Commodore was climbing into the trap and bidding them farewell.

  ‘Thank you, my friend, for all the help you’ve given me about Augustus.’

  ‘I don’t know what else to say, Sir. I told you of his early life and how close we were. There really is nothing further I can add.’

  ‘I suppose you have informed Mr Huxtable of your conclusions?’

  ‘I have repeated them over and over again. But still he has that lingering doubt.’

  ‘I wonder why that should be?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Commdore said, somewhat sadly, ‘it is out of a misplaced respect for his late wife’s wishes.’

  The Apothecary nodded. There was no answer to be made to a remark like that and he and Irish Tom watched as the slave drove off along the quayside, then turned as they heard a cheerful voice calling John by name. It was Samuel Foote, sauntering along, sprightly as you please, in a suit of striped strawberry corded silk with spangled buttons. He was accompanied by a fellow thespian dressed in a less spectacular fashion.

  John swept off his hat and bowed and Irish Tom took a respectful step backwards. Mr Foote made a spectacular bow and said, ‘Damme, but if it isn’t young Rawlings. Just left your father, who allowed himself to be dipped in the healing waters. Allow me to introduce to you Sir John Hill, he’s down here to take the waters and has obliged us with an appearance at the theatre.’

  This time John bowed to the ground. Sir John was the kind of man that he admired more than any. Botanist, playwright, actor, novelist, journalist and, above all, apothecary, with his own line in herbal cures. Furthermore, he had been granted a medical degree at Edinburgh. All this and it was rumoured that he had had an affair with Peg Woffington. John’s hat was literally and metaphorically off.

  ‘Good day to you, Sir,’ he said. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I can truly say that I am an admirer of all your works.’

  Hill smiled at him with bright eyes, their colour somewhat dimmed by the passing of the years and the amount of work they had had to endure.

  ‘How d’you do?’ he said.

  ‘Mr Rawlings is a fellow apothecary,’ said Foote, and laughed as if he had made some great joke.

  ‘Well,’ Hill replied, ‘that makes two of us, does it not?’

  They both laughed and John felt that he was surely missing something funny.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I fail to see the humour of the situation.’

  Hill regarded him in a scholarly fashion. ‘It was the mention of two of us, d’you see? Mr Foote and I once exchanged some acrimonious
correspondence, but we made it up with a visit to the King’s Arms in Covent Garden – just the two of us.’

  John laughed dutifully, though in fact he failed to see anything amusing at all.

  ‘Well, now, we are off to take a little liquid refreshment at The Rummer. Would you care to join us? You may bring your friend along, should you so wish.’

  Irish Tom spoke up. ‘Begging your pardon, gents, but I’ll make meself scarce if you don’t mind. I’m only a coachman and I doubt I could keep up with your conversation.’

  Samuel Foote said with dignity, ‘Your station in life means little to me, my friend. In my profession I mix with gamblers, whores and even Irishmen. I would be pleased to spend some time in your company and listen to your melodious voice, which I will then proceed to imitate.’

  And he did just that, taking off Tom’s way of speaking to within an inch. The four men burst out laughing and John felt how marvellous it was to be alive, to have made friends with a man like Foote, to have met someone as celebrated as Sir John Hill, and to have a servant as rich in life and experience as Irish Tom.

  ‘Well, now, I doubt me mother would have known the difference,’ said the coachman, applying a red spotted handkerchief to his watering eyes.

  ‘Oh, sure and she would not,’ said Foote, and his art of mimicry was so accurate that John laughed all over again and let out a great whoop of joy. At which Foote burst into an impromptu jig, somewhat hampered by the fact he only had one leg.

  Later, when the three men were seated in The Rummer – Irish Tom having excused himself to go and check on the coach – they fell to talking. The first thing they discussed was the fact that the inn was packed with the dockside riff raff and intelligentsia. Sailors, dockers, great mountainous fellows with hands like hams and arms like bellows thronged the bar, and dotted among them were earnest-looking men in sombre suits, heads together, talking about the price of rum, or sugar, or slaves. Some looked despondent because their ships were late into port; others rubbed their hands with relish that their vessels, complete with suffering human cargoes, had arrived.