Golden Hill

by Francis Spufford

  ‘Is he very angry?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Achilles, cheerfully. ‘All the People are telling Him, He has made Friends with a Rogue and a Thief. The Governor scolds Him; then in the Coffee-House They laugh and say, look, the Governor’s Side is the Side for Thieves and Rogues.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘He uses stronger Words, Sir.’

  ‘Will you tell Him how grateful I am, for—’ and I indicate the Basket, which I can see has Bread, and Cheese, and Apples in It, all bought no Doubt on Oakeshott’s Credit, He possessing little else to share. Achilles has not actually passed it through the wooden Bars of the Apartment yet, but holds it teasingly close.

  ‘Maybe I wait till he is more calm.’

  ‘Alright. It is very kind of Him,’ I say, endeavouring not to reach out. (I have not eaten for a Night and a Day at this Moment, it being impossible to adopt the usual Expedient of Debtors, and commission the Turnkey to go to the Merchants for my Meals. Having sued Me for the Amount of my existing Debt to Them, They are inclined to feed me no further. And this is the general Judgement. I may go empty-stomach’d to the Gallows, in the Opinion of New-York.)

  ‘He is a good Man,’ says Achilles, turning upon Me his small neat Visage, and a smiling Gaze with Intent flickering in it, like a Snake’s Tongue. He has said it before, but now there is a protective Warning in it. Achilles too is angry, I understand. Perhaps more furious than His Master, for what am I to Him?

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. And you, Sir? What about You?’

  I am enough your Son, not to answer that Question with an easy Affirmative. I shrug. Achilles shrugs in return, with a Twist of his Mouth, and hands me the Basket.

  ‘Well,’ he tosses out, departing, ‘here is the next bad Thing for you, coming along quick, like I said.’

  So I dine on one Slice of the Bread, and a Corner of the Cheese, and an Apple; and in the Morning, I breakfast on a Heel of the Bread softened in Water, and another Corner, and another Apple, and I resist the Urge to fill my Belly with more, since I do not know how long I must endure on These alone, and thus I keep Body and Soul scraping along Together. I pray, most gravely I assure You; and I write This, and the Practice of It saves Me from incontinent Howling. For the most Part.

  There is little to be found otherwise within these Walls, of Recreation. The Turnkey, a Mr Reynolds, having so few Clients, scarcely looks in upon Us, and I have had Nothing of my sole fellow Captive, in the wooden Cage across the Floorboards, but Groans, issued from a malodorous Heap of Blankets. He is (reputedly) a decay’d Soldier of some Sort. I can tell by my own Ears and Nose that the last Part of His Debt to the good Merchants of New-York, He certainly incurr’d in Liquor.

  I watch the slow Progress of the Daylight in the Windows, and I wait, trying to extract some Pleasure in the Snail’s Pace of the Hours, from the Reflection, that if (or when) I step up to the Noose a Week hence, I shall at that Time wish very earnestly that I might exchange the Situation for mere Sorrow and Boredom and Hunger, in a comfortable Cell. But I do not wait well, when I must sit still – as You will recall of course, from Our thousand Collisions upon this very Topick, and the thousand Sermons You have given me, and Whippings too, to recommend the Necessity of Patience, whilst I wriggled and writh’d and chaf’d. You would think, Father, if you could see Me here, that I have learn’d the Lesson, for to the exterior Eye I sit good and patient indeed, upon the Floor, with my Back to the Wall and my Knees up as a Writing-Desk, and Mildness adorning my Countenance. But within I rage, and shout, and kick. There is One, of course, from whom I would desire a Visit more than any Other, were her Purpose in coming nothing save to gloat. But I am not such a Fool, as to ignore the third Demonstration of her Ill-Will toward Me. Fool Me once, fool Me twice, and I retain my Smile of foolish Hope. Fool me three Times, and a stupid Suspicion stirs eventually in Me that my Feelings are not returned. I have not the Heart, to render more fully the Mistakes I have made in this Respect. Suffice it to say, that I mistook Malice for Wit, and a lively Interest for a kindly One. And yet, She seem’d at Tarrytown – no; no. No, that Way lies my Chance to become a four-fold Fool. With some People, I learn, there is no Mending of Injuries, for there is no Wish to be less than scarred. I am sure, that if I explained Myself to You, You would unfailingly observe, how mad in Me it was, to have entertained any Hopes, placed as I am upon this mad Errand: yet believe Me, that it would point a diverting Moral, and make at least a sour Specimen of Comedy, if You could behold how I, who makes such a Boast that I do what I chuse, found out at Expense the common Knowledge of Mankind, that You do not chuse where You bestow your Heart. Your Heart bestows Itself, will-you-nill-you, in the Midst of other Business. – Perhaps You would not laugh, Father, but regard It as the Beginning of Wisdom.

  I can hear the cries of the Costers upon Wall Street, below; and the calling of the Hour; and lately, now the Day darkens, a Dialogue between two waiting Chair-Men, upon the Chances of a Horse they favour to run at Flushing, named Royal Roger. Merriment, and bawdy Jests on the Subject of this Name. But I could make Nothing distinct of the Voices coming up directly through the Floor, from the Court and Assembly. They were too muffl’d, and Business down below is now prorogued, to judge by their Dwindling. It is a melancholy Reflection, that only a few Days past, I was dancing across that very Floor, and there receiving the Solicitations (albeit more terrifying than flattering) of the Powerful. I am imprison’d today, in gross Proximity to my swelling State of yesterday. The Judge, who yesterday cajol’d and threaten’d Me in case I should meddle against Him in the highest of Politics, will tomorrow frown on Me, as the Prisoner at the Bar. You would take from This, a Lesson in the World’s Untrustworthiness – a Model of how slippery our Estates are, within It; how scantly possessed, on how weak a Security – and therefore, how much to be clung to, lest they slip from our Fingers. But I hold the Opposite. I take it as a Maxim, that One must skate on, though the Ice be thin; skate as fast as may be, as if the Footing be secure, even if it proves not so.

  Talking of Ice, it is passing from chilly to freezing, in this Room. When they brought me in, the Day before Yesterday, a rheumatic Fog swaddled the City, but it has cleared. A Turn of the Seasons seems come, a crisping and clarifying Advent of Winter. I have the Suit of Clothes I stand up in, including my Coat, I thank God, but no others to put on. The Air has hardened and stilled. I smell the Smoke of Wood-Fires – not Seacoal, for They have none – rising undisturbed in straight Lines from the Chimneys of the City. Not from this Chamber, though, for We have no Fire nor Fireplace. The Sky, clear blue in the Windows this Afternoon, now descends a Ladder of blue Shades, travels a Spectrum as lucid as Water yet blackening toward Ink. There will be Frost on my Blanket in the Morning. My writing Hand is growing Numb. I had better stop, for the Shade of the Window is now a Blue it were a Work of Casuistry to distinguish from Black, and the veritable Ink on my Page floats and glimmers, a dimming Ghost of the Alphabet.

  *

  The next day. I had meant, at the Returning of the Light, to begin the Work of explaining Myself to You, so that You might understand, how I find Myself in Trouble here, so far from Home, and might be persuaded, perhaps, that You need not be entirely asham’d of Me, despite the Appearances of the Case. I image to Myself You reading This, as I write It, so clearly that, although it will be some Months hence that the Pages come into your Hand, wither’d from the Salt Sea and smelling of Onions from the carrier’s Cart that brought it You from Blandford, the Words seem to fly straight from my Mouth to your Ear. “The Dead yet Speaking” – as it says from the Mouth of the Skeleton on the Title Page of Fuller’s Lives of the Divines, which is just behind your left Shoulder as you sit in your common Stance of Reading, with four spread Fingers of your Hand supporting your Forehead, and your Little Finger curl’d. You see how I know You, though We were a Torment to one another. And I suppose I torment You now, for the last Time, with this News. I imagine you rising up, having finished the Lett
er, and folding It away as neatly as ever, and walking next Door to the Church-Yard, as long and black as ever in your Cassock and Gown, to communicate the Intelligence of It, at my Mother’s Grave. You will think Me very stupid, that I had not consider’d, until the Forming of this Picture upon the Eye of my Mind, how alone my Death will render You. You have always occupied so great a Place in my Mind, that You seem’d to be, in Yourself, a Platoon, a whole Company of Men, as unsolitary as a Crowd. Father, I am truly sorry for this latest Grief I afford you. Believe Me, if I could, if it were in my Power, I would take this Paper on whose other Side You seem to sit now, whatever the Months and Miles between, and tear a Hole in It so cunningly, that I might fold It out into a Door in the Air, through which I could step, and at once be at Home with You. – Even if We quarrel’d but a Second later.

  But my Longing – my Apology – my Design of Explanation – are All interrupted now, at Intervals of no more than Thirty Seconds, by my Fellow Prisoner across the Way. The Dormer on his Side faces due East, and as the Sun of December topp’d the Roofs of Wall Street, brilliant tho’ without Warmth, it sent a golden Finger poking at his dirty Nest. The Blankets writh’d; He kick’d, He rose, a foul’d and filthy Anadyomene. The Night’s Excesses roll off Him in sensible Waves, yet seem to have slough’d from his Mind. At least, They are no longer depressing It to Silence. If He is fuddled, it is vivaciously so. He has a Nose swollen to the Likeness of a Piece of Crimson Fruit, ornament’d by as many black Pores as there are Seeds upon a Strawberry; and a Skin of sunburn’d Leather otherwise, much pock’d and mottl’d; and verminous Hair as long as his Shoulders, depending from a bald Pate; and a Pair of Eyes so crusted and blood-shot They would deserve to be made an Epithet by Homer, yet bright, and lively, and designing. I was puzzl’d, as to why I found Him familiar, and then realiz’d, that He was the first living Sample I had seen in New-York, of that Type of wreck’d Humanity, of floating human Hulk, so commonly to be found in London, in Gin-Cellars, and in Penny Lodgings of the lowest Kind. I must have grown Here more rapidly tender of Stomach than I realised.

  ‘Boy,’ He said, with a significant Nod, when He found Me gazing at Him, and proceeded to his Toilet, of Spitting, and Scratching for Lice, and Pissing in great gurgling reeking Volume into his Pot.

  ‘Good morrow,’ said I, Company after all being Company, no matter what Charm it seem to lack, and I being mindful of the long Hours I had passed yesterday without Diversion. ‘How do you find Yourself, today? I hope your Head is not too sore.’

  ‘Well, ain’t You the cheerful little Perrokweet,’ he answered, showing me a brown-toothed Grin. ‘Wery polite. – It’ll take more’n a few Pints of Bumbo to keep Me on m’Back. To in-capassy-tate the Capting.’ If He has ever been the Captain of Anything, then I am the Apostle Paul. ‘Got any Prog over there, Boy? Kelkashose in the Victuals Line?’

  I looked reluctantly at my two Apples, and threw Him one. He caught It from the Air with an Arm as dextrous as a Monkey’s.

  ‘’S that all You got? Well, needs must’, and He proceeded to eat it whole, Core and Pips and All, at last grinding away the Stem between his snaggling Teeth, and belching reverberantly. ‘Bumbo’s a Lady on the Way down,’ He said, smacking his Tongue to his Palate like a Natural Philosopher eagerly collecting a Specimen, ‘but she in’t Half a rough old poxy old Bitch when You comes to wake up with her. Like Vinegar,’ said He, exploring. ‘Vinegar as has had a Rat pickled in It. And I have et of our Brothers the Rats, when Commons was short, so the Comparison, as You educated Fuckers would say, is exact. So. Whatcher in for, Boy?’

  ‘A Misunderstanding.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘A Misunderstanding over some Papers.’

  ‘Papers, eh? Oh, “Papers” is wery broad – anyfink from fiddling a Cargo to running a Book. What’s your pertickler Mischief, then?’

  I hesitated, and He began to cackle furiously.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind Me! Ne’ermind, ne’ermind, I’m only funning. I know what You done. Ev’ryone knows what You done. A thousand Pound for an arsewipe Bill you writ yourself! Handsome! Wery bold and handsome! Why think small, eh?’

  ‘What about You?’ I said, judging it better to turn the Conversation.

  ‘Me? I’m a Regular, I am. This is my u-shual Chamber. Only, They don’t bring Me in because of any Misunderstanding. They brings Me in when They understands all too clear there’s Nothing in my Pockets no more. But don’tcher worry. I’ll be out again in a Day or two, soon as Somefink dirty needs doing. I’m in Demand, I am. They know where to find Me.’ He winked one Oyster of an Eye, and tapped his Nose. ‘Unlike You, poor little Bugger, on your Way to the Hemp Jig. Shoulda started smaller. Ne’ermind, ne’ermind. We’ll make the Time fly. Got any Cards?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah well. Any Baccy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ain’t you the Misery, then? You wanna stir your Spirits up a Bit, Boy. No use drooping all over the fucking Floor now, eh? Too late now! Should’ve thought of That before. Live while You live, that’s the Motto. You wanna feel the Blood moving. Tell you what. Have You had any Quim since You got here? There’s a Nigger Gel on Cortlandt Street, Lips like Cushions, sucks like a Bilge-Pump for Sixpence. She—’

  But I will spare You the Rest of his nasty Tirade, which however He did not spare Me, not one Jot or eager Detail or bright-eyed relishing Sound. It was a special Boast of his, that on his last Visit he had cheated Her of the Sixpence. The Animal Spirits seem to burn in Him undiminished by the Corruptions of his Flesh, as if, in Fact, his Weaknesses and Diseases had worn away not his Lusts, but all Checks and Restraints on Them; had only crazed the Pigsty’s Walls, and let out the Pig. He wanted Me, when his Tale was done, and He was chuckling, and cracking his Knucklebones, and rubbing at his Cods, to pay Him back in Kind. I confess, I felt a vile Temptation, for a Moment, to pay back not Him but She in whom my Hopes are disappointed, by counterfeiting a lewd Story of her, and launching it via my Cellmate (who I am sure can hold Nothing back) into the Gossip of New-York. But my Despair is greater than my Anger, and the Thought of this, an Instant later, filled Me with a lurching Despondency near to Tears; and I replied instead, that I had a Letter to write. Sounding, I am sure, like the milkiest and most prim of Innocents, when in Truth I like my Share of the Pleasures of the Flesh as much as any Man.

  And this I thought would terminate our Conversation. But the worst of my Cellmate is, that He proves One of those People with no inward Resources for Solitude at all. Having settled on Me to be his Entertainment, He is at Me continually. ‘Boy,’ He says. ‘Boy. Boy. Boy. Boy? Boy!’ − on and on, until I answer. ‘What?’ I say. And infallibly, every Time, he will reply, ‘Nuffink’, and hoarsely chuckle, and seem to fall silent; and then resume, as if obliging Me with his Thought, ‘But what about—?’ What about a Riddle, a Story, a Jest? What about satisfying his Curiosity in a million Particulars? ‘You’ll like This,’ He says, and as He says it, eyes Me knowingly. When I grit my Teeth and try to be agreeable, He accepts It. When I show Signs of Impatience or Antipathy, and try to turn Him off with short Answers, it pleases Him I think the More, as if He revelled in my Discomfort, and took a Delight in Smirching his Hearer’s Ears against their Will. I should be able easily to turn and manage such a Conversation, having myself enjoyed many Varieties of low Company, and myself sparkled for a Wit in the Salons of the Gutter, and learned largely in Them of the Types of Humanity: but Today I cannot relax to It, I cannot find the Vein, I am too sad. I feel too a kind of Compunction caused by your Presence; even your paper Presence, at a great Remove. It seems I am in your Study, after all. I repel Him but feebly. ‘I must write my Letter,’ I say. ‘Whassit about? Whatcher saying? Who’s it to?’ He asks at once. A Nurse-Maid I spoke to, once said the Care of an Infant could become a kind of Torment or Madness, if You were alone, and must find new Matter to distract the Child every Minute; and that it was necessary then to guard against sudden, surprising Rages in your own Breast, dangerous to t
he Child. I thought Her then a little Dangerous or Lunatick by Temperament, that She should make such Difficulty at a simple Task. But now I understand Her in Full.

  At about the end of the Morning, judging by the Traverse of the Sun outside, after a Passage of Time excruciatingly prolonged and sub-divided, his Temper grew more raw, and his Hands began palpably to shake. I judge that the receding Tide of the Bumbo had crossed the whole Zone of Lucidity in Him, and begun to expose a painful Need. He fell from Enquiries to Insults, and thence to Shouts. He rose on ulcered and vibrating Legs, and gripped the wooden Bars, and began to rage, in fevered Denunciations, at Me and at his Keepers and at many a Jack and Sue unknown to Me: a Development which I welcomed, as requiring less Participation on my Part, though I did not look forward to whatever frothing Fit the next Stage should bring. I turned my Back and tried to fly away in Fancy. You may figure my Surprise, when Reynolds the Turnkey responded to this ranting Summons, and, climbing up the Stair to our Attic, seemed in a fair good Humour over It. ‘Ho there, you Monster,’ he said amiably – more amiably than He had been to Me – ‘is it Time already for your Bottle?’ And thorough the Bars He passed, as if by absolutely accepted Arrangement, a black glass Flagon of Spirits, which my Neighbour seiz’d and gulp’d at, with pulsing Throat. ‘There now,’ said Reynolds. ‘Settle down now, like a good Monster.’