The Newgate Jig

by Ann Featherstone

  We were unwilling to stray far from the safety of the steps, taking in the scene before us and adjusting to the near darkness. It was Trim who discovered half a dozen lanterns within a few paces of the bottom step, carefully placed and with fresh candles. We didn't stop to wonder why they should be there, but lit them all and, holding them up, ventured forward. The low roof was a blanket of dust and spiders' webs and ugly clusters of fungus. Underfoot, instead of brick and stone, was earth, much compressed and flattened over the centuries. The sensation of uneven ground beneath our feet and creeping insects above was very unpleasant. We turned our faces towards the beams of light dropping down from the holes in the gaff floor, shuffling forward a step at a time, and clinging to each other and the wall, each of us terrified of being left alone in that awful darkness.

  But a sudden movement nearby froze us in our tracks and Will clutched my arm, and whispered, horrified, 'Oh my dear Lord, Bob, it's rats, and I can't bear 'em, you know.' I fervently hoped he was wrong and indeed, as we peered into the gloom, saw - we all did - that there was someone - or something - crouched against the far wall.

  'Chapman,' said Trim, very quietly, 'does your pal Pilgrim favour sitting in the dark?'

  The figure moved and leaned into the light. Indeed, it was Pilgrim, but much changed since I last saw him. His face was thin and his hair, no longer confined by hat or turban, flew out in a shock of whiteness. He was trembling and mouthing and his bare arms were a bloody mess of cuts and scratches.

  'Who's that?' he cried, and the fear in his voice was palpable. 'I'm not mad. I won't go to the madhouse!'

  ('He's found them, Pilgrim. Soft head. Fool. Idiot.')

  'Have you found them? Have you?'

  ('He has. Look.')

  'Ooh! Ooh! There is a storm in my head!'

  He began to cry and moan and pull his hair.

  Will watched him for a moment and then turned to me. 'Bob, you know, your friend should be cared for, treated kindly. He shouldn't be squatting on the ground in the dark like a dog.'

  And as if he had heard him, Pilgrim gave a terrible howl of rage and pain.

  'I don't know, Lovegrove,' said Trim. 'He looks dangerous to me. We should fetch a constable. More than one. And let them take him to Bedlam or somewhere.'

  'Not dangerous,' Will replied, quietly, never taking his eyes from the agonized Pilgrim, 'but frightened because something in his head tells him terrible things.' He frowned. 'And he should not go Bedlam. Or any of those places. Poor, poor fellow.'

  Will was right, of course. Pilgrim was mad, had been mad for many years, and now it was as though whatever demons he had managed to keep subdued had broken free. He rocked back and forth, talking and howling, sometimes to himself (and to that invisible other who sat by his shoulder), and sometimes to us. One moment he was gibbering nonsense, the next quoting speeches from Shakespeare and other poets, 'Blind among enemies, O worse than chains,' he cried, sobbing in pain and passion. But for all his madness, I could not imagine that he would harm anyone, and when he began to cry, like a child, I was overcome with pity for my old friend. I wanted to find him clean clothes, tend his wounds, wipe his face. Perhaps I could look after him. Even take him with me to Strong's Gardens where I know Titus Strong, that good Christian man, would welcome him.

  'Bob Chapman? My friend?'

  I held up the lantern so that he could see it was me. His face broke into a smile, and then, as quickly, a shadow passed across it.

  'Don't come any closer! Stay there!'

  ('Ah, don't listen to him! He doesn't know. Come over, my friend. Let me shake you by the hand!')

  He reached out to me and I stepped forward to take his hand, just as a great crash came from above. The ceiling seemed to bulge and buckle, and showers of dust flew down between the cracks. If shock and surprise hadn't stopped me, if I had taken just three more steps to grasp Pilgrim's outstretched hand, I would have fallen down a great black hole in the cellar's earth floor. As it was, Will caught my arm just in time with a cry of 'God's teeth!' and dragged me back, the floor collapsing beneath my feet. As the loose soil slipped away and the ground shuddered, we advanced cautiously and held up our lanterns. They revealed a gulf, perhaps five or six feet wide, plunging down, goodness knows how far, into the earth and from which a foul stench rose with each gust of cold air. The sides appeared sheer, and even as we watched, clods of the earth floor were breaking off and crumbling away into the blackness. Pilgrim howled and pulled his hair and tottered from side to side, opening imaginary doors, fighting off unseen assailants and wrestling with his frantic other self.

  'He's trapped!' cried Will, and we looked desperately around. 'There must be a way for him to get around that pit.'

  As he spoke, there was another tremor and more of the cellar floor collapsed.

  'Stay back, Bob Chapman,' cried Pilgrim, 'or the earth will eat you!'

  ('Like the kiddies. We nursed them, didn't we, and one day they were gone. Stolen.')

  'I put the children down here and now they've gone. I'll be whipped soundly this time.'

  ('Little Freddy Forskyn / Tight in his lamb-skin / Cook him up a good lamb pie! / Give everyone a slice of Freddy / Good and rare and toby-red.)

  I recognized that vile and terrible rhyme. Pilgrim knew the Nasty Man. He imitated him to a T.

  The lanterns flickered in the draught from the chasm and the rumbling overhead continued.

  'I think we should get out,' whispered Trim.

  'We can't leave the poor creature here.'

  'But the whole building is about to collapse!'

  Pilgrim looked up and beamed, his face suddenly restored. He clapped his hands like a child.

  'He's right, of course. The house is falling down. It's the workings, you see. The deep tunnel. The engineers didn't take account of the clay and the lost river. I think there might be two. I've consulted Banks' Subterranean Rivers and Conduits: Part I, London and its Environs, which states quite clearly that a tributary of the Fleet (if there could be such a thing!) was recorded long ago by Flavius (a pseudonym) as running near here. It seems fantastic, but it was a river in which could be found many fish. Including trout. Hence, Fish-lane.'

  Now I knew why that cold, thick stink was familiar, and why the house was rocking and the ground was opening up. Why there was dust falling like snow all the time and great blooms of fungus were pushing up into the damp corners. Why Pilgrim had plastered his floor with old druggets and thick wodges of paper.

  There was a tunnel underneath us.

  Even Barney had warned me about it. Didn't he say that another tunnel was being dug below, deeper, taking another direction? That tunnel was under Fish-lane and Pilgrim's shop and the gaff, undermining every building, the street itself, as it burrowed through the old soil, and found the old river.

  Pilgrim chattered on, blissfully unaware, his face transformed by goodwill and honest intent. It was difficult to imagine that he might have taken any part in the Nasty Man's terrible business.

  'Mr Pilgrim,' interrupted Will, gently, 'here is your good friend Bob Chapman, and we are his friends. This is Fortinbras Trimmer and I am Will Lovegrove. But stay very still, will you, Mr Pilgrim, whilst we find a way of bringing you out of here? I'm afraid the floor is not at all safe and we fear that if you don't take great care you might - well, you might hurt yourself.'

  'Obliged to you, sir, for your concern,' said Pilgrim, and he gave an old-fashioned bow, and looked expectantly from one to the other of us.

  'Will, we must hurry if we're to rescue him.'

  'I agree, but look at the floor!'

  He pointed to the pit, which was now grown to a black chasm, wider in some parts than others, and disintegrating into the darkness by the moment.

  'The whole building is falling, but the cellar will go first. Look where the ground's giving way!'

  Will edged along the wall, his lantern held aloft, into the part of the cellar directly under the gaff. We followed him and held up our lanterns to
add light to a landscape of pits and depressions, collapsing into the chasm with little more than a shudder, and in the corner, where the ground had already given way in part, there were only islands of earth. And then, as the ground shifted again, we saw that they were not islands of earth, but bodies, wrapped in sheets, like pale grubs. We shrank back as the ground shook again and they began to slide away into the black earth. Our moment of realization was accompanied by another terrific crash overhead as though an army, at least, was marching through the gaff and Pilgrim's shop, demolishing walls and doors, destroying all before them.

  'He's back,' whispered Pilgrim. 'He's looking for the letter.'

  The one that was in the pocket inside my coat, where it was burning my skin.

  'Kevill gave it to me. If he was taken, I should give it to the magistrate.'

  ('He danced the Newgate hornpipe! Jaunty!')

  'But I didn't. I should have. Suffer the children. Ah, but I was too scared. This one threatened me hard.'

  ('Clap-mouth! Think of the coin!')

  'And the Nasty Man showed me the madhouse and the chains and whips.'

  He looked up calmly.

  'I hope he doesn't destroy my Pilgrim's Progress. I believe it is a rare copy. Chapman?'

  ('Sew up his mouth.')

  'Chapman was a friend to me when I was whipped because of you. I should have listened to him.'

  ('Keep him quiet! Keep them all quiet!')

  His face contorted with the effort and he dug his nails into his arm until the blood ran.

  'Bob, I buried the children here. As per the arrangement.' He was eager to explain. 'But one got away. I saw her dead. Now it's the madhouse.'

  ('We looked through the hole in the wall.')

  'I went back to the shop, to the cellar, to prepare. Look, look, I made a hole!'

  He pointed with trembling finger at the vast black chasm before him.

  'But when I went to collect her, she had gone.'

  ('Stolen. Thief.')

  Pikemartin, I thought. The first child that had died since Kevill had gone, and his replacement knew nothing of the 'arrangement' with Pilgrim. He had wrapped her in the only thing that came to hand. A piece of carpet. He had hidden her under the floorboards and then taken her to the only place where he thought she would not be found. The tunnel.

  'My God,' said Will quietly in my ear. 'What horrors have been happening in this place?'

  Trim was anxious. 'We can't wait! Let's find a ladder or a floorboard and get him out quickly, and save ourselves.'

  We left some of the lanterns so Pilgrim shouldn't be in the dark, and my two friends hurried up the stairs whilst I followed, turning every step to look anxiously after Pilgrim, who was calm now. He smiled and waved to me, as if I was trotting to the shop for a can of milk, and called after me words of encouragement.

  'Be careful, Bob! Watch the steps - they're rotten! Don't bring Brutus and Nero down here, will you? Far too dangerous and difficult for dogs. Even such remarkably intelligent ones as yours!' He laughed and clapped his hands.

  In the thick darkness of the passage, Will and Trim agreed that floorboards from one of the rooms upstairs would be the quickest and easiest remedy.

  'We can bridge the void, I think,' said Will, 'but let's not waste a moment.'

  Great bulges were evident in every wall and, in the shop, shelves and bookcases collapsed even as their contents slid onto the floor, bringing with them clouds of dust and cobwebs. Suddenly, the window panes - bullseyes, uncommon these days - burst in explosions of glass and I stepped back and covered my face to avoid the shards.

  I didn't hear the Nasty Man until he was at my shoulder.

  Until the heel of his hand met the apple of my throat, and his right hand grasped my opposing wrist. It was efficiently done. I was pinned and helpless. And I was immediately almost insensible. The smallest pressure and I would be dead.

  'Where is it?'

  Quietly spoken, but no niceties now. I could feel the thud of his heart and his quick breath.

  'George Kevill left a packet. You have it. Give it me, and I'll let you go. Otherwise, I'll choke you here.'

  The world went black for a moment and then there was a rushing in my ears and head as he released his grip.

  'Come, I followed you here. I know you have it.' He pulled on my wrist, wrenching my head back again and throwing me off balance. 'And I have your dogs.'

  I knew he must be lying. Every word that he spoke should have burned his mouth and turned his tongue to ashes.

  'They're not far away. In the next street. I'll take you to them. But I want the packet first. Quickly.'

  How could I believe him, knowing what I knew? He had backed me out of the shop and we were standing in the passage. I could hear Will and Trim above pulling up floorboards.

  He sent waves crashing into my ears again. They're sad creatures without you, Bob Chapman. I left them tied up in a yard. They're outside in this cold, cold weather.'

  I gulped and choked, struggling as he wrenched at my wrist.

  'A gentleman from Putney wanted them for his daughters, but I got a better price on the Highway. A man I know has a pit:

  Dog-fighting! Even though I knew he was lying, I couldn't take the risk, and I nodded feebly and clutched his hand and would have fallen if he hadn't kept a tight hold upon me.

  'Do take care, my dear!' he said, brightly. 'Now, is this it? Inside your coat?'

  He was so quick that I had no opportunity to stop him and, with a laugh, he pushed me away.

  'Practice, my dear. One takes an apprenticeship and with effort and experience, behold, the nasty man crowns his profession!'

  He turned the pictures over quickly.

  'Kevill,' he muttered as he folded the packet up and put it in his pocket. 'A pygmy. A mouse in the ring. Gallows-bait.'

  A noise and a sudden flood of light in the passage made us both turn. The back door was open, and in it stood Barney, stopper in his hand. The Nasty Man took a step backwards.

  'I said I'd serve you out and I will. For my Pa.'

  'Your Pa was soft. A bubble. Put your stopper away, boy. Remember what happened last time.' The Nasty Man had recovered his composure quickly, but he was still nervous.

  'Don't let the coppers see you with it. Six months' hard for that weapon.'

  He spoke mildly, but never took his eyes off the boy, who was advancing slowly along the passage, the gun poised in his hand.

  'You fitted up my Pa. He never killed anyone. Not a ladybird, not anyone.'

  'That's true, Barney. But he was becoming a putty cove. You know what I mean. He thought about the business too much. He wrote a letter, kept pictures which didn't belong to him. And my - partner - was nervous.'

  'Is that the uncle Pa borrowed money off?'

  'It is.'

  'And the dirty cove in the pictures.'

  'Again.'

  'Then I shall serve him out as well.'

  The Nasty Man backed away a little further. He had half an eye upon the shop and the front door - or the window - to get away. But there was another rumble, another shudder, running through the house, and the walls wobbled as though they were made of paper. Even the staircase was shifting as Will and Trim clattered down it, carrying two long floorboards. They stopped short of the passage, seeing Barney still advancing, the stopper dropping a little in his hand, and the Nasty Man talking and edging away. 'You don't need to serve me or him out, Barney,' he was saying. 'You could inherit your father's business. I think he would have wanted that, don't you, cocky?'

  Barney hesitated and the Nasty Man turned to run. But he stumbled, his foot caught beneath the worn drugget. He wrestled to free it, and falling off balance, clutched at the cellar door. The more he struggled, the more certainly he was trapped by the frayed mat and the one underneath it, the mouldy layers of paper, the splintering wood. Then he slipped. His vast weight dragged him over and he crashed like a grotesque ballet dancer, all arms and legs, through the rotten wood of the d
oor. I heard his head thud against the wall, his arm crack, the heels of his boots drag upon the cellar stairs, and he struck the trembling earth with a thud.

  Pilgrim moaned and cried out.

  There was a mighty shudder. We watched as the Nasty Man grasped at the air and shifting earth and slid away into the darkness.

  Collapse and Fall

  Barney led me through the creaking wreckage of the shop and into the street. Behind us, Lovegrove and Trim had thrown the floorboards across the chasm and helped Pilgrim to safety. Not a moment too soon, it seemed, for the instant they emerged from the shop it shivered and, like one of Mr Lombard's scenes, disappeared. The gaff, too, seemed to hover before a ripple ran across the snow-dusted roof and the front wall trembled and then all fell like a house of cards. In the interval, as the dust cleared, snow-storms of paper fluttered in the wintry breeze and were scooped up into the sky, and fell upon neighbouring housetops and into the street. The houses either side were mutilated by the collapse, walls ripped away and the inhabitants left shocked and crying at the windows. In one, the kitchen range still clung to the wall when all around it had fallen. The fire was glowing and a kettle boiling water for the teapot which had been put to warm. Upstairs, the children whimpered in their bedroom and their mother screamed, all standing as though they were upon a stage, for the front of the house was fallen into the street.

  As weeks passed (I leap momentarily into the future), and nothing was done to assist those poor souls who had lost houses, livelihoods and loved ones, rumbles of resentment and anger arose against the railway company for taking so little care. There were reports and inquiries, visits by members of parliament and sympathetic churchmen, and much shaking of heads. Equally, those people who, supposedly, support the poor and take their part, anarchists and the like, promised to rally the masses and march upon the offices of the railway company and demand that 'something be done'. Of course, nothing happened. The homeless disappeared, along with the members of parliament, churchmen and radicals (or whatever they called themselves). But the railways, of course, blundered on, chewing the city into pieces and spitting it out.