Fletcher's Glorious 1st of June

by John Drake

  “Meaning what?” says Toby.

  “Meaning, my lad,” says Sanuny, “that I think I can see our way through the shoals and safe ashore. But we’ll have to be guided by you, Toby, for you’re the master of this trade.”

  And so began a very long and very remarkable discussion.

  35

  ITEM: Own circumstances.

  QUESTION: To proceed?

  SUBJECT: Booth & Fletcher.

  ACTION:?

  (Transliteration of shorthand notes from Samuel Slym’s memorandum book for 9th July 1794.)

  *

  Sam Slym posted one man at the front and one at the back and called the other ten into the big kitchen at 208 Maze Hill. The past week had been very uncomfortable in the house, with so many men under the roof, not to mention the two servants, the mad old Admiral still clinging to life in his squalid bedroom, the girl Booth chained in the attic, and her Ladyship who’d insisted in sharing every moment of it, despite all Sam Slym’s pleas.

  The men stood respectfully as Slym entered the room, Danny and Jimmy to the front as his lieutenants. Slym’s eyes narrowed as he looked at each man. He looked for any signs of drink or slackness or personal dirtiness (which of all things he was constitutionally unable to tolerate). In fact he glared at them like a hawk, for it was not his way to do things by halves and this little meeting, one of many over the last ten days, was as formal an inspection as the Duke of York could make of the troops on Horse Guards Parade.

  “Arms!” he snapped, and there was a rustle of movement up and down the room as each man drew a short, brass-hilted hanger and a brand shiny-new Tower horse pistol — the new carbine-bored model with the steel rammer fixed by a swivel so it couldn’t be dropped. Not all the regulars had those yet. He went among the men, looking for notches on the blades that would show they’d been playing about fencing one another, as idiots will do unless they are prevented, and he carefully checked the priming of each pistol.

  “Well enough,” says he, and turned to Danny. “What’re your duties?” he snapped.

  “Go the rounds and check each man’s at his post,” says Danny, promptly. “Each man to do a one-hour turn and one hour off. Watches to be posted through the night. No drink in the house, and no naked lights after eight o’clock.”

  “What’re your duties?” said Slym, picking a man at random. The fellow was less ready than Danny, perhaps embarrassed at speaking out before his mates. But after he’d swallowed a few times he spoke up well enough.

  “Keep an eye on the street from the first floor front and pass the word at once on sight of any unusually big man, especially if he looks like a sailor.”

  “When d’you use this?” said Slym tapping the man’s pistol. “Only when told by you, Captain,” said he.

  “What if you let it off without orders?”

  “Dismissed without pay, Captain.”

  And so it went on for five minutes or so. The ten men, carefully chosen for steadiness and reliability, from those Slym had used for many years, knew exactly what was expected of them, and could be relied upon to do Sam Slym’s bidding when it came to a fight. He’d picked them and drilled them and he’d done it very well. In fact anyone who’d seen Sam Slym at this work would have agreed that it was tragedy on the face of the earth that he’d never become a soldier, for he’d have made such a sergeant-major as colonels dream upon.

  “Now then,” said he, when he was done, “pay attention. Today is the 9th ofJune. Tomorrow is the last day of this business. We’ve had no sight so far of those we’re looking for, and so tonight after dark is the most likely time for them to come. You will therefore, all of you, every man of you, pay the most special attention to your duties this night. And I’ll remind you: it’s five guineas a man, come what may, for all who see the thing through. Should it come to a fight, it’s ten guineas a man, and then my usual terms for wounds and widows. You all know that.”

  “Yes, Captain,” they said. Sam Slym would crack your head like an egg just for pee-ing in the corner when you couldn’t be bothered with the privy, but he’d see your family squared if the worst happened.

  Afterwards he sent them to their posts and as he went up to the ground floor, from the basement, Lady Sarah came out from the drawing room, and the men respectfully touched their hats as they went past. Slym gulped as he saw her. She was a remarkable sight. She’d got herself up in some sort of riding costume with a tight jacket and pantaloons like a man’s, complete with riding boots. And her hair was pulled back from her face and tightly bound into a silk handkerchief. She looked devilish smart and the perversity of her being attired as a man played on just that chord in Slym that had always been drawn to her unmatchable sophistication.

  She smiled at him and presented herself for his inspection like an actress on the stage. “Ready for action against the enemy, sir!” she said and bowed like a man. The pantaloons showed every inch of her legs from waist to knee and were so tight about her backside as to be positively indecent. But didn’t they just suit her!

  “What the hell are you doing, Sarah?” said he in her ear, so the men shouldn’t hear. She laughed.

  “I told you, I’m ready for action. Did you think I should hide in a corner when my enemy comes?”

  “Yes!” said he. “This sort of work is not for you.”

  “Oh?” said she and produced a hunting knife.

  “Dammit, woman,” said he, “just keep in your room when the thing begins.”

  “Will it be tonight?” she said, and some of the bounce went out of her.

  “Yes,” said he, “if it’s to happen at all. It’ll be tonight or not at all.”

  “Good,” she said, “I’ll not wait longer.”

  “What if they don’t come?” he said.

  “Then you can release little Miss Booth, find give him to the Navy. That’s your trade, is it people?”

  “Yes,” said he, “my trade.” He hesitated and the girl goes free?”

  “I’ve said so, my love,” she said. “You cannot believe I ever meant all those things.” She moved close, looked up at him and pressed her lips to his.

  Slym shuddered with pleasure at the wriggling tongue searching deep into his mouth, and at the same time was acutely embarrassed at the knowledge of this taking place in full view of half a dozen of his men.

  “In fact, my love,” said she, when she was done, “I’ll go and tell our prisoner that, one way or the other, her term is nearly at an end.”

  “Yes,” said he, comprehensively confused. “Tell her.” And he stood with his men gaping at the tight white rump and round thighs swaying up the stairs towards the attic.

  The little prison where Kate was held had one narrow window and was at the very top of the house, under the rafters. She was safely secured by her chain, but to make doubly sure, during this final and crucial stage of the operation, either Mrs Collins or the girl had been required to stand guard with instructions to talk to nobody. Not to Slym’s men (who knew but a tiny fraction of what was going on) and certainly not to Miss Booth herself. It was tiresome in the extreme, with hours sat on a little chair on the landing outside the attic room, but what did that matter? As far as Lady Sarah was concerned, either creature could and would and must do as she was told or suffer certain extremely unpleasant consequences.

  It was Mrs Collins’s spell of duty at that particular moment, and the heavy, pie-faced woman with her broad, red arms rose at sight of her mistress and unlocked the door without a word. Sarah Coignwood went inside and smiled sweetly at Kate, closing the door behind her.

  “How are you, my dear?” said she. “I do hope you have received every attention from my servants.”

  Kate sat up on the bed where she had been lying, bored almost to madness. It was the first time she had seen Lady Sarah for some days and she knew as little of what was happening as Sam Slym’s hired pugs. Kate had been nine months in this dirty little room and was not even afraid any more. Nothing had happened to her, despite Lady Sarah�
�s ferocious threats.

  But now something was happening in the house. Nobody talked to her, but Kate had heard the heavy feet on the stairs, and the sounds of men’s voices. Even Sarah Coignwood’s expression told a tale.

  And now here was Lady Sarah herself, dressed up like something from the tableaux vivants that they performed at Mrs Simpson’s house in Gosport. Sarah Coignwood noted the glance at her clothes.

  “Fetching, is it not?” she said, waving a hand expressively at her neat and immaculate outfit.

  “Yes,” said Kate, “in a whore.”

  “Well, my dear,” said Sarah with a narrow smile, “you would be the judge of that, of course.” She looked at the bedraggled garments Kate was wearing — mostly what she’d had on her back when she entered the house last September. “Just as your elegance enables you to pass judgement upon mine.”

  “Bitch!” said Kate.

  “Slut!” said Sarah.

  And there followed a rapid exchange of epithets which Sarah Coignwood won with practised ease, smoothly drawing on the vast stores of filth in her enormous repertoire. Kate Booth was amazed and somewhat educated by the experience. Even tarts and sailors never cursed like that.

  “There, then!” said Lady Sarah. “Are we all quite done?” Kate said nothing but sat up on the bed judging the distance to Sarah Coignwood. She’d eased herself closer while the woman was spitting out oaths and Kate thought she was just within reach.

  “Now,” said Lady Sarah, “I have brought you something, my dear Kate,” she said. “It is a little puzzle to amuse you. I want …”

  Kate leapt in that instant, but Sarah Coignwood was too quick. She jumped out of range and the iron ring bit viciously into Kate’s ankle as the chain stretched to its limit. Kate fell heavily and measured her length upon the bare boards.

  “Would you, though?” said Lady Sarah and sneered down at Kate. “Listen to me, miss,” she said, “I have set a trap for your Mr Fletcher, and you are the bait! But more important, I want you to know that what I have promised shall be carried out to literal effect whether he comes for you or whether he does not. Perhaps you would like to see the details?”

  And Sarah Coignwood handed Kate Booth a copy of the printer’s handbill.

  36

  The level of violence against individuals and the extent of crimes against property, so casually recounted by Fletcher in what follows, together with an implicit assumption that there would be no attempt to interfere with the commission of these crimes by the forces of Law and Order, demand an explanation. The case is that in 1794 London had no police as the word is understood today; Sir Robert Peel’s Metropolitan Police Service did not come into being until thirty-five years later in 1829. Until then there was no intermediary between the ineffectual parish watchman and the mailed fist of the military. Only fourteen years before the events described in this chapter, the notorious Gordon Riots took place in London, between 2nd June and 9th June 1780. Tens of thousands were on the streets with criminal intent. The prisons were broken open and the inmates released, and houses of noblemen were looted and fired, and the night sky burned red as great areas of the city were destroyed. Only the Army, firing volleys into the people as if upon the field of battle, was able to quell this, the greatest civil disturbance of the century. The Gordon Riots were unusual only in their extensiveness, being otherwise typical of many similar occurrences. Such was the lawless condition of the times. Such was the power of the London Mob. S.P.

  *

  Just after ten o’clock on 9th July, and with the sky darkening, a launch forged steadily downriver with fifty men aboard: myself, Sammy, Toby, and a fine collection of gentry hired for the night’s work. Some of these didn’t smell too sweet and none of them were pretty, but they chuckled and muttered merrily and those manning the oars pulled with a will. Just astern of us were two more launches similarly packed with dark figures.

  Every man was armed, though with no weapon more formidable than a stave or a cudgel. Toby had been very particular about that. He specifically forbade the bringing of firearms or pikes, particularly the latter which had red revolutionary connotations. Personally I’d have issued all hands with musket, bayonet and sixty rounds, and I’d’ve taken along a pack of artillery. But I wasn’t the Captain that night. Toby Bone was.

  The river was crammed with anchored merchantmen and the Isle of Dogs with its line of big windmills was sliding past on our larboard beam as we headed down towards Greenwich Reach.

  “Shut up there!” hissed Toby as somewhere in the boat a man laughed.

  “God-love-ye!” says the voice, “’tis shut up that I am!” There was more laughter.

  “Stap me, Toby,” says Sammy quietly, “are you sure about them heathen Irish?”

  “Yes,” says Toby, “they’re just the kiddies for the work. The buggers’d charge down the muzzle of a cannon for a shilling and a bottle of gin.”

  “Aye,” says Sammy, “I know that right enough, but can you hold the bleeders back when the work’s done?” He pointed at the mass of figures in the dark boat. “This lot’d burn bloody London down, given the chance.”

  “Sammy,” says Toby, “I’d not tell you how to tie a bowline, would I? So leave my trade to me!”

  “Aye,” says Sammy, “but …”

  “Stow it, Sammy!” says I. “You know what’s to be done. Who’d you think we’d get for this, the Royal Marines?” None the less I shoved forward down the boat and reached out for the man who I thought had laughed the most. (It didn’t matter really, any one will do on these occasions.) I caught him by the throat and shook him a bit to rattle his windpipe, for you can’t knock a man down in a crowded boat for fear of upsetting her. “Shut it!” says I. “Next man that speaks out of turn can swim home with no pay!”

  That kept down the chatter for a bit, though I had to wipe my hand on my breeches after the feel of his greasy neck.

  Soon we were past Deptford Creek and the splendid frontage of the Greenwich Hospital lay on our starboard beam.

  But we pulled on past that, for there were too many prying eyes, and official eyes at that, in and around the great naval hospital, to risk a landing at Greenwich Stairs.

  When Toby finally swung the tiller and brought us in on the Greenwich side, the chatter in the boat rose up again. And when the next two launches joined us, and over a hundred and fifty men had landed, half of them Irish — labourers, chair-men, porters and coal-heavers — there was just no stopping them.

  There was a sudden waving of cudgels and a kindling of torches from the boat lanterns. The drink came out too, and they began to roar and sing and festoon their hats with the white ribbons that Toby had given them so’s to make the thing proper — it being an established principle of London street fighting that factions should know one another by the colour of their ribbons. How else would a man know who to cudgel?

  “No point holdin”em back now!” says Toby, yelling in my ear. “In fact it’s time to gee ‘em on a bit!” Toby’s eyes were wide with excitement and I could see that while he’d arranged this night’s proceedings on my behalf, it was by no means a thing against his inclinations.

  “Now, me boys!” cries Toby, climbing up on a box that he’d brought for the purpose. “Are we going to see Admiral Williams murdered by the French?”

  “No!” they roared.

  “Shall we let the bloody French rule London?”

  “No!”

  “Are we true-born Britons, or are we bloody traitors?”

  “Yes!” they cried, and “No!” depending on their understanding of the question (especially in the case of the Irish). But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was noise and the thrill of the game that was afoot. They’d turned out at half-a-crown a head (a huge sum) and all the gin they could drink. The cause, as it had been explained to them, was to rescue Admiral Williams from the combination of traitors, Levellers and French spies, that had the old hero imprisoned in his house. They’d fight for that, all right. That and a bit of loo
ting.

  So off we trotted bawling and singing, with most of the brethren already well drunk and sweating red-faced in the torchlight.

  By George it was devil’s work, I can tell you. There’s a combination of night-time, torches and marching feet that nourishes deep and dangerous sentiments in a crowd of men. We headed south with the river at our backs, struck out across Vanburgh’s Fields, with silly fools falling into ditches and hauling one another out, we found Maze Hill with Greenwich Park on one side and the street of houses on the other and headed for No. 208.

  Just as we turned into Maze Hill, the howling mob behind us saw the one thing that would screw them up to a still higher pitch of excitement.

  Up the street from the other direction came Toby’s sons and the landward “pincer” of our expedition. Three hundred more, just the same as ourselves: white ribbons, torches flaring and sticks raised in the air. A tremendous cheer broke from each mob as they surged together and embraced one another as if brothers: brothers once parted but now reunited in their joy. They hopped and capered, they yelled and laughed, they drank from each other’s bottles, they fraternised lovingly. For it’s a true and singular characteristic of mobs that when one encounters another bent on the same errand, the thrill of reinforcement plus the warm confirmation of the righteousness of the common cause work a magic stronger than drink, which sends them onward, merciless and utterly determined.

  It does that and more besides. For one thing it robs a mob of what little wit it started out with, and the specific hate for the “anarchists” and “traitors” in No. 208 was now broadening to envelop all of Maze Hill. Stones and clods were flying and the windows were going in all up and down the street.

  “Save the Admiral!” cried Toby, and Sammy and I and Toby’s fads took up the cry. “On to 208, lads!” he cried, and enough of our thugs took heed for the mob to roll forward. And there it was, the centre of a short terrace of three houses, on three floors and a basement, facing the park. 208 was dignified by an extra storey with a pitched roof. Already some glass was out of the windows, and BANG! BANG! BANG! as I got there, pistol fire came down from the first floor and men dropped wriggling on the ground.