A Nest of Vipers
Page 1
CONTENTS
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
1. Newgate Prison, London, September 1712
2. A Fleet Wedding, Winter 1711
3. A Walk Up West
4. A Fine Pair of Pigeons
5. The Web Begun
6. A Merry Dance
7. A Hunt in Soho
8. View Halloo
9. A Sudden Change of Horses
10. A New Play
11. Royalty
12. Reversals of Fortune
13. Newgate Prison, Dawn, September 1712
14. The Road to the West
15. A Yellow House in Bath, Michaelmas Day
Postscript
About the Author
Also by Catherine Johnson
Copyright
ABOUT THE BOOK
“So, here they are,” I say, “The last words of Cato Hopkins, boy criminal.”
Cato Hopkins is the youngest member of Mother Hopkins’s ‘family’ – a group of larger-than-life fraudsters who roam the streets of London. There’s Addy, who can become a very convincing boy when she needs to; beautiful Bella, trained to charm any rich young man out of his fortune; Sam and Jack, with more muscle than most; and Cato himself, whose nimble fingers are trained to pick a lock in the blink of an eye.
But old age is slowing down Mother Hopkins, and she wants to carry out a final con to outdo all the tricks that have gone before. And so the gang set about bringing ruin upon Captain Walker, a proud and cruel slave captain who deserves to be taught a lesson or two . . .
Catherine Johnson has written many popular novels for children, and co-wrote the screenplay for the critically acclaimed film Bullet Boy.
CATHERINE JOHNSON
For all the Hackney Catlins with much love,
and with thanks to the Arts Council of England
for their support
CHAPTER ONE
Newgate Prison, London, September 1712
‘HOW’D I COME into the profession?’
I was looking up at the priest in the dark of the condemned cell. I knew I was shivering – and not from cold either. In all my fourteen years I’d never been this close to death and it was only hours away. Hours until I was to hang. The priest knew that – he was smiling down at me through the gloom – and I had no intention of making his task a simple one.
The Newgate Ordinary, as the prison parson was known, pulled out a small stool and sat down.
‘I know your game!’ I said to him. ‘You’ll have this all down and sold on for some street ballad seller to sing in every square between here and Westminster before my body’s cold!’ I looked away, and would have walked away too, but the chains bit into my wrists and ankles. ‘You’ll call it “The Boy Who Made the Favourite Disappear!” Or “The Ship That Vanished” or some such nonsense!’
‘The Favourite? Was that the name of the ship, the two-masted vessel, that clean vanished?’ He tried to sound innocent.
‘As if you didn’t know!’ I spat back at him.
‘It’s a long night,’ the Ordinary said. ‘The one before you hang. No one’s called for you; there’ll be no one in the mob to cut you down and save you from the surgeons! They’ll hand you over and take their shilling piece. Think on that, lad. And we’d all like to know what happened to the vessel in question.’ He coughed. I looked the other way in case he could read my face, even here in the dark. ‘And the gold she had on board, of course. I mean, if there was anything you could tell me—’
‘I’m no snitch! I’ll tell you nothing!’
The Ordinary smiled. I shut my eyes. The dark of the condemned cell seemed just as black whether you had your eyes open or closed. And to tell the truth, I felt even more foolish because I was the only one of my ‘family’ to be caught for our crime. Indeed, to be caught for anything at all was bad enough . . . But to hang? That had to be nothing but my own stupidity.
The Favourite’s vanishing was to be Mother Hopkins’s final act, her last hurrah before old age slowed her, and I had let her down . . . No wonder no one had asked for me.
I supposed my ‘family’, who were the nearest thing to blood relatives I could name, had vanished into the stew of the city. They must have reckoned me already good as dead. Mother Hopkins never even showed her face at my trial. I called her Mother – she taught me everything I know: reading, writing, the way to spring any lock you like – but she never bore me in the natural way. Paid threepence for me, she says, not that you can believe a word from her lips. I don’t know why I should even care a fig for any of them.
But there’s a lump in my throat feels like it’s the size of a cannonball.
‘The Mother Hopkins?!’ the Ordinary asked. I nod, and his face lights up. ‘I remember the woman myself! In here to swing like you, she was. Not thirteen, fourteen years ago!’ He rubbed his chin as if that action eased his memory. ‘A fine-looking woman.’
I said nothing. Mother Hopkins – although possessed of many qualities, such as cunning and cleverness in parting a gentleman from his money without said gentleman realizing – would not, in my mind, be thought of as fine looking.
The Ordinary sighed. ‘Knew her well,’ he said. ‘Once.’
This was not a surprise. Mother Hopkins knew most of the useful people in London. I had heard the tale of how she escaped the condemned cell, and my infant part in that story (she would never have paid anything for me if I wasn’t to be useful). But it seemed as though her devious ways would no longer be used to further my own little life.
None of the others had showed themselves. Not Bella, although to be honest I never expected to see her anyway. Sam Caesar and Jack Godwin were nowhere to be seen. Addeline came once, on the day the beak passed sentence. The judge wore his black cap as he brought down the hammer to end my short life. I saw Addeline and my heart leaped. She was up in the gallery, gripping the rail so hard her knuckles showed through like white marble. She was dressed as a boy, but I would know her anywhere, even though she never even looked down at me once. Just thinking about it now is bringing me close to tears . . .
‘So if you don’t tell me, lad, who’ll ever know?’ The Ordinary’s rough voice brought me back out of my dream. He took out his pen. ‘Ah, go on then, son,’ he urged. ‘It’s a good tale, I’ll warrant! You should hear the ones they’ve made up about you already.’
‘Oh?’ I said, trying to sound casual, but he knew he had me hooked. ‘What do they say about me?’
‘They say the boat was magicked away by witchcraft! They say that you’re too clever to be a boy, that you’re a man who never growed, and that you had a sack of gold and you would walk about the streets by St Dunstan’s throwing money in the air for poor children to catch.’
‘Hah!’ I would have folded my arms but the chains were so damn short they didn’t allow for it. ‘That was me and Addy once – we had so much cash in our pockets it was weighing us down. And we had to run so fast . . .’ I shook my head, remembering.
‘They say you can escape from any lock save ones blessed by a bishop,’ the priest continued. ‘And that the vanished ship sails back and forth between the Indies and Africa, freeing slaves and causing pain for the planters!’
I smiled. ‘Is that all?’
His eyes glinted in the darkness as he leaned towards me. ‘And they say you’re an angel that fell down into hell. That’s on account of your smooth words, your kind eyes and your infernal skin.’
‘My skin is far from infernal!’ I protested. ‘It’s been my living every one of my fourteen years! I’m as proud of my colour as the peacock is of his feathers,’ I said. ‘Go on. Write that down to start.’
‘So you’ll talk?’
Or the crime I was set to give my life for – the most incredible scam ever laid by man or woman: the secret of the Favourite? I smiled to myself. I’d keep some of my tales back a little longer.
Anyway, if I tried telling all, we’d run out of time and I would be swinging in the wind, dancing the devil’s own jig on the end of a noose. There was so much to tell . . . Arabella playing the fine lady; me, the page, done up like the Queen’s Own dog’s dinner. Or when I was younger, and Mother Hopkins sold me so many times over I almost forgot my own name. And we played so many lays over so many years – to be straight with you, it was just like any other line of work. But there were one or two times . . . one or two marks who deserved absolutely everything they got. And, yes, one family stands out. In the end they were my own downfall – the Walkers of Greenwich.
Yes, I’d start there. And it was how we first met Sam Caesar. He’s one of the best chairmen in town now, as it goes. Him and Jack Godwin rule Leicester Fields – they can carry you, in their sedan chair, from Covent Garden to St James’s in half the time you’d make with a carriage and pair. I only wished they were waiting for me now, outside, and I could slip my chains, melt into the walls and be away.
That wasn’t going to happen. The judge was so afraid of me escaping again that I’m shackled and trussed like a pheasant in a butcher’s window.
I looked at the Newgate Ordinary. He was so dirty you could only just make out his chaplain’s collar. He was greedy for my words because to him they were solid old goree. Old goree? Blood and bread, quids, love-of-my-life, rhino . . . money. The root of all evil and the staff of life. I made him promise he’d use some of the cash he’d get for my story to save my body from the surgeon’s knife. Then I began.
‘So, here they are,’ I said, ‘the last words of Cato Hopkins, boy criminal. Who only ever robbed those who were so greedy as to want more. Who only ever tried to share about the wealth of those who are fat with goods and silks and food—’
‘Hold on!’ the Ordinary said. ‘Slow down, for the sake of my quill!’
I paused a while, then began again. ‘It was like this. It was my eighth year or so; we was living above this public house, an inn just east of Drury Lane: the Nest of Vipers. It was my home for longer than any other, but trade was slow and the only regular money coming in was from Bella’s job at Two Crows coffee shop and whatever me and Addy brought in from the street. One day, not long after Whitsuntide, this boy walks in . . . Well, he looked more like a man – he was the size of a man. It was Sam Caesar, fifteen but more than fully grown. He was bleeding from a knock on his head and he was so desperate it took more than Mother Hopkins’s soft words and a cup of ale to quieten him down.
‘“I need help,” he said.
‘Mother Hopkins dabbed away the blood and said, slow and not interested like: “I can see that, my lad. Now, what is it you think we can do for you?”
‘He told us then about his owner, man name of Captain Walker, lived over Greenwich in one of them big new houses, stuffed to the gills with paintings and silver. Mother Hopkins’s ears pricked up at this. But we’d already guessed as much, for the poor chap was wearing one of them god-awful silver collars that the rich put their slaves in. Have you seen them? Bet you’ve never worn one! They’re the devil and that’s the truth. Heavy as lead, and there’s nothing so likely to make you feel like a dog as wearing one of them. Sam’s collar read: SAM, Capt. Walker’s Negro. Please return to Croom’s Hill, Greenwich in that curly writing. I felt a deal of pity for the boy just for that.
‘Sam Caesar said he’d heard there was folk here who knew how to turn situations around, and his was a situation so parlous that he could not imagine any way out.
‘So Bella put another cup of ale in front of the boy and smiled at him. If she hadn’t been seeing Jack Godwin, she’d have set her cap at him, I’m sure of it. Sam Caesar was fine looking – at least he would be when the gash on his head was cleaned up.
‘Turned out Captain Walker had brought our Sam over from Jamaica when he was a lad. Captain Walker wasn’t just a sea captain, oh no. He had a deal of estates in Jamaica producing sugar and rum. Owned hundreds of slaves, Sam said, and still owned his mother, Juno. Turns out she’d been a favourite with the captain – so favourite that Sam had a lighter skin than his mother, if you get my meaning. So favourite that she’d begged the captain to take Sam to London and give him some kind of education. So Sam had come over with the captain and grown up in Greenwich as their page; wearing one of them flashy outfits – slippers with those curly toes and a turban. Never learned nothing but serving chocolate and tea to visiting ladies, mind. Then a few years ago he’d grown too big for that lay and they used him as a footman. But the captain never liked him: any excuse and he’d get a clout like the one he was wearing today. And then he hears the captain’s only gone and sold him to a mate and is having him shipped back to Jamaica on the Retort to be a field hand!
‘I knew then why he trembled so. If you ever heard the old men in St Giles talking about life in the Indies, it would make your hair turn white. Floggings so hard flesh hangs in red ribbons from a man’s back. Men, women and children worked until they break . . . Arms, ears, tongues cut off! Death is your only friend out there, I’ve heard say, because it’s a sleep you never have to wake from.
‘So, already wanting to help, I said, “He wants to disappear.” But Mother Hopkins shot me a shut-up look. “He’s not free, Cato, not like you!” she said. “Someone’ll buy him, sell him, in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. He’s not free, Cato,” she said again.
‘I said nothing. Mother Hopkins was always right. Whenever I was sold, usually in some town such as Nottingham or Derby or Bedford – once as far as Chester – we were up and had a distance of twenty miles between ourselves and my newest masters before they’d realized I had gone. And if anyone was foolish enough to come after me, Mother Hopkins had a tame lawyer – Mr De Souza in the Strand – with enough writs to confuse and confound our enemies. And failing that, Jack and Sam, who have more muscle than most . . . Anyway,’ I said to the Ordinary. ‘I am off the track of my tale and time is passing . . . What was I saying?’
The priest squinted hard at his paper. ‘You were talking of this Sam, and the matter of being free . . .’
‘That sounds like it. And wouldn’t I give anything for a little bit of that selfsame freedom.’
The Ordinary glared at me.
‘I know, I know, this is Sam’s tale, and I can see him, in my mind’s eye, fair jump up out of his seat at the mention of liberty. “Free!” he said. “Captain Walker promised my mother he’d make me a free man. I was there when he made the promise, and she gave him a letter! She put it into his hand the day I left. He denies it all, of course, says my mother could hardly speak English, let alone read and write. They never bothered teaching me, so I can’t tell. I found a bundle of letters but they all look the same – black lines on white paper, like the trails of ants or some such.”
‘After Sam’s outburst Mother Hopkins thought a long minute. “So this man owes you at least your freedom?” Sam nodded. “And he has plenty of rhino about the house?” she asked him. Sam looked blankly at her, which was no surprise given where he’d come from. So Mother Hopkins said, “Rhino, ready money, cash?”
‘Sam understood then and nodded again. “His wife is most fond of the cards, though she loses as often as she wins, and she has jewellery too – they have so much money from the backs of their slaves, who work day and night for them but are paid nothing!” I
tell you, Sam was so angry when he spoke, it was hard for him to keep still. “But whatever plans you make, it must be soon,” he said. “I am to leave his household in a fortnight, and go to Rotherhithe, where the boat will be loaded.”
‘Now, Mother Hopkins seems to sit at the heart of a web that stretches all over the city. She had Addy go over to Greenwich to check out the gaff, and Bella went to some rather genteel card games with her pockets full of flummery – fake cash to you – where she picked up a not inconsiderable amount of info. I was to be the inside man, although as I was just eight, I suppose you would say boy. But I had done the job so many times before, I was no bother. Bella let slip there was a sale in Long Acre. Mother Hopkins had the bills produced:
‘FOR SALE: CATO, A MOST PLEASANT AND AGREEABLE NEGRO BOY OF ONLY SIX YEARS OF AGE, they said (I know, I was eight – never believe any advertisements ever). NEW FROM THE JUNGLES OF ZANZIBAR, HE IS A MUTE, HAVING BEEN RAISED BY LEOPARDS! (What did I say about advertisements?)
‘Mother Hopkins knew it would hook the captain’s wife. Sam had told us she was looking for a new page, and that she wanted one more exotic and more mysterious than Mrs Gerald’s boy, of whom it was said – mostly by Mrs Gerald herself – that he had been found floating in the Indian Ocean in a giant shell.’
The Ordinary smirked as he continued to write, his quill scratching across the page furiously. I had no idea how he could see anything in this gloomy light.
‘I always hated the sales. We had played this game so many times before – me the slave, sold by Mother Hopkins, over and over all around the country, and I never stayed in any of them fine houses longer than a fortnight . . . There’s another hundred more tales for you, sir! I know, I know, I must keep to one story at a time.
‘So, even though in my heart of hearts I knew I would be back at the Nest of Vipers within the week, there was something about the saleroom that made my eye moisten and my lip tremble every single time. Mother Hopkins encouraged this as she said it made a good spectacle.