The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  After one of the most agreeable days which the late executioner and his son had ever passed in their lives, they took leave of Katherine and the worthy people of the farm, and returned to London.

  Poor Katherine Wilmot! she had that day learnt more concerning her parentage than she had ever known before; but she would have been happier, perhaps, had her original impression on that subject never been disturbed!

  Still Markham had conceived it to be a duty which was owing to the young maiden, to permit Smithers thus to reveal to her those circumstances which seemed to fix her with the stigma of illegitimacy.

  That night her pillow was moistened with abundant tears, as she lay and reflected on her lamented mother!

  On the appointed evening Smithers and his son called at Markham Place.

  They were conducted by Whittingham to a parlour, where the table was spread with a handsome collation, places being arranged for three persons.

  “Sit down, my friends,” said Richard Markham, who received them with a warmth far more encouraging than mere courtesy: “after supper we will transact the business for which I have requested your presence here.”

  “What, sir!” ejaculated Smithers; “can you condescend to have me at your table?”

  “Not as you lately were,” answered Richard: “I receive you as a regenerated man.”

  John Smithers (for we shall suppress his nickname of Gibbet, as his father had already done so) cast a glance of profound gratitude upon our hero, in acknowledgment of a behaviour that could not do otherwise than confirm his father in his anxious endeavours to adopt a course of mental improvement.

  Smithers’ confidence increased, when he had imbibed a glass or two of generous wine; and he related to Markham the particulars of his interview with Katherine.

  Then was it for the first time the hump-back learnt that Katherine was not his cousin.

  He said nothing; but, as he drank in all that fell from his father’s lips, two large tears rolled down his cheeks.

  When the supper was over, Richard addressed Smithers in the following manner:—

  “The narrative which you revealed to me the day before yesterday materially alters the position in which Katherine stands with respect to you. When I first proposed that she should advance you at once a small sum, I believed her to be your near relative. But as she is in no way a kin to you, it results that you have for years supported one who had no claim upon you. Accident has made her rich; and it is but fair and just that you should be adequately rewarded for your generosity. I have communicated with Katherine’s trustee upon the subject; and we have agreed to furnish you with five hundred pounds at once, to enable you to embark in a respectable and substantial line of business. This pocket-book,” proceeded Markham, “contains that sum. Take it, my worthy friend—it is your due; and, should you succeed in the career that you are now about to enter upon, you can with satisfaction trace your prosperity to the humanity which you showed to a friendless orphan.”

  After some hesitation, Smithers received the pocket-book. He and his son then took leave of Richard Markham, with the most sincerely felt expressions of gratitude, and with a promise from the father to write to him soon to state where and how they had settled themselves.

  Scarcely had those two individuals, now both made happy, taken their departure, when Whittingham informed his master that a person with a dark complexion, and who gave the name of Morcar, requested to speak to him.

  Richard ordered the gipsy to be instantly admitted to his presence.

  Morcar was accordingly shown into the parlour.

  The moment he found himself alone with Markham, he said in a low and somewhat solemn tone, “We have traced him!”

  “I expected as much, the moment your name was announced,” said Richard. “Where is he?”

  “He has taken refuge in a barge on the river,” answered Morcar. “That is all I have been able to learn; but I am confident he is there.”

  “And do you know where the barge is moored?” asked Richard.

  “Close by Rotherhithe. But there are several other barges off the same wharf; and I cannot single out which he is in. I, however, know that he is concealed in one of them.”

  “It is important to discover which,” said Markham. “Were we to make our appearance in that vicinity with a body of police, he might escape us altogether.”

  “And therefore it will be better to take him by means of stratagem,” observed Morcar.

  “What can have induced him to seek refuge there?” said Richard, in a musing tone. “Some new crime, perhaps?”

  “Or else some fresh scheme of villany,” returned Morcar. “But perhaps you are not aware, sir, that river piracy still flourishes to some extent?”

  “I certainly imagined that with our system of Thames police, that species of depredation was completely ruined.”

  “No such thing, sir!” exclaimed Morcar. “The man who gave me the information about Tidkins, told me more than ever I knew before on that subject.”

  “You may as well acquaint me with those particulars, Morcar,” said our hero. “They may assist me in devising some scheme to entrap the Resurrection Man, and enable justice to receive its due.”

  “River piracy, sir,” continued Morcar, “is carried on by a set of vagabonds who for the most part have been sailors, or in some shape or another engaged amongst barges and lighters. They are all leagued with the marine-store dealers and people that keep old iron and junk shops on both sides of the river below London bridge. The river pirates usually possess a barge or lighter, which every now and then makes a trip up and down the river between Greenwich and Putney, but with no other freight than bales of sawdust, old rags, or even dung. This they do to keep up appearances and avoid suspicion. But all day long they maintain a good look out in the pool, and take notice of particular ships which they think can be easily robbed. For instance, sometimes a steamer is left with only a boy on board to take care of it; or else a lighter has only one man to look after it. Then these pirates go on board in the night, master the boy or the man, and plunder the steamer or lighter of anything worth carrying away.”

  “I begin to understand how these villains may reap a profitable harvest in this manner,” observed Richard.

  “Oh! you don’t know half their pranks yet,” said Morcar. “Sometimes two or three of the gang will go and hire themselves as bargemen or lightermen; and then they easily arrange with their pals how to plunder the vessels thus entrusted to them, while the owners never suspect that their own men are at the bottom of the robbery. When times are bad, and these fellows are driven to desperation, they think nothing of cutting away great pieces of ships’ cables, or even weighing the anchors of small craft; and with these heavy materials they will get clean off in their boats to their own barge; and next morning they convey them as coolly as possible to the marine store dealers. Sometimes they cut lighters adrift, when the tide is running out, and follow them in their boat; then, under pretense of helping those on board, they cut away bales of cotton or any other goods that are easily thrown into their boats in dark nights.”

  “The villain Tidkins has no doubt transferred his operations from the land to the river,” observed Markham; “seeing that, by means of a little address and a great deal of courage, such depredations can be effected.”

  “These river pirates are of several kinds,” continued Morcar. “There’s the light-horsemen, or men on board the unprotected vessels in the night. Then there’s the heavy-horsemen, who wear an under-dress, called a jemmy, which is covered by their smocks: these fellows obtain employment as lumpers,—that is, to load or discharge ships in the pool, during which they contrive to stow away every thing portable in the large pouches or pockets of their under-dress. Afterwards, the heavy horsemen give information to their pals, and put them on the scent which ships to rob at night. Next the
re are the mud-larks, who get on board stranded lighters at low water, and carry off what they can when the vessels are unprotected, or ask some question to lull suspicion if they find any one on board. This mode of river-piracy is very profitable, because numbers of lighters and barges are often left for hours alongside the banks, without a soul on board. Game lightermen are those pirates that are in league with dishonest mates and sailors belonging to vessels that come up the river to discharge: and they receive at night from their pals on board, through the port-holes or over the quarter, any thing that’s easy to move away in this manner. Last of all there’s the scuffle-hunters, who put on smocks, and obtain work as porters on the wharfs where a ship is loading: then, if they can’t contrive to steal any thing by those means, they can at all events carry some useful information to their pals—so that the ship is generally robbed in one way or another.”

  “With so well organised a fraternity and such means of operation,” said Markham, who had listened with interest and astonishment to these details, “Tidkins is capable of amassing a fortune in a very short time. But we must stop him in his criminal career. At the same time, let us do nothing without mature consideration. Are you willing to assist? Your reward shall be liberal.”

  “The Zingaree may not of his own accord deliver up any one to justice,” answered Morcar; “but he is allowed to serve an employer who pays him. Moreover,” he added, as if ashamed of that sophistical compromise with the rules of his fraternity, “I shall gladly help to punish the miscreant who treated us with such base ingratitude.”

  “Then you consent to serve me?” said Richard.

  “I do, sir,” was the reply.

  “To-morrow, at mid-day, I will meet you somewhere in the eastern part of London,” continued Richard. “I have already a project in my head; but I must consider it more maturely.”

  “Where shall we meet, sir?” asked Morcar.

  Markham reflected for a moment, and then said, “On the Tower wharf.”

  “I will be punctual, sir,” answered the gipsy; and he took his departure.

  CHAPTER CLXVI.

  THE THAMES PIRATES.

  Moored at a wharf at the Rotherhithe side of the river Thames, nearly opposite Execution Dock, were several lighters and barges, all lying together.

  Along the upper part of the buildings belonging to the wharf were painted, in rude but gigantic letters, the following words:—“Mossop’s Wharf, where Goods are Received, Housed, or Carted.”

  Mr. Mossop, the sole proprietor of this wharf, was by no means particular what goods he thus received, whence they came when he housed them, or whither they were going when he carted them. He asked no questions, so long as his commission and charges were duly paid.

  For the convenience of his numerous customers, he kept his office constantly open; and either himself or his son Ben Mossop was in constant attendance.

  Indeed, Mr. Mossop did more business by night than by day. He was, however, a close man: he never put impertinent questions to any one who called to patronise him; and thus his way of doing business was vastly convenient for all those who used his wharf or his store-houses.

  If a lighter arrived at that wharf, ostensibly with a freight of hay, but in reality with divers bales of cotton or other goods concealed beneath the dried grass, Mr. Mossop did not seem to think that there was anything at all strange in this; and if next day he happened to hear that a barge at a neighbouring wharf had been robbed of divers bales of cotton during the night, Mr. Mossop was too much of a gentleman to question the integrity of his customers. Even if every wall in Rotherhithe, Horselydown, and Bermondsey, were covered with placards announcing the loss of the bales, describing them to a nicety, and offering a reward for their recovery, Mr. Mossop never stopped to read one of them.

  On two or three occasions, when a police-officer called at his wharf and politely requested him just to honour the nearest magistrate with a visit, and enter into an explanation how certain goods happened to be found in his store-rooms, the said goods having been lost by other parties in an unpleasant manner, Mr. Mossop would put an enormous pair of spectacles upon his nose and a good face on the matter at the same time; and it invariably happened that he managed to convince the bench of his integrity, but without in any way compromising those persons who might be in custody on account of the said goods.

  His son Ben was equally prudent and reserved; and thus father and son were mighty favourites with all the river pirates who patronised them.

  Moreover, Mossop’s Wharf was most conveniently situate: the front looked, of course, upon the river; the back opened into Rotherhithe Wall; and Mossop’s carts were noted for the celerity with which they would convey goods away from the warehouse to the receivers in Blue Anchor Road or in the neighbourhood of Halfpenny Hatch.

  The father and son were also famous for the regularity and dispatch with which they executed business on pressing occasions. Thus, while Mossop senior would superintend the landing of goods upon the wharf, Mossop junior was stationed at the back gate, where it was his pleasing duty to see the bales speedily carted as they were brought through the warehouses by the lumpers employed.

  Mossop senior was also reputed to be a humane man; for if any of his best customers got into trouble (which was sometimes the case) and were short of funds, a five pound note in a blank envelope would reach them in prison to enable them to employ counsel in their defence; and this sum invariably appeared as “money lent” in Mossop’s next account against them when they were free once more, and enabled to land another cargo at the wharf.

  But to continue our narrative.

  It was the evening after the one on which Morcar had called at Markham Place; consequently the evening of that day when the gipsy was to meet our hero on the Tower wharf.

  Over the particulars of that meeting we, however, pass; as the plans then arranged will presently develop themselves.

  It was now about nine o’clock.

  The evening was beautiful and moonlight.

  Myriads of stars were rocked to and fro in the cradle of the river’s restless tide; and the profiles of the banks were marked with thousands of lights, glancing through dense forests of masts belonging to the shipping that were crowded along those shores.

  At intervals those subdued murmurs which denoted that the river was as busy and active as the great city itself, were absorbed in the noise of some steamer ploughing its rapid way amidst the mazes of vessels that to the inexperienced eye appear to be inextricably entangled together.

  Then would arise those shouts of warning to the smaller craft,—those rapid commands to regulate the movements of the engines,—and those orders to the helmsman, which, emanating from the lips of the captain posted on the paddle-box, proclaim the progress of the steamer winding its way up the pool.

  A wondrous and deeply interesting spectacle, though only dimly seen, is that portion of the Thames on a moonlight night.

  Then indeed is it that even the most callous mind is compelled to contemplate with mingled astonishment and awe, one of the grandest features of the sovereign city and world’s emporium of trade.

  The gurgling water, and the countless masts,—the vibration of mighty engines on the stream, and the myriads of twinkling lights along the shores,—the cheering voices of the mariners, and the dense volumes of smoke which moving colossal chimneys vomit forth,—the metallic grating of windlasses, and the glittering of the spray beneath revolving wheels,—the flapping of heavy canvass, and the glare from the oval windows of steamers,—the cries of the rowers in endangered boats, and the flood of silver lustre which the moon pours upon the river’s bosom,—these form a wondrous complication of elements of interest for both ear and eye.

  The barge that was farthest off from Mossop’s wharf, of all the lighters moored there, and that could consequently get into the stream quicker than any other near
it, was one to which we must particularly direct our readers’ attention.

  It was called the Fairy, and was large, decently painted, and kept in pretty good order. It had a spacious cabin abaft, and a smaller one, termed a cuddy, forward. The mast, with its large brown sail that seemed as if it had been tanned, was so fitted as to be lowered at pleasure, to enable the vessel to pass under the bridges at high water. The rudder was of enormous size; and the tiller was as thick and long as the pole of a carriage.

  The waist, or uncovered part of the lighter in the middle, was now empty; but it was very capacious, and adapted to contain an immense quantity of goods.

  On the evening in question two men were sitting on the windlass, smoking their pipes, and pretty frequently applying themselves to a can of grog which stood upon the deck near them.

  One was the Resurrection Man: the other was John Wicks, better known as the Buffer.

  “Well, Jack,” said the Resurrection Man, “this is precious slow work. For the last four days we’ve done nothing.”

  “What did I tell you, when you fust come to me and proposed to take to the river?” exclaimed the Buffer. “Didn’t I say that one ought to be bred to the business to do much good in it?”

  “Oh! that be hanged!” cried the Resurrection Man. “I can soon learn any business that’s to make money. Besides, the land was too hot to hold me till certain little things had blown over. There’s that fellow Markham who ran against me one night;—then there’s Crankey Jem. The first saw that I was still hanging about London; and the other may have learnt, by some means or another, that I didn’t die of the wound he gave me. Then again, there’s those gipsies whose money I walked off with one fine day. All these things made the land unsafe; and so I thought it best to embark the gold that I took from old King Zingary, in this barge, which was to be had so cheap.”