SH02_Hugh Kenrick

by Edward Cline

  The Baron remembered that his son had boasted of having friends in London. Some suspicion he could not explain to himself caused him to ask, “Well, what about these mysterious friends of yours, Hugh? I’d like to meet them, if I may. And your mother, too.”

  Hugh shook his head again. “Not now, Father. The time is not right.”

  It was not as though his reticence was deliberate. He seemed to be his usual, exuberant self—except that they detected a lag between his words and actions, as though he were struggling against some torpid melancholy that warped his normal behavior. This, in their son, meant that something was bothering him. He played chess with his sister, taught her some mathematics, and read stories to her. He seemed to take delight in being called “brother” by her. He spoke with some animation about his work with Mr. Worley, and the new things he was learning at Swire’s Bank.

  Still, Hugh’s parents were certain that something awful, perhaps even tragic, lay beneath the confident exterior of their son.

  Tonight, after all the guests had gone, and as Hugh was preparing to leave, his mother said, “We are planning to row up to Hampton Court early Tuesday morning to see the Palace and the Chinese Bridge, and then perhaps stop at Richmond and Chelsea on our return, and stay the night. Please, Hugh, come with us!”

  “Your uncle will be at Bedford’s all day,” said his father. “You could meet us at the Manchester Stairs. I’m sure the fresh air will perk you up.”

  Hugh smiled. “Perhaps it may.” He paused. “I must think about it. Perhaps you are right.” He bussed his mother on the cheek, and shook hands with his father. “Good night.”

  When he returned to Cutter Lane, Mrs. Rickerby handed him a sealed note. It was from Glorious Swain.

  “I have it from a bailiff’s groom of my acquaintance that our friends’ pillory sentence has been abridged to mornings until noontime, and reduced to five days only. There appear to be too many felons, assigned the same punishment, to oblige the court’s original sentence. Their first morning will be this next Tuesday. Let us go together. G. Swain.”

  Hugh knew that he could not trust himself to go alone to the pillory. He would need Swain’s cooler head and steadying hand. On his way to Lion Key the next morning, he stopped by Swain’s garret to fix a time and place for their rendezvous. Their meeting was brief and hurried. Swain was going to Stepney to work with other hired men to assemble bags of smuggled tea, sugar and salt for sale on the streets; Hugh was to meet his father at Lion Key, where the Baron planned to review family accounts with Mr. Worley. When he left Swain’s place, he had to smile. As he was a brother to his adoring sister, and even, if only in name, to Roger Tallmadge, Swain seemed to be one to him.

  When he met his father in Mr. Worley’s office, he told him that he had pressing personal business the next morning, but that he would either take a coach from the Bear Inn, or ride one of the mounts from the family stable, and join the family at Hampton Court later in the day. He would want to leave the city for a while, he thought, after seeing the Pippins on the pillory.

  Then he lost himself in the task of preparing a customs cocket for one of the loaded merchantmen, the Antares, which was ready to weigh anchor and be piloted back down the Thames. At the end of the day, before he left with his father for supper at the Angry Angel, he reviewed a list of merchantmen, compiled by one of Worley’s sons, waiting to be unshipped at Lion Key. Among the names was the Sparrowhawk, returned from her latest voyage. He thought that it would be pleasant to see Captain Ramshaw again.

  He slept fitfully that night. He tossed and turned in that purgatory of rest that lay between nervous exhaustion and dreadful expectation. His body wanted to sleep, his mind would not. And when he managed to sleep, vivid nightmares raided his head, and hurled him toward calamitous near-death, only to vanish, without memory, when he woke up in panicked surprise.

  * * *

  On Tuesday morning, Hugh left his room on Cutter Lane, bid the Rickerbys good day, and strode over to St. Martin’s Lane, which let out on the Strand opposite Northumberland House. He was to meet Glorious Swain in front of Corsan’s Book and Print Shop at nine; the Pippins—Claude, Tobius, and Steven—would have been on the pillory for an hour. Ahead, through the rumbling traffic of coaches, drays, and wagons passing through Charing Cross, he could see a throng gathered around the place. The city marshall, an under-sheriff, and some constables on foot and a few javelin-men had stationed themselves loosely around the pillory. Some boys sat on the pedestal beneath the hooves and belly of Charles I’s prancing steed for a better view. Hugh turned his back on the sight. He would wait for Swain. He tried to study the etchings and prints displayed in the shop’s bow window, then stepped near the shop door to get out of the way of the stream of people heading for the pillory.

  Two men walked briskly by. “Well, sir,” said one of them, “what miscreants do you think we’ll see today? They must be special, to bring you so far out of doors. And, look at this mob!”

  “Three capons turning on the hangman’s spit, Mr. Gould!” exclaimed the other. “They crowed and strutted themselves right into the king’s vise!”

  Hugh turned sharply at the sound of the second voice, and stared at the backs of the pair. He recognized the voice. He recognized its owner.

  “Who are these capons, sir?”

  “Caitiffs who took God’s and His Majesty’s names in vain! Two others, I have heard, have perished already and gone to hell! And two more of their fellows are at large. One of them, I am certain, murdered my patron for having informed His Majesty’s servants of their depredations!”

  “And that is a sad thing, sir, to lose one’s patron—and to such a terrible crime! I don’t wonder at your eagerness!”

  “Much of a muchness, sir,” commented the man. “The father is as good as the son, and more generous.”

  “Perhaps their cronies will be here this morning.”

  “Not them, Mr. Gould!” scoffed the man. “No! They would not dare show their faces! They are cowards!” The men threaded their way through the coach traffic. The man spotted a boy in rags who was hawking missiles. “Here, you! What are you asking?”

  “Stones!” answered the urchin. “Broken bricks! Addled eggs! Cow and horse hooves! Penny a toss, sir!”

  William Horlick chuckled and reached into his coat. “Seven stones, boy, with sharp edges, now!” He held out a handful of pennies.

  The boy hunted through his bag and produced seven stones, handed them to Horlick, and snatched up the proffered coins. Horlick dropped the stones into one of his frock coat pockets.

  “Only seven, Mr. Horlick?” asked Mr. Gould. “Why only seven?”

  Horlick looked thoughtful. “Oh…I would say in honor of the seven hills of Rome, which did Rome no good, by the bye! Or, in honor of the Seven against Thebes, who all perished! Or, in honor of the seven Pippins who provoked the Crown—who will be slain by Orion, or swallowed up by the earth!”

  The pair moved around the outskirts of the crowd, which was between one and two hundred people. Objects flew through the air now and then, mostly rotted vegetables and fruits, and missed their mark. A number of men in clerical garb were present. Mr. Gould addressed one of them. “Reverend sir, what are their crimes?”

  “Only one, sir,” replied the cleric. “Blasphemous libels uttered and published in public places. That was the charge the good sheriff read out to us.”

  “Thank you, reverend sir.” Gould smiled at his companion as they moved on. “You seem to be especially in earnest about these fellows,” he said. He gestured to the crowd. “But the mob here does not seem to know what to make of them, or how to hate them. Not even the regulars.”

  Horlick made a face. “Well, look at them, Mr. Gould! Mere artisans, and barrow-pushers, and common women in trade, and servants, and untutored boys! How often do you think they encounter atheists, doubters, or pagans? Cheats, and extortionate letter-writers, and cuckolding wives, and false witnesses—these they know! But half these people ha
ven’t the noodle to distinguish between the plainest verity of John Locke and the obscurest anagogy of the Rosicrucians! They will, however, punish whoever is put on the pillory, for they believe that if a man did not commit a wrong, he would not be there! They need but one example!” He put on a sly smile, and reached into his pocket for a stone. He glanced at it once, then hefted it. “Watch, sir, as I ignite a fusillade!” He drew his arm back and hurled the stone. It arced over the heads of the throng and struck a board near Robert Meservy’s head with a loud smack that could be heard in the rear of the crowd.

  “Bravo, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Gould. “You are in earnest!”

  As they watched, more stones shot from the crowd, some hitting the Pippins, others falling into the crowd on the other side of the pillory. The marshall, under-sheriff, and guards moved discreetly away from the platform.

  Horlick laughed in triumph at the sight, and reached into his pocket for another stone. But when he brought it out, something sharp pricked his wrist and caused him to drop it to the ground. He glanced at his wrist; it was bleeding. Then he turned and saw Miltiades looking at him, sword in hand. “You…!” He raised his hands in the air, as though he was being robbed.

  “Good morning, Mathius,” said Hugh. His face was a pale, rigid visage of contempt and unholy purpose that did not invite a reply from the object of its study. “You are wrong about the Seven of Thebes. They did not all perish. Adrastus, king of Argos, survived.”

  Mr. Gould also turned, and was about to protest, but Hugh said, “You, sir, will say nothing. This man knows me. I know him as Mathius. He belongs up there, on the pillory, with his friends. This is a personal matter, between him and me. Begone, or stay as a witness.”

  Mr. Gould glanced at the dumbstruck face of his companion, and knew that this was no affair of his. He muttered some apology, and slipped away into the crowd.

  “Miltiades, I—” began Horlick.

  “Who was he?” asked Hugh.

  “Him? That was Mr. Gould!” stammered Horlick. “He composes tradesmen’s cards, and advertisements.”

  “A more honest dealer in words than you, you must own,” said Hugh. “He conveys plain information. You compose bilious verse, froggish fables, and libelous forgeries—William Horlick.”

  “You misjudge me, Miltiades!”

  “Do I? I know what you did with the minutes, Mr. Horlick. I know your authorship of the poster, and of your connection with the Marquis of Bilbury. I waited until you tossed the first stone. That action marked the conclusion of your treachery, that you have turned against all that you believed in, that you have traded Olympus for a sack of guineas.”

  “But, I—”

  “I am not finished, sir.” Hugh had not moved a step. He stood with his sword grasped at both ends, by pommel and tip. “Do you know who I am?”

  Horlick shook his head. “No.”

  “The Marquis did not tell you?”

  “No, dear, merciful sir, he did not! He was very secretive…”

  Hugh scoffed. “Perhaps he did not trust you enough with my name. Perhaps he suspected you would betray him just as you betrayed your friends. Still, I cannot blame you for his part of the crime—unless you knew what he planned to do.”

  “I didn’t know what he planned, gracious sir!” said Horlick. But then his face wrinkled in confusion. “What crime?” he asked, partly in fear, partly in disdain.

  “The crime of not being man enough to be a man.”

  “I—”

  “How much were you paid to invent the poster?”

  Horlick glanced around. People had gathered to watch and listen. He saw curiosity and fascination with his predicament in their faces, but no sympathy. He did not wish to give forthright answers to the questions, but the threat in Miltiades’ carriage and in his voice compelled him to be truthful.

  “How much?” repeated Hugh, tapping the blade end of his sword in the palm of his other hand.

  “Twenty guineas,” whispered Horlick.

  “Well, at least that is more than thirty pieces of silver,” remarked Hugh. He sighed. “I had a score of other questions for you, Mr. Horlick, but your admissions have answered most of them. I have not seen the poster for which your friends are being punished. Few people have. Perhaps you have copies in your own home, whereas your friends did not, and they are up there.” He indicated the pillory. “But—” Hugh interrupted himself to ask in a mocking voice, “Why do you stand with your hands up, Mr. Horlick? I am not the royal scamp here.”

  The spectators around them laughed. Horlick, surprised, glanced at his hands, which were shaking, and quickly lowered them.

  “But,” continued Hugh, “the poster was merely a device to strike back at me, and at our friends for accepting me. Is this not true?”

  Horlick blinked in answer.

  “You did not mind the company of freethinkers, so long as their free thought did not put you in jeopardy. Is this not true?”

  Again, Horlick did not answer.

  “Your silence speaks volumes, which you lack both the talent and courage to write.” Hugh paused. “Confess it, Mathius: You hated me, and feared me, from the beginning, because I am what you are not, but knew you ought to be.”

  This time it was Horlick’s turn to express contempt. “You are vain,” he spat.

  “Vain? No. Observant, perhaps. But I know my own worth, sir. It would appear, however, that you have no worth to know. Not to yourself, at least. Others know that your pen may be prostituted, and that is your worth to them.” Hugh sighed. “You have only five stones left in your pocket, Mr. Horlick. Surely you would want to move closer to your friends, so as not to miss them.”

  Horlick gulped.

  “Do you stand so far away because they might identify you—or is it because you cannot face them?”

  Horlick looked at his shoes.

  Hugh used the tip of his sword to tap the cleft of Horlick’s chin. “If you cannot face them, sir, at least have the bottom to face me. I am only one.”

  Horlick’s face grew livid. He instinctively reached for the pommel of his sword, then changed his mind. He remembered how he came to know this young man. He remembered whose life this man had saved from three brutal Mohocks.

  “Why do you not draw it, sir?” asked Hugh. There was no answer. “I understand. You remember the circumstances under which I made your acquaintance.” He raised his sword again and pressed it against a button of the man’s waistcoat. “Enough talk, sir. Let us move closer to the pillory. There I will identify you to the king’s men there, and to the crowd. And you will identify me.”

  Horlick’s body stiffened. “No,” he said.

  “No?”

  “You must cut me to pieces here, for I will not do it!”

  “Very well,” said Hugh. “You are of the public, but afraid of it. So I shall mark you for the traitor you are—a traitor to freethinkers, a traitor to Lady Liberty.” Before Horlick could comprehend the words, Hugh’s blade flicked up, and in two deft strokes, cut a capital T on the man’s left cheek.

  The spectators gasped, and Horlick cried out in pain. His hands flew up to cover the bloody wound. Horlick could not see the wound, but knew by touch what letter had been carved into his face and would disfigure him for life. He looked at Hugh with eyes round with a new terror. Still holding his face, he took two steps back, then turned and bolted through the crowd.

  “Run to your patron, Mathius,” shouted Hugh. “Perhaps he will reward you with a coward’s purse.”

  Horlick’s abrupt departure left Hugh with an unobstructed view, over the heads of the throng, of the pillory. He could not distinguish the faces of the three men whose heads protruded through the holes. He sheathed his sword and moved forward, not knowing whether he was drawn to the sight or drawn to it by some irresistible force. There were people in his way; his hands grasped their shoulders and firmly pushed them aside. All anyone could see was a young man in an immaculate pearl gray coat and black tricorn who did not need to excu
se himself or acknowledge their presence or existence, for they knew that he was an aristocrat and that he had better reason to be here than anyone else.

  He stood in front of the crowd now, and could see the faces of his friends: Tobius, Claude, and Steven. They were sallow, unshaven, and filthy. Their faces were marred with bruises and smeared with blood and dung. Steven’s hands were wrapped in dirty bandages. Tobius’s hose was in shreds. Claude was barefoot. And the eyes of the men were lifeless; from shame or from resignation, Hugh could not tell.

  There were some men and women near him who did not jeer at or taunt the prisoners, nor toss missiles at them. They stood looking up at the men with dull, helpless expressions, or with incredulous wonder, or with tears. These, Hugh presumed, were friends or relatives of the men who had not abandoned them.

  When he looked at the men again, he saw that they were looking at him. He did not smile, but they seemed to smile in answer to him. He nodded once in acknowledgment, then made up his mind.

  There was only one constable at the foot of the steps leading up to the pillory. Hugh crossed in front of the crowd and approached him. The constable was an old man, armed with only a stave. Hugh made as though to pass him, but turned and dashed up the steps. The constable began to follow him, but changed his mind when he saw the gleaming sword in Hugh’s hand. He raised his stave in the air to signal the under-sheriff and city marshall, who sat together on their mounts beyond the crowd.

  The crowd stirred when it saw a young man sheath his sword and walk with authority across the platform to the prisoners. And, until now, it had been a relatively tame mob that could not decide what to do about the prisoners. Horlick was right, thought Hugh: What was blasphemous libel to this mob? It was not lurid, gross, or contemptible. There was not a man in the crowd who had not blasphemed, or cursed the king, or questioned the competence of God, George, or Parliament. The men on the pillory could just as easily have been punished for disputing a mathematical theory, questioning the existence of ether, or refuting Ockham’s razor. The proclaimed offense was too intellectual. Where was the cuckolded husband? Where was the receiver of threatening letters? Where was the buyer of diluted cream?