After the Fire
A Mystery of the Restoration Playhouse
John Pilkington
Contents
Title Page
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE
By the Same Author
Copyright
PROLOGUE
PORT ROYAL, JAMAICA, 1670
The English captain stood on the quayside, sweating in the furious heat, and looked the traveller up and down. When he finally spoke he made no attempt to disguise his opinion of the sunburned, shabbily dressed man who stood before him.
‘Yes, I’m bound for Bristol,’ he grunted. ‘I carry sugar and molasses. We’re full to the gunnels, but there’s a berth if you can pay for it. And I mean in good English money!’
The traveller smiled thinly. He had come a long way, and he was too tired to become angry, which was fortunate. His anger, once unleashed, was potent and deadly, but it was locked away in a part of his mind he rarely visited, and then only when the occasion demanded it. In the four years since he had been transported to the Indies he had learned not to waste his anger, but to nurture it and to value it. It was a powerful ally, one that had kept him alive.
‘Will this serve?’ He fumbled in his clothing and brought out a worn leather purse. As he loosened the drawstring, coins glinted in the harsh sunlight: not only gold guineas but French pistoles, Dutch guilders and other currencies that even the English captain barely recognized.
The captain showed his surprise. But if he had a mind to ask how this fellow came by such a hoard, he kept his mouth shut. There was enough there to buy a passage for the Lieutenant-Governor himself, and servants to boot. He merely nodded and glanced at the sun, which was mercifully beginning to sink.
‘Loading’s about finished,’ he said. ‘We sail at first light. I’ll send a boy for your baggage.’ He swung his gaze back to the sunburned man, who was stowing his purse away.
‘There’s no need,’ the other answered. ‘This is all I have.’ He indicated a sailcloth bag at his feet, bound with leather straps. The captain glanced at it, gave a shrug, then turned on his heel and headed for the gangway.
The traveller watched him walk up the plank on to his ship. It was a large vessel, an old man-of-war converted to carry slaves from the west coast of Africa. Having crossed the ocean and shed its human cargo, the ship’s hold had then been stripped to carry raw goods back to Bristol: the last leg of the ‘Triangular Trade’ that was making some Englishmen very rich.
If anyone in the busy port had noticed, they would have seen a hard expression on the traveller’s features. For it was on a similar vessel to this that he had arrived at Port Royal in chains, half-starved and racked with scurvy. Had he been inclined to tell his story from that time onwards, few would have believed it. The animal struggle of the first months in blistering heat, enduring repeated lashings and vile food; the desperate escape that he and the boy had hatched, which took them to Surinam where the Dutch would have killed him, save for…
He drew a breath, gazing at the colourful crowd who thronged the quayside. This was the point where he usually left off remembering. But this evening, with the final leg of his return before him, he allowed himself to think upon it.
In his mind’s eye he saw the wretched boy on his knees, pleading with their Dutch captors for mercy; small good it did him, for they spoke no English. And now, as if detached from the scene, he saw himself: the innocent party, explaining in his fluent Dutch how he had been forced into escaping with this wicked young fellow, who was guilty of many crimes, while he was entirely innocent. He, a man of good family, had been falsely accused in the first place – merely for being in the wrong place at the wrong time! And he told how, during the Great Fire which had consumed London, he had been taken by the watchmen for a looter. Why, there was such panic in those terrible few days, he was lucky not to have been accused of starting the Fire himself, as others had been! But then, wasn’t that just like the English, all bluster and shouting, and no common sense? And he had joked with the Dutchmen, winning them over with his story until in the end they believed his account. And he had stood in the boiling heat of the fort at New Amsterdam and watched the boy being dragged away, shrieking curses at him.
He pushed the memory aside. What did it matter now? He had survived in the New World, he had even prospered. In Port of Spain he had shed his disguise along with his Dutch accent and become an Englishman again, a traveller who had seen enough of the colonies and was eager to return home. He smiled to himself, watching the surly captain moving about the deck of his ship, barking orders. It had amused him to see the fellow form a low opinion of his prospective passenger, before the sight of a purse full of gold wiped the smirk from his features. Had the captain known what else the man carried, let alone what he meant to do with it, his shock might have been greater.
As if to reassure himself, the traveller bent down, loosened one of the straps about his bag and slid a hand inside. His fingers probed under layers of clothing before closing about a little earthenware jar, its lid sealed tightly with gummed linen. He felt its hardness and its coldness, and a tiny point of light appeared in his eyes as he gazed out across the harbour, to the sparkling sea beyond.
The contents of the jar had cost him an hour of hard wrangling with a Portuguese trader he had met in a stinking bordello on the edge of the jungle, back in Surinam. That much was evident to any casual observer, who might have seen two men haggling over their mugs of watered rum before striking a bargain. What no one saw was what followed later on a lonely forest path, after the transaction had been completed: the Portuguese sinking to the ground, coughing blood, his hands clawing feebly at the legs of his assailant. The other man had stepped back unhurriedly, wiped his stiletto on the leaves of a tree, and slipped it into its sheath.
He had waited until the Portuguese choked out his last breath, then stooped to retrieve the money he had handed over from the fellow’s pocket. Then he had seized him by the heels and dragged him into the undergrowth, where the jungle creatures would find him. After that he had turned away and walked back to the settlement, to begin his homeward journey.
And now, standing on the quayside, his features creased in another smile, for at last his journey’s end was in sight. A few weeks crossing the ocean, and he would be on English soil again. He imagined the cool rain of autumn, and the welcoming door of a tavern. He would order ‘lamb’s wool’ – hot, spiced ale with roasted apples; he could almost taste it.
And there was something else he tasted, but that was a different kind of sensation. That particular appetite required other means of gratification, which would have to wait. But then, he was in no hurry; for he had the means now to do all that he wished.
CHAPTER ONE
Mr Joseph Rigg was dying; and he was very good at it.
So Mistress Betsy Brand thought, as she stood smiling in the wings. As Banquo in the Company’s new production of Macbeth, Mr Rigg was showing off his skills to full effect. The handsome actor with the smouldering eyes, much admired by ladies of fashion, staggered back as the Three Murderers bore down upon him.
‘Let it come down!’ shouted First Murderer. He brandished his dagger, and a gasp went up from the p
it.
‘Oh, treachery!’ Rigg cried. As the dagger sank into his chest, he called to the cringing figure of his young son.
‘Fly, good Fleance – fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge—’
The boy backed away, hands raised in horror, then turned and fled into the wings. As he passed by Betsy he stuck his tongue out at her. Betsy pulled a face back, then returned to watching Mr Rigg, who fell to the boards clutching his chest. A gout of fake blood spurted across the stage, drawing another gasp from the packed theatre.
‘O slave …’ his voice faltering, Rigg stretched an imploring hand towards the audience. Then he groaned, and let it fall. As his body went limp, a huge sigh went up.
‘Shame!’ a gallant shouted from one of the side boxes, prompting a snort of laughter from his friends. But from the pit came a chorus of hisses, followed by loud applause. Eyes still on the corpse, the crowd paid little mind to the words of First, Second and Third Murderers who now closed the scene. As the trio made their exit, a murmur of approval rose: Rigg had stolen the show again.
Backstage, all was bustle. At a blast of the stage manager’s whistle scene-men hurried to their stations, and the two halves of a new backdrop were slid into place along their grooves. ‘The Palace of Forres!’ The voice of Downes the prompter rang out, and quickly the scene was set for the banquet, when Banquo’s ghost would make his appearance to terrify Macbeth.
Betsy turned to make her way back to the Women’s Shift. It was the opening performance at the Dorset Gardens Theatre, of Mr Betterton’s revival of the Scottish play, and the response was good. There would be a second house and a third, at least. She nodded to the actors in the next scene as they gathered for their entrance. Then a figure in a splendid crimson gown pushed her way through, blocking Betsy’s path.
‘Mistress Brand – how well you look as a witch!’
Aveline Hale, in the role of Lady Macbeth, wore a broad smile; but her eyes failed to match it. Mistress Hale despised the theatre. Like many another pretty young woman with no fortune of her own, she made little secret of the fact that she was on the stage merely for as long as it took to attract a rich man, preferably with a title. After all, who could forget that young Nelly Gwyn, the King’s favourite mistress, had started as an orange-wench in the theatre, and was now set up in her own smart rooms in St James’s Park?
‘Cods,’ Betsy muttered to herself. Her own well-shaped body was concealed under a heavy black cloak, her blonde hair beneath a matted horsehair wig. Her white make-up had been overpainted with streaks of grey, and patches of black drugget served as missing teeth. She was First Witch, the most important role she had yet been given, after two years with the Duke’s Company. And she had no intention of making a poor fist of it.
There was a stir, and Mistress Hale turned aside as did the others, to make way for Mr Thomas Betterton himself. For who else would play Macbeth?
He was in his mid-thirties now, the greatest actor in England and leader of the Company; handsome and dignified, and free of the vanity so many players exhibited. Betsy Brand’s heart always warmed when she saw him, as it had from the very first time she set foot in the old Duke’s Theatre. That was back in the converted tennis court in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, when Thomas and his wife had taken pains to put the nervous young actress at her ease. She smiled at her mentor, who nodded in return before his gaze swept the assembled company. ‘Well, my friends,’ he said. ‘Shall we to the banquet?’
From the auditorium, the theatre orchestra struck up with a flourish. Betterton took the arm of Mistress Hale, and stepped out on stage to a roar of approval.
Betsy made her way through the cluttered scene-room. One of the ex-soldiers who served as a doorman was standing nearby, having a quick smoke. When he saw Betsy he threw her a lecherous grin, before snuffing his pipe out. Betsy walked to the stairs that led to the Women’s Shift. Her next entrance came after the long banquet scene, and she had time to spare. She was about to climb the steps when someone spoke softly to her from behind.
‘Mistress Brand … always a pleasure.’
Betsy turned, to find a pair of cold blue eyes gazing into hers. ‘Mr Tripp,’ she forced a smile. ‘How do you do?’
The eyes belonged to a stocky man in a golden-brown periwig and a tabby suit edged with lace. Samuel Tripp the playwright had been haunting the theatre for the past week, badgering Mr Betterton to read his new play. He made Betsy an ironic bow.
‘I do very well.’ His eyes did not leave hers. ‘And allow me to say I deplore the way your talents are being wasted in a witch’s part. You should’ve had Lady MacDuff, at the least.’
The compliment meant little to Betsy, for she knew the man too well. ‘But I relish the role, Mister Tripp,’ she answered. ‘And my good friend Mistress Rowe plays Lady MacDuff admirably.’
Tripp’s mouth curled slightly. ‘Rowe has but a modest talent compared with yours,’ he replied. Betsy saw the glint in his eye, then started as his arm shot out to grasp her by the waist. ‘Let me wait upon you after the performance,’ he murmured, bringing his face close to hers. ‘I’ll buy you a supper at Lockett’s, and after we’ll—’
‘Another time perhaps.’ Betsy reached round her back, gripped the man’s hand and removed it with a strength that took him by surprise. Then she stepped backwards and fixed him with a wry look. ‘I’m not one of your Moorfields jilts, Mister Tripp,’ she snapped. ‘I’m an actress.’
The other gave a little yelp of laughter. ‘Why, so you are!’ he agreed. ‘And as buxom and pretty as any in London! Now leave off this show of modesty, and admit you find me a handsome fellow!’
‘Oh, flap-sauce!’ Betsy’s chest rose, and those who knew her better would have advised the playmaker to tread warily. ‘I’m not your plaything.’
‘Indeed she is not!’
The voice that rang out from a short distance away was as familiar to Tripp as it was to Betsy. They both turned to see the figure of Joseph Rigg, the front of his linen shirt still stained with blood, standing at the top of the steps to the Men’s Shift.
Tripp drew a breath and took a step backwards. ‘My dear Rigg! A splendid death scene, if I may—’
‘You may,’ Rigg interrupted in a droll voice. ‘Yet I dislike the way you manhandle Mistress Brand. Good witches are so hard to come by.’
Relaxing, Betsy curtsied to Rigg as graciously as her voluminous cloak would allow. She was not unused to such treatment. Samuel Tripp was but one of many who had earned the nickname ‘blowflies of the tiring-room’, and who regarded all actresses as fair game.
Tripp favoured Rigg with a thin smile. ‘As indeed are good supporting players, sir,’ he answered. ‘Surely it’s time you stepped out from Betterton’s shadow, and demanded a bigger role for yourself?’
Rigg, who was known to possess a formidable temper, met the man’s expression with his famous smouldering eyes. But the door to the Women’s Shift flew open, and a female voice called: ‘Betsy! Where’ve you been? I need you to help pin me.’
The diminutive figure of Jane Rowe appeared half-dressed at the top of the steps. From the stage, Betterton’s voice rose, ranting at the appearance of Banquo’s ghost. The spectre was played by a hireling who doubled for Mister Rigg.
The tension was broken. With a smirk at Betsy, Tripp turned and walked out by the nearest door, which led to the side boxes. Betsy glanced up at Rigg, but the player was already half-inside the Men’s Shift. ‘Where’s the boy?’ he called. ‘I’m for a glass of claret.’ The door slammed.
Betsy climbed the steps. ‘What was that about?’ Jane asked. ‘Did Tripp put his paws up your cloak?’ But with a shrug, Betsy dismissed the matter. She and Jane had joined the Duke’s Company at the same time. Two nervous young actresses, somewhat abashed at the brazenness of the world they had stepped into, they had agreed to look out for each other from the start. Seasoned performers that they now were, they still did so, though their backgrounds could scarcely have been more different: Betsy was from a good
family who disapproved of her choice of profession, while Jane was the daughter of a butcher who was grateful for the fifteen shillings she brought into the household, almost every week.
Female voices spilled from the open door of the Women’s Shift. As Betsy and Jane entered, an older woman, a hireling who was playing Third Witch, looked round. ‘Mistress, can you help me keep this headgear from falling over my eyes?’
As Betsy helped the woman secure her hat, Jane brought her a small mug. ‘Take some Hungary water,’ she said. ‘You’ll need a restorative before you cast your spells.’
The door opened and the youngest member of the company, Louise Hawker the tiring-maid, entered, looking flustered.
‘Louise!’ Jane threw the girl a pained look. ‘You promised to mend Lady MacDuff’s gown, yet it’s still torn. Now there’s no time to do anything but pin it.’
Louise blinked. She was a frightened little creature, not made for the hurly-burly of backstage life. Yet she was a good seamstress and a hard worker, who had even won the grudging respect of Aveline Hale. Just now, however, she looked not merely nervous, but fearful.
‘Your pardon, mistress,’ she answered. ‘I’ll do it at once. I got distracted.’
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Betsy asked, still attending to Third Witch. ‘You look as if you’ve seen Banquo’s ghost!’
‘Well, perhaps you’ll not wonder at it, when you hear what I’ve just heard,’ Louise replied. ‘There’s bad news from Covent Garden. Remember Long Ned, the African? He’s dead!’
A silence fell, so that Betterton’s voice could be heard all the way from the stage: ‘Behold, look! How say you?’
‘Dead!’ Jane looked shocked, as did the others. Everyone knew Long Ned, the handsome ex-slave from the Indies, who worked as an attendant in the men’s bagnio – the public bathhouse. Ned had formerly helped out at the old Duke’s Theatre as a scene-man, and, if truth be told, had earned something of a reputation as one who was sought out by certain wealthy ladies for purposes of private pleasure.
After the Fire Page 1