Watery Grave

by Bruce Alexander

  Yet when I greeted him and turned to Annie to manage an introduction of sorts, I found her who was usually so quick with her tongue quite struck dumb. Her face wore an expression akin to awe.

  Tom, too, must have noticed. Yet with the good manners which seemed to come natural to him, he put out his hand and gave hers a squeeze.

  “Annie Oakum, is it? Well, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope you will be with us for a while.”

  “Oh, ” said she with a deep sigh, “I do, too. Indeed I do.”

  FOUR

  In which we learn how

  Sir John Fielding lost

  his sight

  In point of fact, Annie went back to the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes that evening after dinner. Yet she had proven herself thoroughly in managing and improving upon the meal that Lady Fielding had begun, for the discussion undertaken by Sir John lasted far longer than could have been predicted so that she had ample opportunity to spice the melange to her taste. She went so far as to pour the leavings of a bottle of claret into the stew pot, quite amazing Tom and myself who had never seen wine put to such use.

  “The Frenchies do it all the time,” she explained confidently to us.” It’s for the taste, it is.”

  Whether it was the claret, or the diligent peppering and thyming she followed it with, the stew was quite memorably good. As we five seated ourselves around the kitchen table, Sir John and Lady Fielding dipped their spoons into their bowls and tasted. The smiles that lit their faces cheered Annie and reassured me. Sir John simply dipped again and continued eating with great gusto. Lady Fielding leaned to her young protege and conferred upon her a most emphatic nod of approval.

  “My dear,” said she, “this is quite the most savory stew I have ever put my tongue to. You’ve done a few things to it, I hazard.”

  “I took a few liberties, mum.”

  “All to the good, I assure you.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Sir John, “hear, hear.” Then did he return to the business at hand.

  Thus, in her absence, was the fate of Mrs. Gredge sealed. After a visit to her, it had been discussed, along with Tom Durham’s future, during the conference in Sir John’s study. That they had a replacement for her in Annie Oakum, it was readily agreed after the two of them had downed dinner. Annie, of course, would be more than willing. It remained for Mrs. Gredge, poor soul, to be informed. That they prepared to do as I cleared the table. Lady Fielding filled a bowl with the last of the stew, which she would carry up with her. Then she turned to me with another of her emphatic nods.

  “Jeremy,” said she, “I wish you to take Annie back to the Home in a hackney. Have you money enough left from yesterday’s outing?”

  “I’m sure I have.”

  “Well then, see her safe inside and then return. Tell the driver to wait for you. ‘ And to Annie she said: “Gather your things together tomorrow, my girl, and in the afternoon you may return with me here and move into Mrs. Gredge s room.”

  “I’m ever so grateful, mum.”

  “You’ll be paid, of course. Sir John will work that out with you.”

  “Thankyou, mum.”

  With that. Lady Fielding said her goodbye to us and, with the bowl of stew for Mrs. Gredge in her hands, ascended the stairs with Sir John.

  And so I came, not long afterward, to accompany Annie to the Home in a hackney all to ourselves. All the exuberance that was pent up within her came out in a rush of eager questions; yet all of them, it seemed, had to do with “that dear, lovely fellow” to whom I had introduced her, Tom Durham.

  I told her much, though not all, about him: that he was the son of Lady Fielding; that his father’s death had considerably reduced their circumstances and ended his schooling; that he had gone to sea in the H.M.S. Adventure over two and a half years ago and done service in India; that he had every intention of returning to the sea, but that (and here I may have overstepped myself a bit) Sir John hoped to win for him an appointment as midshipman. What I omitted, of course, were the circumstances of Tom’s enlistment in the Royal Navy: his life in crime and his near brush with the hangman.

  Annie sat beside me quite enraptured by all the details I divulged. When there was no more to hear about him, she simply fell silent and stared out the window of the carriage. What could she see? That mattered little, for, as I rightly perceived, her head was filled with naught save thoughts and fantasies of her now dear Tom. I knew not what to make of this, for I had not encountered such an emotion on the rough streets surrounding Covent Garden. What passed between Sir John and Lady Fielding seemed more to me in the nature of great friendship than this display of sudden obsession. Was this an inflation of those tender feelings I had for her kitchen chum, Meg? Or was it the great thing the poets wrote about? Was it JuHet’s love for her Romeo that saucy Annie felt for Tom? Surely not. Indeed, considering the hard life that had brought her to us, I hoped not.

  Sooner than I expected, the hackney came to a halt before the Magdalene Home. I instructed the driver to wait for me it he wished to be paid, then accompanied Annie to the door. The fearsome directress greeted her in a rather hostile manner.

  “Back again, are you?” said she.

  “Yes, but not for long,” said Annie, her back up once more.” I’m to return tomorrow to stay.”

  “Well, Miss Uppish, we’ll see how long you lasts.”

  To that Annie made no reply, simply kissed me light upon the cheek and said, “Thank you, Jeremy, ” and disappeared into the place, past the large Figure in black.

  I sulked a bit upon Annie’s simple thank-you, on my return trip to Number 4 Bow Street. Were we not old chums? Was she so besotted with Tom Durham? Ah, but what did it matter, I consoled myself, so long as it turned out well? For, in truth, I was as much beneficiary as them all. Though I had eaten much of Mrs. Gredge’s cooking the twelvemonth past —and eaten it gratefully —it seemed always to me to be more than a bit bland.

  And so I came to the house on Bow Street I knew so well. Inside. I gave a wave and a greeting to Mr. Baker who, of all the Beak-runners, was the only one present at that hour —then up the stairs and into the kitchen, wherein a pleasant surprise awaited me. I discovered that in my absence, all the washing up had been done, and done well. Seeing no one about, I continued up the stairs, heard a deep drone of talking behind Mrs. Gredge’s closed door —Sir John’s voice—and went on higher to the attic room which I shared, for the time being, with Tom Durham. He was stretched across the bed, reading my newly purchased copy of Lord Anson’s A Voyage RouncI the World He looked up, smiled, and raised the book that I might see what he read.

  “Ho, mate,” said he, “is this your book?”

  “It is,” said I.” I bought it only yesterday. But you may read it. Of course you may.”

  “Ah, that Anson, he was a seaman —and was he not?”

  I agreed —how could I disagree?—and listened then to an intelligent disquisition of some minutes’ duration on the feats of George Anson as sailor, navigator, fighter, and First Lord of the Admiralty. At the end of it, he smiled a sad smile.

  “Do you know who taught me of him? It was Lieutenant Landon of the A’/z//r — that selfsame Lieutenant Landon who now is restricted to quarters as to some dungeon, falsely accused of murder. He it was who raised me from scullion to deckhand, then made me foretopman.”

  “You say he is falsely accused. Could you give evidence that might help him in his situation?”

  “If only I could! No, I declare it and know it to be true, for a man as decent as he could never do what he has been said to do. I know the man. I know him well, for he and I spent many a night hour in talk along the Coromandel and the Malabar. It was through him and because of him I came to love the sea.”

  “I met him today,” said I, which was not quite true since I had not been introduced—yet it was essentially so.

  “How is he? How does he bear up?”

  I answered honestly: “He is weak in his own defense �
� or so thinks Sir John.”

  “You were there today, with Sir John —and you went aboard the Adventure. Tell me all you saw and heard. Please, Jeremy, I must know.”

  Thus I came to give Tom Durham as full and true a report as ever I had given Sir John on any matter. He listened quite attentive as I told how the magistrate, in his clever questioning, had near forced Lieutenant Hartsell to admit that he could see little in that moment he now confidently claimed to have seen so much. I told him too of the dark rumblings of the crew as Sir John interrogated Hartsell before them. Then I jumped ahead and quoted the admiral’s misgivings, his talk of inciting mutiny, et cetera.

  “And what did Sir John say to that?” asked Tom, interrupting for the first time.

  “He said,” and I deepened my voice somewhat in imitation of him, ” ‘A captain who does not have the confidence of his crew is no captain at all.’”

  Tom laughed heartily at my performance. Then of a sudden he grew quite somber.

  “He is quite right, of course,” said he.” Yet the truth of it is, Lieutenant Hartsell does not have the confidence of the crew. And so the admiral was not wrong to suggest the possibility of mutiny.”

  “In port?” I asked, sounding quite incredulous.” In London? ‘

  “Not likely,” said he, “but anything can happen on the open sea. I would wager that had he made his accusation against Lieutenant Lan-don earlier, and had the crew learned of it, there would have been mutiny on the Adventure. At the very least, Hartsell would have met with a fatal accident. That, I am sure, is why he did not confine him to quarters and let out the charge until the night before we anchored.”

  “Was Lieutenant Landon really so well Uked?”

  “He was the ablest, bravest, fairest, and best officer we had. Hartsell may have been acting captain, but Landon was the leader of the ship — but what of him? Tell me now. ‘

  And so, very shortly, I did just that. Would that I could have given Tom a more favorable picture of his favorite. Yet what had I to describe but a melancholy man who greeted us, Bible in hand, and was apparently resigned to his fate? All he could offer in his defense was that he certainly had not pushed the captain overboard but was attempting to pull him back —which, in any case, Sir John had already perceived.

  (You will note, reader, that I withheld from Tom any mention of the peculiarly personal relation between Vice-Admiral Sir Robert Redmond and Lieutenant Landon o th.e Adventure; nor especially did I mention the looks which passed between them at a certain crucial moment during Sir John’s questioning of the lieutenant. Such information I considered to be the property of the magistrate —and his alone.)

  That Tom Durham was saddened by my account I had no doubt, for he remained silent for quite some time after I had finished, though his face was as near without expression as could be. He seemed to me to be deep in thought.

  At last he turned to me and said: “I wish there was a way I could help him.”

  “Perhaps one will present itself.”

  “Perhaps.”

  We talked of many more things that night: of Black Jack Bilbo and Jimmie Bunkms; of the admiral’s coming visit; of the strange lives both of us had led—orphaned, uprooted, thrown to our own devices —but it was only toward the end of the evening, as we were yawning and about to take ourselves to bed, that Tom happened to mention Annie. He asked me about her —who she was and how I had come to know her. Briefly, I told him something of the Goodhope matter, and said merely that Annie had worked in the kitchen of the great house in St. James Street.

  “Really?” said he, “I was in just such a house in St. James today — Mr. Bilbo’s it was.”

  “The same one,” said I.

  “Was it indeed? Well, I suppose Lord Goodhope had little use for it, being dead and all.”

  We sniggered together at Tom’s rough joke like the careless boys we were.

  “But Annie is a fme cook, little doubt of it, ” he added.” Pretty, too, when you think of it. I should like to know her better.”

  We were beneath the blanket, the candle out, and near asleep in the bed we shared when a thought occurred to me.

  “Tom,” said I, “was it you did the washing up tonight —all those pots and pans?”

  “Think nothing of it, mate, ” said he in his drowsy state.

  “Well, I thank you for it.”

  “An3hing for a chum.” And moments later, I heard him breathing deeply and regularly in sleep.

  He had called me mate and chum. That meant, I was sure, that we were now friends. I mulled that over happily in my mind until pleasant dreams overtook me.

  My Lady Fielding determined, and Sir John agreed, that one thing that must be got ere the admiral visited us for dinner was a suit of clothes for Tom. Since Sir Robert was sure to appear out of naval habit, it would be improper for one of their number to make an appearance so dressed.

  “No, lad,” said Sir John to Tom, “it will not do. Your mother has described to me that costume of bits and pieces you now wear. Proud you may be of your sailor’s garb, but it would be an affront to the admiral to ask him to sit down at table with an ordinary seaman.”

  “But-”

  “And JLtice,” continued Sir John over Tom’s attempted objection, “and jince, I say, the object in inviting him here is to seek his help m elevating you from seaman to midshipman, it would be best to present you as the young gentleman you might have been had not fortune turned against you.”

  “But surely you will tell him of … of the circumstances of my enlistment!”

  “I will in due time, perhaps not tonight. What I wish to do tonight is offer you in the best light —well dressed and well spoken —then plant in his mind the notion that such a fine young fellow as yourself would make an excellent midshipman and a superb officer.”

  Tom gave a sigh of capitulation.” As you say then, Sir John.”

  “Precisely.”

  And so it was by these circumstances that Lady Fielding got her wish. She would not, as was her hope, see him in bespoken clothes, tailored to his new dimensions, yet there were respectable shops in Chandos Street that sold ready-made of fair qualitA- and castoffs of high quality that might be altered to fit. It was decided she would take him there.

  Before they left, however, she passed to me a list of comestibles to buy in Covent Garden for the admiral’s dinner. At the top was “a side of lamb fit for roasting.”

  “Lamb is hard to find,” said I, mumbling my dissent.

  “Go to Mr. Tolliver,” said she.” He is sure to have it this early in the day. If not, I fear you must make a trip to Smithfield Market.”

  “All right then,” said I.” I’m on my way.”

  And so I was, running as I did most days through the crowded piazza, making my way from vendor to stall, picking over the stock to find the best they had to offer. I had become a wise buyer in the year or more I had been with Sir John. Satisfying Mrs. Gredge was no easy matter, yet taught by Lady Fielding, I had learned that to buy the biggest was not always to buy the best, that the brightest color did not always assure the best taste.

  Yet in our trips through the Garden, Lady Fielding had surprised me by avoiding the butcher stall of Mr. Tolliver. Situated as it was in the far corner of the piazza, it was not difficult to avoid, but well I remembered that it was she who had first taken me across the wide Garden and introduced me to Mr. Tolliver and assured me that his was the best meat available there, that he gave the best cuts and the best values for pence and shillings. All this, however, wa before her marriage to Sir John. During their brief courtship, I had borne a message to her from him, and afterward seen Mr. Tolliver emerge from her lodgings all dejected and forlorn. I know it now, though I did not perceive it then, that the Covent Garden butcher had himself been a suitor for her hand. Therefore, after her marriage to Sir John, she must have thought it more seemly and certainly less embarrassing to avoid his stall altogether. Thus, taught by her example and with a word or two to direct me elsewh
ere, she diverted my course from Mr. Tolliver’s place of business and sent me to his lesser competitors. When something special was wanted, such as that grand beef roast we had eaten at Tom’s homecoming and the next night, too, I was sent traipsing off to Smithfield Market. Yet not on this day. Why was it so? Even now, I can only guess that perhaps a matter of time was involved, or perhaps even quality, for his meat was equal to any I bought at Smithfield —as she must have known.

  In any case, it was to Mr. ToUiver I went on that warm day in July 1769, to seek “a side of lamb fit for roasting.” He was there at his post, serving a great swarm of buyers. I took a place in line, and as I waited I was recognized. He acknowledged me with a nod of his great head, and when my turn came, he waited not for me to speak but, blurting out a bit uncertainly, gave forth his greeting.

  “Well, Jeremy lad, it’s been a bit since I seen you, ain’t it? ” said he.

  “Yes sir, ” said I, “though I’m not quite sure why.”

  “Well, I’ve a good idea of it.”

  “I’ve been often to Smithfield.”

  “They’ve good meat there, though no better than mine, as I’ll be pleased to show. What will you have?”

  I told him, and he went off to the meat, uncovered a small carcass hanging apart from the rest, and with a few expert turns of his big knife cut it near in half—and then he remained to cut some more. He sent away the flies, wrapped the remains of the carcass in its cloth, and my meat in paper. This package he delivered to me.

  “This is true lamb, ” said he, “not young mutton. It makes a smaller piece than you might suppose, so I gave you a leg, as well, at no charge. Call it a gift to bring you back again.”

  “Well, thank you, sir.” I counted out his payment into his palm.