Watery Grave

by Bruce Alexander

  “And what is that, sir?”

  “Mr. Landon must be removed from the Adventure at all costs. I believe his life is in danger there, as well. It may mean the Tower Prison for him, but that would be preferable to his present situation. I shall send a letter to Bobbie tomorrow informing of all this and giving him the opportunity to send a surgeon to the Raker’s to confirm what you two have found.”

  “Who carries these messages back and forth from the frigate to the admiral?”

  “I would hazard this one was brought by Mr. Byner. He seems to spend more time with Lieutenant Hartsell than with him he has been appointed to defend.”

  Indeed Sir John was right: Annie was a better cook than Mrs. Gredge. Was it her use of good English spices —rosemary, sage, and thyme — which the old cook quite forbore? Her love of onions—which Mrs. Gredge complained caused her gas and consequent flatulence? Was it her boldness with garlic —which the good old lady despised as a foreign intrusion? Or was it simply that Annie gave closer attention to her work? Never a burnt roast. Never a scorched stew. She looked after her own fire and did not, as Mrs. Gredge did, depend upon me to tend it. Annie often said that knowing when to dampen a fire and when to feed it was half the secret of the art.

  All this she had proven with the beef stew she had set before Tom and me after our interview with Sir John. It was well seasoned, onioned and garlicked to perfection, and kept at a simmer until the very end when it was brought to a gentle boil. She tasted it as a critic.

  “Good as when it was first cooked up,” said she with a smack of her lips.

  And then, after serving it forth, she had excused herself and gone up to her room. Tom stared after her, quite perplexed.

  “She does seem different,” said he.

  I was too pleasantly occupied with what was in my plate to do more than grunt a few words.

  “What was that?” He had not understood.

  “Got her pride back,” I repeated.” Sir John paid her a great and true compliment. Sincere praise can work wonders. Or had you never experienced that yourself?”

  After considering that for a moment, he said quite soberly, “Yes, from Lieutenant Landon.”

  We may have eaten a bit more solemnly thereafter, though nevertheless just as heartily. We were but lads, after all, and not even a saddening thought could dull the taste of our good dinner.

  Only minutes later, we were sopping our plates with bread, when on the stairs below we heard a most frightful racket. Then, without so much as a knock, through the door burst Mr. Benjamin Bailey, the captain of the Bow Street Runners. Such an interruption was so unlike him, who was the most respectful of men (except to malefactors and criminals, of course), that I saw immediately that he was on an errand of extreme importance. I was on my feet as he stood panting for a moment, seeking to reclaim his breath.

  “Is Sir John here, Jeremy?”

  “He is. I’ll fetch him.”

  I turned and, poised to dash, saw that the man himself was at that moment descending the stairs and making his entrance into the kitchen.

  “No,” said he, “here I am, here I am. What have you to report, Mr. Bailey?”

  “A riot, sir.”

  “Oh, God help us. In progress?”

  “Indeed, Sir John —in progress. What I’m asking for, sir, is your permission to send to the Tower for a company of grenadiers.”

  “That bad, is it?” bir. It s —

  “No, no, Mr. Bailey, if that is your judgment, I accept it. Send for them, by all means. You will not have to go?”

  “I’ll send Constable Perkins. He’s waiting.”

  “Go then and put him on his way, then wait for us downstairs. We’ll be but a moment.”

  As he turned to go, Mr. Bailey called out, “It’s the crew of that frigate anchored by London Bridge caused the trouble.”

  According to Mr. Bailey, who told the story as we made our way hurriedly through the streets, this great disturbance had all stemmed from a not uncommon incident at Mrs. Gerney’s, a notorious brothel in the Strand. Much earlier in the evening, a seaman from the Adventure had, in the course of his visit to one of Mrs. Gerney’s belles, discovered he had been robbed. He complained bitterly to the mistress of the house but received no satisfaction. So then, with dire threats, he left her and went immediately to raise a force of his shipmates. He recruited a small army from the dens along the Thames and the dives of Covent Garden. Not only his mates but also their bottle companions and recent acquaintances joined him. Days of drinking and retelling their tales of past battles had put them in a humor for a good fight. As they marched upon Mrs. Gerney’s in the Strand, gathering sticks, clubs, and loose cobblestones along the way, the demand for redress was soon altered by the dark chemistry of mob might to a desire for revenge.

  They were near a hundred or more in number by the time they reached their goal, where they found but two constables, forewarned and at the door, to oppose them. The mob did not so much do battle with the constables — Rumford and Cowley —as sweep them aside, ignoring their cries to “Disperse!” and “Go home! ” What were two men armed only with clubs to do against a hundred?

  Through the door the rioters poured, trampling, bruising, and variously abusing the thin line of male defense Mrs. Gerney had hired to protect her and her disorderly house. There were sounds of destruction inside —breaking glass, thumps and bumps of furniture thrown about —and the squeals and screams of frightened women. The action spread upward in the house, which was of considerable size. Windows were broken above, and through them came crashing down to the pavement looking glasses, chairs, bedding, and mattresses. The crowd that had gathered to watch (as crowds will gather to watch anything) ran back in terror from the objects raining down upon them. Smaller pieces sailed out into the broad street, causing confusion and a bit of panic among the carriages and coaches. A coach horse shied and set his partner off, and together they threw their vehicle into rough contact with a hackney carriage. There was a good deal of hot language tossed about between the two drivers as they stopped to discuss the matter; and in stopping they thereby halted the flow of traffic in the street.

  And about this time, a line of Mrs. Gerney’s inmates and their customers began to run out, seeking safety from the mob. Though none were completely naked, most were in some stage of undress. This added greatly to the entertainment of the onlookers.

  It was this scene of near chaos that Benjamin Bailey looked upon when he arrived with three more constables in reinforcement. But these, too, were armed only with stout clubs. The inexperienced Constable Cowley put forward that the rioters might be arrested, one by one, as they emerged from the building. Mr. Bailey saw the folly of that, ordered four of the constables to gather the property littering the walkway and the street together in a single pile and guard it, then left with Perkins to seek Sir John’s permission to call out the grenadiers.

  The situation had altered somewhat by the time Mr. Bailey returned with Sir John, Tom, and me. As we came down Southampton Street and turned right on the Strand, we saw a great tumult no more than one street distant. But from that great milling mass of people there rose what seemed to be wisps of smoke. Yet as we came closer, and saw plainer by the light of the streetlamps, we noted that they were indeed more than wisps and that there were many of them moving around and about in a design roughly describing a circle. Mr. Bailey informed Sir John of this, then plowed ahead into the crowd. Tom and I exchanged glances, then followed close behind Sir John, who had grabbed hold the constable’s belt and thus was pulled along.

  “One side, one side, ‘ shouted Mr. Bailey.” The magistrate is coming through.”

  As we pushed roughly through the recalcitrant spectators, I saw the source of the smoke: torches held aloft, carried swiftly back and forth.

  “One side for Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

  When it was necessary, Mr. Bailey did not hesitate to use the club he used so well. The most unyielding of the crowd
he would knock on the shoulder or thwack on the backside. Thus by his persistence we reached the first row of onlookers and beheld the spectacle that so held them.

  The constables, who had done as their captain directed and piled high the property thrown from the upper floors of the brothel, were now forced to defend it as best they could. The rioters had evidently grown tired of their rampage and had trailed out of the building. They then saw the great mound of goods and must have thought what a lovely bonfire It would make — for torches were lit. The constables positioned themselves at four corners from which the might strike out at one who dared approach and put fire to the pile. What ensued was a kind of game —or the sailors must have thought it so; for when we arrived, six of them (I counted six, but there may have been more) were dancing around, torches in hand, feinting with them toward the pile, thrusting them boldly toward the constables, accepting stout knocks upon the arms and legs as part of the sport. It seemed to me then that had they set their minds to it, they could have had their bonfire and might still have it, yet these bad boys enjoyed this form of play far more, for it greatly amused the crowd. There was jolly laughter all round us, occasional applause at an artful feint or thrust. For this reason alone the spectators had been reluctant to let us through and make room for us: they were enjoying the show.

  Mr. Bailey had his head close to Sir John’s, no doubt describing this bizarre scene. The magistrate’s reply was also inaudible to me until a roll of laughter came, and he shouted above it, “How far?”

  “Ten paces,” came Mr. Bailey’s response, also shouted, “and no more.”

  Then, without hesitation Sir John walked off those ten paces, whipping his stick in the air before him. This put him between two of the torchbearers and quite near young Constable Cowley, who watched him in surprise.

  The dance came to a halt. The sudden presence of the blind man in their midst so surprised the performers that they stood quite still for a moment, looking at one another in a most doubtful manner. Who was he? What was his intrusion?

  Seeing that the frivolity had ended, even if perhaps only temporarily, the crowd began to boo; there were whistles and jeers from the rioters who had ranged themselves near the door of Mrs. Gerney’s and beyond. But then, when one —not the nearest —circled round the pile of goods and approached Sir John, the mob and its audience fell silent, sensing that a confrontation was imminent.

  He was a lean man of medium height, one who, like many seamen, looked older in his face than in his body. Though his cheeks were lined and darkened by the sun, and he had not all his teeth, he held his torch up high and until but a moment ago, he had been capering about with his mates to the frustration of the constables.

  Of a sudden Tom jabbed me in the arm with his elbow.

  “It’s him, Jeremy.” he whispered loudly in my ear, “it’s him!”

  I had not the slightest notion what he meant by that, so deeply was I involved in the drama of the moment. As I made a move to wave him to silence a thought struck me.

  “It’s who?”

  “Tobias Trindle,” said Tom in that same stage whisper.” I would know him anywhere.”

  What should we do? Shout the news to Sir John? Rush out and make an appeal to Trindle to bear witness on Mr. Landon’s behalf? Quite impossible, of course. All that could be done now was to keep silent and let the drama unfold, for they were about to speak.

  “Who be yuh? ” Tobias Trindle demanded.

  “I am John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court. And who, sir, are you?”

  He laughed boldly at that. “Wouldn’t I be a fool to tell you?”

  “Considering what you and your companions have been engaged in during the past hour, I should say that you have already established yourself as a fool —and each of them, as well. So you might just as well tell me the name of the fool I now address.”

  “Well, I won’t do it.”

  And having said that, Trindle made a swift motion with the torch he held toward Sir John’s face. He held it close. Sir John did not flinch. A shocked murmur ran through the crowd. Even some of the rioters fell back at such effrontery.

  “Y’are blind, ain’t ya?’

  “Yes, I am. Now remove that burning brand from my face, for I assure you that if you harm me, or any of my constables, you will be hanged. We are officers of the law, and the law must be respected. So far you have shown precious little respect for it. You and your fellows have disturbed the peace. You have done damage to property. And now you play with fire. Arson is also a hanging offense.”

  Trindle brought back the torch and looked uncertainly at the hundred who had accompanied him to Mrs. Gerney’s. Were they with him or not? A few had already begun to drift back, perhaps seeking to make their departure.

  “I heard of you. You’re the one they call the Blind Beak. ‘

  “So I am. And if you have heard of me, then you know my reputation as one who keeps his word. I have given you my promise that if bodily injury is done to me or my constables, you and others will be hanged. I have also promised that if a fire is set, there will be the same result. I now give you another …”

  He had raised his voice to its fullest. He was addressing the mob as well as its leader.

  “I promise, ” said Sir John, “that if you now disperse and return to whatever pursuits had occupied you before starting out on this mission of destruction, you will not be pursued. You will not be arrested singly or in twos or threes. The place upon which you have vented your rage has given us trouble before. I will consider that rough justice has been done. That is my promise to you. But if, in defiance, you persist, you will be considered in a state of riot.”

  Having thus concluded, he turned and, walking to the sound of Mr. Bailey’s voice (“Here, Sir John”), returned to us in the first row of onlookers. He waited.

  Tobias Trindle threw his torch down to the cobblestones and stamped it out. The others who had played that dangerous game did likewise. They retired to speak with their fellows. They held a council of war — or perhaps one of peace, for it seemed promising that Sir John’s reason and promise of leniency would prevail.

  I believe indeed that it would have done so, had it not been that at that moment two wagonloads of grenadiers came clattering down the Strand from the Tower. The drivers reined in, and twenty-four red-coated troops piled out, muskets and all. A very young lieutenant had accompanied them on a well-blooded brown mount. The crowd parted, giving them space aplenty to assemble.

  “Damn,” said Sir John, “they usually arrive too late to do any good. It couid be tonight that they arrive too early.”

  The rioters took the sudden appearance of the grenadiers as a betrayal. They hooted and jeered as the lieutenant lined up his men.

  “Take me to him who is in charge, Mr. Bailey.”

  Together they started forward, we two again trailing behind. But by the time we reached the soldiers, the lieutenant had his men positioned, in two wade lateral lines, on either side of the heap of property thrown from Mrs. Gerney’s establishment. He had his sword out and raised.

  “Fix bayonets!” came his command.

  Only then did Sir John reach him with Mr. Bailey’s assistance. He had in his hand the scrolled document I had fetched for him from his desk in the study.

  “Lieutenant!” He spoke most sharply to the young fellow.” What you propose to do is not according to legal process until I read the Riot Act. And I am not ready to do so.”

  The lieutenant gave another command, and the grenadiers brought their muskets up in sharp precision so that they were grasped behind the trigger and at a midpoint along the barrel; the bayonets, directed outward, shone bright beneath the streetlamps.

  “You may read what you like, sir” drawled the lieutenant.” I have orders to put down a riot, and I intend to do that.” He raised a white-gloved hand and pointed a drooping finger at the ragged crewmen of the Adventure and their chums who had wreaked havoc within the brothel. “I take it that is the rab
ble against which we are to move?”

  “You will move against no one until I tell you to do so. I remind you, young man, that you are under my command here in the streets of London. I am Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

  “I give no particular care to who you are, sir, and I am under no one’s command but my captain’s. It is he who has ordered me, and I intend to execute his orders. Now, sir, if you will step aside?”

  “See here, you young -—”

  Yet Mr. Bailey, seeing that the lieutenant had every intention of moving his men ahead whether Sir John was in the way or not, pulled him back from the ranged bayonets and then signaled urgently to his four constables to get out of the grenadiers’ path; they wasted no time in complying.

  The watching crowd of spectators had grown silent in expectation. The mob, by contrast, had become increasingly noisy. Their improvised jeers and taunts were now replaced by a mocking and obscene chorus of “The British Grenadier,” which they sang loudly together. There was a bit of bravado in that, for it seemed without doubt that their number had dwindled since last I looked.

  “Forward, march!”

  The lieutenant’s sword came down, and the soldiers stepped out in perfect order, muskets extended, bayonets wickedly aglitter.

  Trindle tried to rouse his companions to one more chorus of their song, yet they were no longer so defiant. So much less so, in fact, that they were now in retreat —backing away down the Strand. Their last bold act was to loose a shower of sticks and stones upon the advancing soldiers, which in truth had little effect. Yet they were not yet in full flight — not, that is, until by a series of commands the lieutenant ordered his troops in a single line forcing the remnants of the mob, the rear guard as it were, some twenty yards or more distant. At which time the lieutenant called out, “At the double time, march!”

  Then did the last of the seamen turn and take to their heels. The mob had been routed. The grenadiers, weighed down by their muskets and military impedimenta and forced to jog-run in step, were no match in pursuit of the crew, which was now fast disappeared —and Tobias Trindle along with the rest.