by Amy Wolof
Our poor shallop dipped and rode the swells, some so high they threatened to swamp us. I was now completely drenched: even my eyes were swimming. I grasped a mast with both hands, struggling to keep my feet as lightning forked overhead.
Good God, I thought, after so many fights with Man, was Nature to be my downfall?
We tilted so far portside I could feel the sting of the sea. With a creak, the boat shot back up, flinging me against the hold. This was surely the end.
“Aventis!” I cried. “Frances!”
I toppled into a mast, cracking my head against it. When I came to—I know not how much later—I found that the storm had ceased, though one of our masts had gone.
“Noah,” I called weakly, then opened my eyes. Thank God! He was still at the tiller. “Where are we?”
“Ten miles off Dover,” he said, as calm as the canal though he was soaked to the skin.
“Thank the Lord,” I said, reaching for my hat—still there!—and emptying it of water. “I do not mean to offend, but I am no fan of the sea. I grant the road has its perils—yet, drowning isn’t among them.”
“I s’pose,” he nodded, “but if ye want to be a smuggler, ye must wet yer feet.”
“Can you go any faster?” I asked, wanting to be off this boat.
“Doin’ my best,” he grumbled, tacking into the wind with our one ripped sail.
“Land ho!” I cried, as I spotted the coast.
But as we came nearer, I did not see the masts of Dover or the stones of her castle.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Shakespeare Beach,” said Noah. “Figured we’d land where the storm took us.”
I did not care whose beach it was; I was so glad at its sight! We both splashed onto shore, where Noah lit his red lantern. By its light, I could see a cliff to my left, its face eroded by chalk.
“At last,” I breathed, happy to be on firm ground. Still, I thought of our cargo now bobbing on the tide. “What now?” I asked Noah. “How to summon your friends?”
“We must send word to the harbor,” he said, shaking seawater from his pipe. “Else, we can try to sail. It is but a short jog.”
I nodded, starting to shiver in the cold October air.
“We must find—” I began, but was unable to finish as a man’s harsh voice cut in.
“You’re both under arrest,” he cried, “by order of His Majesty the King!”
The Good Customs Man
In the lantern’s dim light, I strained to see who addressed us. There he was, somewhat thin with shaggy dark hair, his pistol pointed at me.
“On what charge?” I asked boldly.
Perhaps he would not notice the shallop in the dark.
“Do not try my patience,” he growled. “Men, to the ship. See what the hold contains.”
As they scrambled, he relieved me of my weapons.
“Uh, sir,” I addressed this “officer,” though he wore no official uniform. “Would you by chance be a Customs man?”
“I am,” he said coldly.
“Ah. Well, perhaps you and I . . . perhaps we might be able . . . to arrange something between us?”
I unleashed my most charming smile.
“You attempt to bribe me, sir?!” he cried.
“Oh no,” I replied. “That was not my intent.”
I saw him relax his posture.
How could this be? I thought. To find the one Customs man unwilling to be bribed? I nearly wept for England.
Two of the officer’s men came toward us, rolling between them a barrel.
“It’s a fine cache,” one said. “Nearly three tons of what we think is French wine.”
“Do you suppose it’s English?” I asked.
“Silence!” the officer ordered. “By the laws of His Gracious Majesty, your goods are considered contraband and will hereby be destroyed.”
“Come now, sir,” I implored. “Think of how the court will miss its Chardonnay! If you but agree to take a small cut, such a disaster may be averted, and the king’s table made whole.”
“Though our ranks are few,” said the officer, lifting his chin, “we pride ourselves on our honor, and serve king and country like men.”
God’s blood! I thought, will he commence singing?
My mind raced as I sought another tack.
“Good sir,” I said, with a wink, “would it cause undue harm if we say that my barrels hail from Spain? Then your Board may collect its fee, and you will receive a reward.”
“Very nice,” he said, and with that, my spirits rose. “But it is an untruth, and I won’t be party to a lie.”
“How rare is an honest man,” I said, thinking, “You’re nothing but a dam’d fool!”
“How did you find us?” I asked. “Did you track us from the cliff?”
“Indeed,” he said. “The view afforded is wide.”
“A perfect lackey,” I mumbled.
“Beg pardon?”
“Uh . . . pay me no mind,” I said. “I was just thinking—” and here I wiped my eyes—"of Peg and the small ones back home.”
“You should have considered them before becoming a smuggler.”
“Hmph,” I said. “That is an excellent point.”
Having expended my guile, I turned to Noah and shrugged. Had there not been soldiers all round me, I believe I would have turned and flung myself into the sea.
“What is my fate?” I asked the officer, one who was truer to Charles than Lancelot had been to his queen.
“As is well known,” he said, “The penalty for smuggling is death.”
“God’s wounds!” I cried. “Is there any crime in this kingdom for which one might not hang?!”
“Precious few,” said Lancelot, binding my hands at my back and leading me toward his horse.
“Do not fret,” I whispered to Noah. “At sea, I am a disaster; but on land, I am incomparable.”
The Local Gaol
“Where are we going?” I asked my captor, humiliated. He had actually tied me to his horse’s saddle!
“By and by,” he said, “you will be tried at the Exchequer. For now, we head to Dover Gaol.”
I closed my eyes, silently cursing this fool. How could I, the fabled Megs, have allowed myself to be taken—and by a Lancelot, no less! I felt so disgusted I hardly looked up when we reached town, where Officer Good untied me by a stone gate.
“Gaol’s inside,” he growled, leading Noah and me at gunpoint to a cell which, compared to Newgate, looked like Queen Catherine’s chambers. “I’ll fetch some food,” said this Lancelot. “Even smugglers do not starve on His Majesty’s watch.”
“I wish to throttle this fellow,” I said, when Noah and I were alone. As I looked around, I saw no other inmates. “Not a popular place, I take it?”
“Nah,” said Noah, lighting his pipe. “Mostly, it sits empty, ‘cause Customs is so corrupt.”
“Except for our knight errant,” I groaned, taking a seat on a bench. “Will we really be put to death?”
“Ha!” Noah chuckled. “Worst they’ll do is break th’ barrels—maybe levy a fine. Exchequer juries like smugglers. Hell, if we turn on Carnatus, we can sit on the panel!”
“No thank you,” I said, feeling rage at the mention of Carnatus. “Damn him! If only he had not vanished, we would not be here. With his brawn and Gad’s help, we could have vanquished Sir Truth!”
“True,” said Noah, blowing a perfect smoke ring. “But no help for it now. At least we know we’ll live to get us another boat.”
Oh no, I thought, not unless she’s the king barge, for my smuggling days are over. Riding the road was a risk, but at least I had friends about if some fool decided to shoot. On the sea, I had no Jeffries, no Aventis to plot and plan. There was only Noah, and, though a capable seaman, in wits he was Gad’s peer.
The most honest man in England of course kept his word and returned with bread and water. As I silently nodded my thanks, I saw that he loitered outside our small but lonely cel
l. Framed by iron bars, he looked like a faceted jewel.
“Names?” he inquired.
In one glove he held a parchment and quill; in the other, a small jar of ink.
“Noah,” said Noah.
“Surname?”
“O’Reilly.”
“Where you from?” he asked.
“Dover,” said Noah.
“Local man, eh?” Sir Customs now turned at me. “Name?” he asked.
I attempted to contrive an alias, but, after the storm, was simply too worn out.
“Megs,” I said.
“Megs what?” he asked.
I smiled, thinking of the Old Bailey.
“Just Megs,” I answered.
“Hmph.”
He looked none too happy as he dipped his quill in ink. Seeing him so officious, I attempted to try his patience.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Captain Maximus Goodbody.”
I could not help it: I burst into fits of laughter.
That evening was pleasant enough. While Noah smoked, I paced, my mind bent on escape Though this was a local gaol, the bars were damnably thick, and the walls (the same which held the outer gate, I figured) were even thicker. Best to wait, I thought, for an agreeable jury, the payment of a small fine, and then—back to the Heath! Feeling more than a little complacent, I slept soundly all night.
The next morning, Goodbody appeared, exuding all the warmth of a Frost Fair.
“‘Just Megs’?” he asked, his apparel still haphazard. He must have looked with hope to the day he’d be granted a uniform.
“Yes?”
“I have been reading,” he said.
“Very good,” I replied. “Favorite Bible verses? Or the king’s complete Proclamations?”
“Neither.” He cleared his throat. “Upon inspecting the record of the Old Bailey, I find that you were tried there. Some time ago, it seems, in 1663.”
Damn his thorough blood!
“Sentenced to death by hanging, only to escape.”
Noah gasped. He put down his pipe and gave me a wide-eyed stare.
“And?” I asked, with the placidity of Aventis.
“You are a wanted felon,” said Goodbody. “There is a bounty on your head of a hundred guineas.”
“Which you,” I said, “as a steady Customs man, must refuse on principle?”
“Oh no,” said Goodbody. “The reward is legal, as is my capture of you.”
“I see,” I answered. “What if, legal or otherwise, I offered you two-hundred guineas?”
“You insult me, sir,” he said, stomping one worn boot. “I vowed to obey His Majesty and I intend to do so.”
“Even though his rules change by the hour?” I asked.
Goodbody assumed what to me was the stance of an angle: with hands behind his back, and chin thrust to the sky.
Ugh. My own posture sagged. How often I had clashed with outlaws and thieving churchmen! But an honest man? I did not know what to do.
When Goodbody called for his men, each of whom held a pistol, I knew the game was up.
“I take it we travel to London?” I asked.
Goodbody nodded, then withdrew some keys and unlocked our cell.
“You—stay here,” he told Noah. “Just Megs, step out easy. Put your hands where we can see them—that’s the way.”
His barrel firm in my back, Goodbody marched me outside. Unlike the hated Cromwell, he had at least provided a horse. As I blinked in the murky light, he lifted me onto the saddle and tied my hands before me. As with Cromwell so long ago, I left Dover bound and captive.
Unlike that past journey, I spent my nights not in a bed but in some local gaol. Goodbody, being himself, refused to leave me alone, so I was unable to bribe a less reliable guard. When we came at last to London, I spied Islington Field to the north, which made me think of Aventis. And there was Covent Garden, with its fruits, vegetables, and flowers; while desperate girls in the shadows slunk away from our mounted party. As we rode down cobblestone streets, past houses made of brick, and the riot of mobs and animals, tears began to block my vision. What good were all these sights without my three friends beside me? To see St. Paul’s Cathedral, now being rebuilt, unable to turn to Aventis and say: “That is the place where we both sheltered from Plague.” Without my friends, I felt desolate, and bowed my head as we stopped before Newgate—the new one, that is.
In the wake of the Great Fire, it boasted more buildings waiting to inflict their misery on a greater number of souls. Despite my position as captive, I wanted to spit at those walls.
Goodbody untied me and bade me dismount. He led me to a lodge that was part of the gaol, ensuring that I was “processed”: which meant that he took my purse while all my limbs were fettered.
“Very well, Just Megs,” said Goodbody, cold as ever. “This is as far as I go.”
“Lucky you,” I remarked.
“Perhaps before you are hanged, you will ask for redemption and be received by your Maker.”
“A sweet sentiment,” I said, “though one as unlikely as your turning to crime.”
It was up to the Newgate guards to escort me inside. They led me down to the basement and what I knew to be the Common Side—for Felons. I had hoped never again to see that lice-strewn stone floor which played host to doomed men. I could tell from their harsh coughs that most suffered from “gaol fever” and would not last the night. I well recalled the filth and misery; the stink of unwashed bodies from twenty or so inmates; the strength of my own despair as I collapsed on a thin blanket.
Oh well, I thought numbly, I have had a good long run and perhaps it is time for Act V. I would miss Jeffries, of course, he who had taught me everything; and Carnatus, my fellow smuggler, damn his shirking soul! But it was the thought of leaving Aventis which brought a chill to my heart. I had spoken to him so harshly the last time we parted. Still, I considered, I had managed, just once, to pay a visit to Frances . . .
“So,” said someone to my left. “What you in fer?”
“Uh . . .” Why bother to hide it? Like a Viking’s, my fate was sealed. “Highway robbery.”
“You don’ say!” This ragged gent looked duly impressed. “Whatcha doin’ ‘ere then? Don’ yer sort get sent ta the Press Yard?”
“It is likely,” I said, “but the Customs man seized my purse.”
“Customs?” The man scrunched his wrinkled face. “Dontcha mean the Guard?”
“Not in this case,” I said, “for I am also a smuggler.”
“Lor’,” the man exclaimed. “Ye hev more’n one talent!”
“Too many,” I said.
Newgate—still being itself—spread the word of a high tobyman who also dabbled in smuggling as fast as Gaol Fever. By the time I awoke the next morning, the Common Side was abuzz.
“Thas ‘im!”
“Thas’ the one—there!”
“‘E threw the ‘angman’s noose!”
“Mayhap ‘e’s a witch.”
The excited chatter ceased as two guards opened our cell.
“You.” One of them pointed at me. “Out.”
It was difficult to stand, much less walk, in my heavy chains.
“Ye’re being moved,” said the other.
“Where?” I asked.
Since I already had my verdict—sixteen years ago, but—why could they not simply hang me?
“We’ll ask the questions here.”
With that, the two of them dragged me out and up some well-worn stairs.
The New Newgate
Though only one floor above, the world I entered was flooded with light.
“God’s blood,” I whispered, letting out a low whistle.
The cell into which I was thrust boasted floors not of stone but oak. And though there were still no beds, the thickness of the blankets—and of the prisoners’ clothes—differed so from that below that I felt I’d ascended to Heaven . . or, at the least, Purgatory.
“Megs,” a voice calle
d, and I struggled to turn in my chains. Through a maze of well-fed prisoners, I saw an impossible vision: it was Aventis, clothed in his usual black!
“Aventis!” I cried, lurching toward him. How I wanted to throw out my arms and hold him! But of course my chains forestalled me . . . along with my highwayman’s garb.
“Why are you here?” I asked, noting that even in Newgate, his grooming was flawless.
“We shall get to that in a moment,” he said, motioning me to the back of the cell. With a metallic clank, I slumped down beside him.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and I saw his pupils glisten. “They have not . . . hurt you?”
“Only with dullness,” I said, giving an outlaw’s wink. “Alas, I met up with a Goodbody.”
“A what?”
“An honest Custom’s man.”
“But what would Customs want with us?” he asked, his unshackled leg touching mine.
“Well . . .” Where to begin? “Carnatus and I . . . decided to vary our trade.”
“As smugglers?” he asked with a frown.
“Truth to tell, the notion was mine,” I said. “Carnatus and Gad absconded—"
“—leaving Customs to abscond with you.” Aventis nodded. “I take it the good folk at Newgate know exactly who you are?”
“Indeed,” I said. “Otherwise, I would be in some tavern, buying beer for a like-minded jury.”
“My identity is of no consequence. Yet, I shudder for Catherine, now deprived of my counsel.”
“Is she an inmate here?” I asked. I hoped my disdain shone through.
“Believe me . . . Megs,” said Aventis, “she is in as much danger as you and I put together.”
“Yet has many powerful friends,” I said. “And I’ll assume is free from chains?”
“Well, Megs . . . he whispered, “while you have been abroad, a fever has broken out here. One as ugly and catching as the Great Plague itself.”
“Speak plainly, I beg you,” I said. “I have been tossed on the seas, and this is my fifth cell of the week. Your metaphors outpace my wits.”
“Titus Oates,” he said, practically spitting the name.