Rags of Time

by Michael Ward

  ‘Sam, I have been forced to beat sense into you because you do not appear to realise the trouble you could be in. You must tell me all you know about the men you were with tonight. They are not from Sheffard’s, are they? They are printing illegal pamphlets. Am I right?’

  Sam nodded his head faintly. Tom softened his tone.

  ‘Sam, I understand it takes precious little to get on the wrong side of the Stationer’s Company. What are your friends agitating for? Parliament to be opened again?’ Tom lent towards Sam and lowered his voice. ‘To be honest, Sam. I see the truth in some of what they write. However, it is still illegal. You should have no part of it and you certainly should not have involved me. What did you tell them? That I approve of what they are doing?’

  Sam nodded again. Tom relaxed a little. The apprentice had put him in a difficult position but maybe he could turn it to his advantage.

  ‘You must cease working for this group. But first I need you to find something out for me. Will you do that?’

  Again a nod from the young man.

  ‘Sam, I want you to talk to your friends and see if they know anything about the smuggling of seditious pamphlets into London from Amsterdam. They are causing a stir across the city and I am sure they will have seen them. Perhaps they know the people behind them. Have they spoken about a man called Richard Overton?’

  Sam did not move.

  ‘The pamphlets are supporting the Scottish cause against the King. The latest is on the streets this week.’

  Tom felt Sam’s body stiffen. Good. He does know something. Tom scrambled onto his haunches and faced the young apprentice. He put his hand on his shoulder. The boy flinched.

  ‘Come, Sam. I will not hurt you again but I think you know about this. For your own safety, you must tell me.’

  Sam’s head fell forward as he sobbed once more.

  ‘I did not mean to, Master Thomas. I first met them in a tavern while working at Sheffard’s. We got to meeting regular. They got me drunk a few times and they started telling me about what they were printing. How the people had the right to have a voice. I… I think they are right, Master Thomas.’

  Tom nodded. He was making progress but every minute he expected one of the local whores to stumble into the yard with a customer. His time was limited.

  ‘I understand, Sam. But these men, do they know the printers of the Scottish pamphlets? Pray, tell me if they do and we can get home and into dry clothes.’

  Another long pause.

  ‘It’s them,’ Sam mumbled.

  ‘Who’s them?’ Tom replied impatiently.

  ‘The men in the Three Tuns. They are printing the Scottish papers.’

  Tom’s tired mind ached with confusion. ‘But Sam, that cannot be. They were celebrating finishing a print here in London tonight. I heard them. The Scottish papers are being smuggled in from Amsterdam.’

  ‘They are not.’

  ‘What do you mean? I have it on the highest authority that they—’

  ‘Don’t know what you know, Master, but it can’t beat the authority of seeing the newsletters rolling off the press, like I have.’

  Tom sat back. He was struggling to take it all in. ‘But the type and printer’s blocks are Dutch.’

  ‘I know,’ Sam replied, shifting his position on the ground.

  Tom could feel his irritation rise again. He did not have time for this guessing game. Sam must tell him everything he knew. There was a noise at the entrance of the yard. Tom could see the shape of someone walking towards them. Not now, when I am finally getting to the truth.

  The figure stopped and paused, followed by the unmistakable sound of a man urinating against a wall. His noisy pissing went on forever, but eventually he moved back from the wall, sighed, stretched and stumbled back into Coleman Street.

  ‘Sam. We do not have long. Tell me everything. If the papers are being smuggled—’

  ‘I told you, they are not. The men explained it to me. It was too dangerous to bring the pamphlets in from Amsterdam each time they printed a new edition. Much better to smuggle once than twenty times over, they said. Less risk.’

  The truth hit Tom and his heart leapt. It was not the pamphlets that had been smuggled into London. It was the type. Of course, and the type would be easier to hide than a bulky cargo of news sheets. Once they had it, they could set up in a cellar outside the city wall, close to the Three Tuns, and print the pamphlets right under the noses of the Stationer’s Company. Using the Dutch type led the trail away from their door and overseas, back to Amsterdam. Simple but brilliant.

  Tom could not believe his luck. He could now present Henry Jermyn with information to stop both the distribution and production of the Scottish pamphlets here in London.

  ‘Sam, you do not understand, but you have done me a great service. All will be well but you must immediately disassociate yourself from these people because very soon they will be arrested by the authorities. I understand your sympathies but the words they are printing are not only illegal, they are seditious, possibly treasonable. I must stop them.’

  ‘But you cannot report them, Master Thomas.’

  Tom studied Sam’s face. The young apprentice clearly believed in his friends’ campaign for a free voice and Tom admired that. But he had Arthur to think of and, anyway, these men were swimming in very deep waters. Too deep for him and Sam.

  ‘I must, Sam.’

  ‘No, you cannot Master. You cannot.’

  An uneasy feeling formed in the pit of Tom’s stomach. His memory flashed back to the Three Tuns and the reception he had been given by Sam’s friends.

  ‘Master, the type… it was… it was me who smuggled it in for them… on one of your boats.’

  Shock gripped Tom’s gut. His breathing became ragged.

  ‘I think that was why they got friendly with me,’ Sam continued, ‘when they found out I worked at a merchant warehouse. They said it would do no one harm if I could get the type into the country. It would fool the Stationers’ and keep them off their back. It would be my contribution to the cause. And, as I said, Master, I agreed with what they believed in. They said if I told them the name of the ship and when it would be in Amsterdam, their contacts over there would smuggle it on board. My job was to suggest a safe place to store it in the barky and retrieve it when tshe docked back in London.’

  Sam’s voice—that stupid, dull, country voice—was, word by word, dismantling Tom's world.

  ‘But how could I get their men onto our ship while it was docked in Amsterdam? And then it occurred to me. I didn’t have to. They could hide the type and blocks in the cargo on the quayside and watch it being loaded for them into the hold. But I needed a cargo they could find and that I would reach first when it landed here at the warehouse. Then I remembered your experiment, Master, what was it… the turmeric? It had not sold in Amsterdam, as we feared, and was due to be loaded onto the next boat returning to London. I could not believe my luck. I knew it had never left the warehouse in Amsterdam because, begging your pardon, Master, no one knew what to do with it. So I told the printers exactly where to find it. Their mates broke in one night, planted the type in the sacks of turmeric, carefully resealed them, and took a bag of pepper to cover their tracks. Two weeks later, the boat arrived back in London. No one here wanted to tell you all the turmeric had been returned, so I offered to store it in the warehouse, out of the way.’

  Tom surveyed the calamity. Jermyn had been joking when he asked if Tom was responsible for smuggling the pamphlets in. What would he do if he knew the truth? How could Tom now uncover this plot and save Arthur? Perhaps he could reveal the scheme but deny any involvement by his company. After all, it would be his word against Red Jerkin and his gang. Sam would keep his mouth shut, he’d see to that. It would be risky but he could probably pull it off.

  The next words from his apprentice killed that hope at birth.

  ‘Then I discovered most of the sacks had been fouled by sea water. It had been a bad crossing, heav
y seas, and some of the hatch covers had blown open. The sacks had been sitting in sea water for days. I opened them carefully. All the contents, the turmeric, the type and the blocks, were soaking wet. And everything—’

  ‘Stank of turmeric,’ Tom said flatly.

  ‘Yes, Master. But worse. The metal type cleaned up well enough but the wooden blocks of big fancy letters and page headings had turned bright yellow. I scrubbed and washed them but it wouldn’t come off. I met the men in the White Bull the next night and handed it over, the type, the blocks, everything. I was glad to get it off my hands. Three or four days later, I went as usual to help with printing the next pamphlet and could smell the spice as I walked into the print shop. The men thought it was a right joke.’

  ‘The Perfumed Press?’

  ‘Yes, Master. And I am sorry to say I told them you had known about the shipment and been glad to help, but you’d do it once only. I was terrified they would ask me to smuggle something else and did not know what to say.’

  Tom was numb. So that was why he had been greeted like a hero in the tavern. Christ alive. He was in deep trouble. He was known throughout the port of London for his turmeric shipment— Tom’s Folly. It was like placing his personal signature on the seditious Dutch press.

  They both sat in silence for five minutes as Tom shook uncontrollably. He was cold, wet and in despair. Without looking at Sam, he hauled himself to his feet and tramped down the alley towards Coleman Street before turning left for the river, the young apprentice trailing in his wake.

  A figure stepped out of a doorway in King’s Head Alley and slowly walked to where Tom and Sam had been sitting. He idly poked the pool of Sam’s vomit with the toe of his boot, then turned his bearded face to the moonlight, sniffed the air and, gathering in his dripping blue cloak, strolled away.

  Chapter 16

  25th August 1640

  Grub Street, North London

  ‘Tom. This is wonderful. Just like the old days.’

  Edmund Dalloway grinned in the gloom and punched Tom playfully on the arm.

  ‘Sssh, Edmund. We must be careful… and quiet.’

  Tom, Edmund and Sam Barnes were standing near the entrance to Grub Street, not far from the Three Tuns. Daylight was fading. Edmund was in high spirits and had not ceased talking since leaving the warehouse. Sam looked miserable, bemused by Edmund’s chatter.

  It had been a risk asking for Edmund’s assistance but Tom realised he had little choice. He must retrieve the type and blocks from Red Jerkin and his friends. For that, he needed help, both to carry the heavy mix of metal and wooden type, and in case things cut up rough. Sam would simply lead them to the printing works before making himself scarce.

  Tom knew Edmund would be eager to thwart the printers. The King had finally marched north that very week to confront the Scots and Edmund was anxious to support his monarch however possible. Anyway, Tom did not know who else to trust. He and Edmund had been through many scrapes in their youth and they worked well as a team.

  ‘Brandy, Tom?’ He turned to see Edmund producing a bottle from a cloak pocket. ‘No? Sam, how about you?’

  The young man flushed and shook his head vehemently. It would be a while before he touched drink again. They set off.

  ‘Sam, you must lead the way from here,’ Tom said. ‘Remember. You take us to the front door but no further. Then you must return immediately to the warehouse.’

  Sam nodded. Tom could see he simply wanted this nightmare to end. He had told Tom the men only used their first names but he’d heard the leader being referred to as ‘Brother Richard’. Tom was sure he now had Overton in his sights.

  They could see lights within the timber framed houses and shops as they moved along Grub Street. Ahead, a door opened and a man was hurled into the street. His hat followed.

  A voice shouted, ‘Take a nap outside if you cannot pay for your ale,’ followed by drunken laughter.

  The man groaned as the three men stepped over his body and continued their journey.

  ‘Good evening, my prime young bucks. Come in out of the cold, won’t you, and share some refreshment with my ladies. We’ll make a merry party.’

  A diminutive female figure moved out of the shadows and approached Edmund. Her body was the size of a growing girl but she had a lined and tired face, crusted with white powder. Lips crudely painted scarlet, her hair was piled high on her head, also thick with powder and fixed with pins, feathers and ribbons.

  The madame stood in front of Edmund and slowly pushed his chin down with the end of her fan until he was looking directly down the plunging neckline of her red satin dress.

  ‘So, what’s your fancy, my handsome? I’ve got young Nancy upstairs. Not long arrived from the country. Fresh as a daisy. Or perhaps you’d like someone with a little more experience?’

  She pushed her breasts up with both hands until one spilled out of her dress. She leaned forward to Edmund.

  ‘A little taste of what’s on offer, young man, and all clean as a whistle, I promise you that.’

  The woman stepped back and smiled, revealing a mouth of gaps and yellow stumps.

  ‘My dear lady,’ Edmund gave a short bow. ‘I can assure you nothing would give me greater pleasure but my friends and I are on urgent business and we cannot tarry. Another time perhaps?’

  Before the woman could answer he propelled a gawping Sam forward and up the street.

  The woman shouted back. ‘Please yourself, but if it’s a shaking of the sheets you’re after, you won’t find a better house north of the city wall.’

  If we carry on like this, Tom thought, we will have the attention of all Grub Street by the time we reach the secret press. At least Edmund declined the invitation. The street was growing darker as the upper floors of the buildings—the jetties—leaned forward steeply on either side, almost touching. Tom jumped to one side as a woman emptied a pail from a second floor window. Sam pulled at his arm.

  ‘It’s not far, Master Thomas. You will see an alley on our left in about twenty paces. The door to the press is halfway down, on the right.’

  ‘Is that the only way in and out of the building?’

  ‘As far as I know. The printing press is in the cellar, to hide the noise. They use the other rooms for storing paper, ink, spare parts and finished pamphlets. There’s also a room with a couple of truckle beds and a pantry. The privy’s in the backyard.’

  This end of Grub Street was empty, so they ran to the alley’s entrance. Tom looked down its length. No one in sight. Led by Sam, they entered the narrow backstreet with its houses on both sides fronting onto the alley. They reached a building on their right with a studded oak door which looked new.

  ‘They changed the door after moving in, to keep the press secure,’ Sam whispered. Tom gently pushed. It was locked and well built. Breaking through was not an option. Tom stepped back and surveyed the front of the building, two stories high with three windows, two on the first floor and one to the right on the ground floor, next to the oak door. The house was in darkness.

  ‘And you say someone will be in?’ Tom whispered. ‘I see no lamps.’

  ‘They will be working in the cellar. Likely two or three of them. They do that in the evening. They show no lights to keep attention away.’

  ‘Right, Sam. Your job is done. Off with you.’

  ‘There’s one more thing, Master Thomas. They use a special knock as a signal. Two knocks together, a pause, then three more knocks together.’

  ‘Two knocks, then three. Understood. Now go, before someone finds you here.’

  Tom slapped Sam on the shoulder and the apprentice hesitated, before turning on his heel and walking rapidly back up the alley. Tom turned to Edmund.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Edmund examined the ground floor window. He tutted.

  ‘I think tis a pity someone is in the building now. We would not get past the door in a week, but I wager I could be through this window in two minutes. As it is, we will have to b
razen it out… rely on the Dalloway charm.’

  Edmund gave Tom an encouraging grin. Tom swallowed hard and took out his sword. He knocked on the heavy oak door with its hilt. Rap Rap. Pause. Rap Rap Rap. The harsh sound echoed down the alley. A dog barked nearby. Rap Rap. Pause. Rap Rap Rap. More barking from the dog and a man’s voice shouting. The dog continued, followed by a loud yelp and silence. Edmund shrugged. Maybe their knocking could not be heard over the sound of the press? Tom put his ear to the door but could detect nothing. Perhaps they would have to break in through the window after all. He lifted the hilt of his blade to knock a final time but stopped as he heard a bolt being drawn. He quickly sheathed his sword and stood back. Another heavy bolt was drawn and the door eased open. A thickset man stepped forward, holding a lantern. Tom cursed his luck. He had hoped one of the carousers from the Three Tuns would be on door duty and recognise him as a friend. But this man was a stranger, and suspicious. He held up his lantern and peered at Tom and Edmund.

  ‘Who are you and what’s your business at this time of night?’ he grunted.

  ‘I have come about the Perfumed Press. My name is Tallant and I met your friends at the Three Tuns. I am the merchant who helped you with your… your special cargo.’

  The man looked Tom up and down then turned to Edmund.

  ‘And him?’ He waved the lantern in Edmund’s direction.

  ‘He is my brother. Also a merchant. It was his ship that carried your cargo.’

  Tom had not rehearsed this ruse with Edmund and, for once, his friend said nothing.

  ‘We have urgent news for Mr Overton. It is of the greatest importance.’

  The man leaned forward and hissed at Tom. ‘Keep your damned voice down, you booby.’

  ‘Well perhaps you should let us in, so we can discuss our business in private.’

  The man sniffed and stepped back. ‘Wait here,’ he muttered, and closed the door.