by Michael Ward
One of the bolts slid shut. Edmund leant forward.
‘So far, so good… brother.’
Tom gave Edmund a tight smile. He fingered the cord of his cloak bag. His heart beat like a cooper’s hammer as they waited in silence until the door opened again. The same man appeared and waved them in.
It was pitch dark inside save the light of the lantern. Tom could dimly see they had entered directly into the front room. Two truckle beds were pushed against the right-hand wall. They must keep the printing supplies upstairs, out of sight. There was a doorway in the rear wall leading, Tom assumed, to the pantry and the stairs. They came to another door on the left. The man pulled it open towards him, and light streamed into the room. Tom caught a glimpse of Edmund’s stony expression. The time for jesting was over.
The man waved the lantern at Tom. ‘Down there,’ he said. ‘You two first.’
Tom entered the doorway and saw a set of wooden cellar steps to his left. He ducked his head and descended carefully down the creaking treads followed by Edmund. The room below was small and airless with a familiar smell. It did not have the pungency he remembered from India but it was unmistakable—turmeric, mixed with printer’s ink.
The cellar was well lit and, with each step down, revealed itself to Tom. He saw the legs of two people facing him. Were there three men in the house? He had hoped for only two. Next, a large wooden machine, barrels and a table became visible. As he reached the bottom step, the faces of the two men came into view, bringing good news and bad.
The good news was one of the men was Red Jerkin. The bad was the expression on the other man’s face. It was as hard as stone. Tom smelt danger.
‘It is him, right enough,’ Red Jerkin told Stone Face as Tom stepped onto the cellar floor. ‘Don’t know the other cove, though.’
The man with the lantern stopped on the stairs behind them, blocking any escape from the cellar.
Stone Face paced towards Tom and looked him up and down. Tom’s chest tightened as he noticed his eyes, as black as Newcastle coal.
‘My friend here says you were buying everyone drinks at the Tuns the other night. Why should that be?’
‘Perhaps you do not know, but I am young Sam Barnes’s employer… the merchant who arranged for your type to be shipped from Amsterdam.’
‘Oh, I know that right enough. Sam told me you approved of his little enterprise.’
Tom smiled.
‘Slightly more than that. It was my idea and my brother’s boat.’ Tom nodded at Edmund. ‘So Sam told you it was all his work? I am afraid he has a tendency to exaggerate. No doubt he wanted to impress. Well meaning, but a little irritating at times.’
With any luck that will reduce their interest in Sam, Tom hoped. Stone Face said nothing. Red Jerkin had moved behind him. Stone Face was clearly in charge. Tom pressed on. He did not want to stay in this cellar a minute longer than necessary.
‘And why did I help you? I will tell you why. The King is a fool. His attempts to raise money to fight the Scots is ruining the city’s trade. The sooner the people persuade him the Scottish campaign is a lost cause, the better. Your pamphlets are doing much to turn sentiment against him and sap his support. I congratulate you.’
‘So you believe in the struggle, against Laud’s reforms of the Scottish church and the other Papist conspiracies consuming the King?’
Tom had carefully considered how he would approach this conversation. Having seen his brother Peter in full godly flow, he knew he could not imitate that convincingly. Better to stick to what he knew.
‘I am a man of commerce—a Protestant merchant. I am not fond of the Arminian reforms and my family fought the Catholics at the Armada. However, I would not assume to be one of the chosen. I am a merchant first and the Scottish campaign is damnable for our trade.’
Stone Face held Tom’s gaze. His expression softened slightly and he stepped forward.
‘Very well. They tell me you want to speak to a Richard Overton? There is no one here of that name so you will have to state your business to me.’
‘Are you in charge of the press?’
‘That is none of your concern. If you wish to state your business, you must tell me.’
Tom studied Stone Face. Is this Richard Overton? I fancy it is, but he will never admit it. No matter, it is the printing blocks I need and, while we are here, as much metal type as we can carry. I will tell Jermyn the press has been put out of action. He looked around the room. The press was in the corner behind Red Jerkin. On the table Tom could see type in a frame and a stack of wooden blocks of different sizes.
‘As a merchant, I need to keep my ear to the ground, both in the city and Whitehall. Today I heard alarming news the Stationer’s Company was close to tracing the Scottish pamphlets.’
‘We hear such rumours each day,’ Stone Face sneered. ‘They wish to scare us into lying low, but the rumours are simply that. They never come to anything.’
‘I thought so too,’ Tom retorted, ‘but, to be certain, I made a discreet check and was informed that Josiah Wilmot from the Stationers’ is leading a search of the Moorfields area this very night.’
Stone Face said nothing.
‘That’s a hundred yards from the Three Tuns and less than half a mile from here. I sat next to your men in the Tuns the other night. If they talk like that every week, I suspect half of Gunn Alley will know your business. I am afraid the game’s up here in Grub Street. I am here to warn you to pack up and leave, while you still have the opportunity.’
Stone Face glanced at Red Jerkin, who looked abashed. It was enough to plant a seed of doubt. He turned to the man on the stairs.
‘Ezekiel, go and get the others. We may have packing to do.’
Edmund looked at Tom with his eyebrow raised. Tom had not bargained for this.
‘There is no need for that,’ Tom said. ‘My brother and I have come for the blocks marked with the yellow spice. They could lead the Stationers’ to us as the source. But we can also assist you in packing your other machinery. Time is of the essence.’
Tom felt the situation slipping from his control. His voice sounded shrill. He had spoken too urgently. He knew they might have to take the type by force. Should they act immediately, with odds of three to two? Or let the man Ezekiel go? That would even the odds briefly but how long before the others arrived? Where were they? In the Three Tuns, or even closer? As he dithered, events overtook him. Stone Face nodded to Ezekiel who put the lantern down and ran up the stairs. They heard his footsteps in the room above, bolts sliding and the door opening. A moment later it slammed shut, followed by silence.
Stone Face turned to Tom. ‘Here’s a different idea. How’s about we keep the type and blocks as we still need them for the pamphlets. We empty the house, lock you two down here and watch for that bastard Wilmot to arrive. If he does, you will have some explaining to do to him… and if he doesn’t, well then, you will have some explaining to do to me.’
Tom's plan was now in tatters. He could feel panic rising inside.
‘You could keep everything, as far as I am concerned, if it was not for that damnable spice. We must have the printer’s blocks which are stained. If they are taken at any point in the future, they will be traced back to me. Then I will be of no further use to you, whereas I could be of service again. My ships travel routes to Europe and beyond. I can smuggle whatever you want in and out of London.’
Tom’s mind flashed back to his indignant refusal of Jermyn’s request. So much of his life was now inside out.
‘Aye, you could,’ Stone Face nodded, ‘and I dare say you will in the future. As long as we keep hold of these blocks, you’ll have to do what we tell you—’
‘Oh for goodness sake.’ Edmund stepped forward. ‘Forgive me, Tom, but we do not have all night, given the imminent arrival of our friend’s companions. It is time, I think, for the Dalloway charm.’
Edmund pulled from his cloak a large pistol and aimed it at Stone Face’s chest. The effect was immediate. Th
e man stepped back and Red Jerkin ducked behind him. Edmund threw his cloak bag at Tom.
‘Brother!’ A tight smile from Edmund. ‘Get what you need and be quick. I doubt I can stand another minute in this malodorous dungeon.’
Tom looked at the cloak bag at his feet and back at Edmund, the pistol rock steady in his hand.
‘Move, Tom,’ Edmund shouted. Tom sprang into action.
Red Jerkin spoke up.
‘He ain’t got no fuse for that pistol. He cannot fire it. Let’s rush him.’
‘It’s a flintlock, you halfwit,’ Stone Face retorted. ‘It don’t need a fuse. Blow your brains out at this range. Go ahead, if you want to try your luck. Nice piece.’
‘Thank you,’ Edmund replied. ‘It is rather fine, I agree. French, I am told. Now, gentlemen, please would you be so kind as to move into this corner, away from the press, so I can keep an eye on you while my dear brother retrieves his items.’
Tom feverishly worked his way through the contents of the table. He took every wooden block and as much metal type as they could carry. Within minutes he had filled two large cloak bags.
‘Tom, we must take our leave before the others return. Gentlemen. Please remain where you are and do not attempt to pursue us. Oh, and perhaps I should make my position clear. Unlike my brother, I am a man of firm convictions about the current unrest within our country. I will defend His Majesty the King unto death. I regard your scandal sheets as seditious poison and I would not hesitate, indeed it would give me the greatest pleasure, to plant a musket ball between your eyes and watch you bleed out at my feet. Have I made myself clear? Yes? Good! Tom, please lead the way up the stairs with your bags. I suggest you take the lantern as well.’
Edmund stepped to one side but kept his eyes on the two men. Tom pulled the bags with one hand, held the lantern in the other and walked up the steps, which groaned and creaked under the weight.
Edmund waited a few seconds and then shouted.
‘When you reach the room above, drag the two beds over to the door.’
Edmund followed Tom up the stairs, walking backwards carefully. Stone Face moved towards him. Edmund immediately raised his arm and sighted Stone Face’s head down the barrel.
‘You were admiring the pistol,’ Edmund said amiably. ‘It is a fine piece of work. Intricately carved, with a trigger as soft as a maiden’s kiss. Do not distract me as I climb the stairs. I would hate to stumble and there to be an accident. Always better to live to fight another day, don’t you think?’
Stone Face stepped back. Tom dragged the beds across the floor as Edmund backed up the steps. As he reached halfway, he bent down to keep the two men in view. By the time he reached the top he was crawling crab-like, keeping his pistol aimed at the cellar below.
‘Tom. Have the door open and the beds ready. Make sure the bags are by the front door. Let me know when all is prepared.’
Edmund perched on the top step, watching the two printers as Tom pulled the beds closer.
When Tom was finished he tapped Edmund on the shoulder.
‘Ready,’ he whispered.
Edmund leaned forward.
‘Gentlemen, I bid you adieu.’
Edmund dived from the top step through the open doorway and tumbled into the room.
‘Shut it, Tom, shut it!’
Tom slammed the door closed as he heard the men on the steps. Edmund put his pistol on the first bed and rammed the bed head against the door.
‘Tom, stand back. Get the other bed.’
Edmund picked up the pistol as the printers reached the top step and shoved on the door. The bed began to slide backwards. Edmund cocked the pistol, aimed at the door and fired. There was an explosion and bright flash, followed by the splintering of wood and a howl of pain from behind the door. The pistol recoil threw Edmund back across the room.
‘Good God, that was loud. How satisfactory.’
‘Have you not fired it before?’
‘Not in anger. As a matter of fact I only purchased it last week. Seems to work though, does it not?’
Tom shook his head through the gun smoke .
Edmund ran across the room.
‘Quick, Tom, the other bed. Jam it against the first!’
They pushed it into position with enough room to wedge both beds end to end between the stair door and the opposite wall.
The hammering resumed on the door, between shouts of pain and cursing.
‘As I said, like the old days, hey Tom?’ Edmund leapt for the cloak bags. ‘My goodness, this bag is heavy. Time to go, brother Tom, that shot will have woken half the street.’
They stepped outside the house and closed the front door quietly. A figure was standing at the end of the alley where it joined Grub Street but they could not wait until the path was clear. With a cloak bag each, they set off. With each step, Tom expected Ezekiel and his friends to appear around the corner they were approaching. But only the single figure remained, standing by a shop lantern, with his back to them. Another twenty yards and they would be in Grub Street with more options for escape. Tom could still hear a faint hammering behind them. One or two lights appeared at windows, but no one came out to investigate. He desperately wanted to break into a run but that would attract attention. Their best chance was to keep walking.
Ten yards later, the man ahead suddenly turned left and disappeared from view along Grub Street. Tom halted. The light from the street lantern was poor but there was something familiar about the figure. Edmund tugged at Tom's cloak.
‘Tom, we are ten yards from possible redemption. This is not the time to stop and take the night air.’
‘That man ahead, did you see him?’ The alley entrance was now empty.
‘Which man? Tom, we do not have time for this. They could have broken through the cellar door by now. We must get out of sight.’
Tom reached Grub Street and looked in the direction the man had taken. The empty street stretched away to the left. He paused, straining his ears. Voices were approaching from the left.
‘Edmund, turn to the right.’
They moved quickly into Grub Street and, passing the tavern on their right, slipped into a side alley on the opposite side of the road. The heavy cloak bags pulled at their hands and banged against their legs. Twenty yards in they saw a dark passage, again on their right.
‘This will be Moor Lane,’ Tom said. ‘It runs alongside Grub Street to its east. It should bring us out on Fore Street, by the city wall. It’s a short walk from there to Moorgate.’
Relief flooded through Tom. It looked like, somehow, they might have rescued the printing type and his reputation. He could not thank Edmund enough. They’d reached the end of Moor Lane and were about to step into Fore Street, when Edmund’s arm shot across Tom’s chest bringing him to a sudden halt. Edmund dragged Tom back into the dark alley.
‘Look,’ he hissed.
To their right, Stone Face and three men were standing in the middle of Fore Street. A crescent moon shone in a cloudless sky, a perfect night for stargazing. Tom thought of Elizabeth in her garden and prayed for the coal fog she cursed so roundly to make an appearance.
‘They must have run the length of Grub Street at double speed. Obviously eager to have a word with us,’ Edmund whispered.
Tom considered their options: to their right, Stone Face and his men; to their left, three hundred yards down Fore Street, the entrance to Moorgate in the city wall, and safety in the alleys and back runs beyond.
‘If we break cover and run for it, weighed down with these bags, they will catch us before we reach Moorgate,’ Tom said. ‘If we stay here, they will find us eventually. That’s why they are stationed there. They know we cannot approach Moorgate without being seen.’
Tom sat on his bag, relief turning to anguish. Edmund stirred.
‘Wait here, Tom. Do not move. I will be away for ten minutes. Here, look after this,’ and he handed Tom his cloak bag. He disappeared back up Moor Lane.
Tom sat shivering
on the bags of type. He watched the men in Fore Street who showed no signs of moving. Eventually he heard someone walking down Moor Lane towards him. To his relief, the familiar form of Edmund appeared through the dark.
‘What have you been up to Edmund?’
‘Calling in a few reinforcements. Wait and see.’
They both hunkered down on the bags in silence. The late August air was chill. Eventually Tom heard a familiar voice. A female voice. It was the diminutive madame with three of her girls in tow walking down the street towards the group of men. Stone Face turned his back on them but some of the others approached the girls. Tom turned to Edmund with a raised eyebrow.
‘I dropped by madame’s establishment again. She assumed I had changed my mind on her earlier offer but I told her some friends were visiting the area and I wanted to make sure they got a friendly Grub Street welcome. A golden guinea did the rest. They are under instructions not to leave the men until each has, erm, been fully satisfied.’
Tom looked back up the street. One of the men was disappearing down a side alley with a girl while Stone Face shouted at the tiny figure of the madame, threatening her with his fist.
‘I think he may have met his match. Edmund you are brilliant! Let us move quietly to Moorgate, while he is distracted.’
They picked up the bags and slipped out of the shadows.
‘Keep to the edge and do not look back,’ Tom whispered.
They inched along the street and were over halfway to Moorgate when they heard a shout behind them. It was Stone Face in hot pursuit, one of his men running behind, buttoning his breeches.
‘Come, Edmund. Full tilt for freedom!’ said Tom, as they broke into a sprint.
It was dangerous going. The road was rutted and the heavy bags bounced awkwardly against their legs as they gathered speed. Tom tripped, scraping his shins on a stone. Cursing, he held on to the bag and got to his feet. Edmund did not break his stride and moved ahead. Stone Face had already gained twenty yards and was closing fast. Tom put his head down and pumped his legs hard. Now it was do or die. With each stride the bulky bags became harder to carry. Ahead, Edmund rounded the corner into Moorgate.