The Masters of Bow Street (35 page)

The older man was leaning back against a cushion. In the darkness of the coach, he looked pale and tired but the one good side of his mouth was curved in what might have been a smile of contentment. Still pondering his ‘discovery’ and not sure how he felt about it, James glanced through the carriage window and received a second, very different kind of shock. Amongst a crowd waiting at the corner of the Strand until such time as the horse and carriage traffic should slacken so that they could cross was Mary Smith. She looked very stern as she peered ahead, and in more ways than one reminded him of his mother. He had no idea whether she had glimpsed him; if she had, she was making sure that he did not know.

Two of the House of Furnival guards took advantage of a lull in the traffic to halt a number of sedan chairs so that their carriage could turn into the Strand. Mary was lost to sight on the turn. James sat back, aware of the interested gaze of his mother but in no mood to talk.

If only he had spoken differently to Mary at their last meeting. Now it was too late.

Mary Smith knew who was in the carriage because she had been among the crowd in Bow Street to watch the party come out. Her father had business at a Wesley congregation on the south side of the city and so had not been able to accept an invitation to attend the dinner; she suspected that he had arranged the business deliberately so that he could avoid mixing with old friends at a time when his clothes were patched and the heaviness in his heart showed so markedly in his expression.

But she was not thinking of her father then, only of James Marshall. She could not remember the time, even when they had both been children, when she had not loved him. But when, four years before, she had last seen him, he had been so unbelievably tall and handsome, while she had still been so plain, that she had tried to put him out of her mind. And until he had come on that fateful night, she had almost forgotten him, or at least had been able to think of him without longing.

On the night of his first visit, hope had flared within her because his concern had been so evident, and although she had warned herself that nothing would come of this interest, that her deep love for him would never find response, she had lived in the clouds of fancy until after his last brief call.

Now, she was installed as the housekeeper of the Weygalls. He knew only that they lived above their general merchandise shop near Long Acre. And now he was driving off in a magnificent carriage to a world Mary would neither know or share. She did not believe he had seen her. Now she had shopping to do, mostly for fabrics to make dresses for the three daughters of the Weygalls, and it was to Hewson’s in the Strand that she was heading, while fighting back her tears.

Among others who had watched the celebration at Bow Street was Gabriel Morgan, the oldest of the Morgan brothers and one of the gang that had attacked the young girl. At that time he had no thought that James Marshall was the man who had put him and his friends to flight, ending in the ignominy of the cesspit. He was going to one of his regular meetings with others of the group soon, and among those present would be Jacob Rackham, who had become their leader.

‘Jamey, a number of us are going up the river to see the sights,’ Timothy McCampbell announced. ‘Will you come with us? Your stepfather will be well cared for and your mother is already surrounded by a positive horde of aunts and cousins. If you don’t come with us you will miss one of the greatest spectacles on earth.’

‘Then I would be a fool to stay behind,’ James said.

It was now after six o’clock, and the excitement of arrival was gone, yet a glow of elation remained. For a while he had been in a whirl, meeting Furnivals of all ages, as well as elderly men like Sir Cornelius Hooper, who had for two years been Lord Mayor of London, and was said to be the only one in thirty years who had proved incorruptible. He had also met a succession of beautifully dressed young women and was aware that several had eyed him with speculative interest. At least two of the young ladies were Timothy’s sisters and one, fair-haired Penelope, had caught his eye more than once.

He followed Timothy through a maze of passages and staircases until they approached a small inlet from the Thames by a flight of stone steps leading to a gaily decorated barge in which at least a dozen youths were already crowded and four watermen sat ready at the oars. A fifth helped Timothy and James into the barge, making it sway slightly, then cast off.

James saw gates opening slowly between the inlet and a much wider section, not the river itself but so close to it that, as the barge swung through, a great expanse of the river showed.

He caught his breath.

From this level, only two or three feet above the surface, the panorama of London’s river was revealed in a way it could seldom be. The great sailing barges, the clippers, even three men-of-war with their great figureheads, towered high above the host of smaller ships, and each one seemed to be in full sail; whilst moving in and out of this armada of sailing ships were hundreds of small craft: some, tiny cockleshell dinghies with only one man at the oars; some, brightly painted barges. It seemed like water bedlam, a mass of uncontrolled movement with a cacophony of sound, from loud voices to squeaking winches, firecrackers to bells and wooden rattles used by the watchmen to raise alarm by night. Among the small craft, however, were many in which stood liveried watermen employed by the great shipping lines as well as by the port and river authorities to make order out of chaos, moving ships from one position to another, arranging anchorage, working with colleagues on the quaysides to tie the larger ships to stanchions.

But still more than all this magnificence, making the spectacle absolutely breathtaking, were the flags and pennants of every imaginable size and colour. Every tiny ship, even the smallest dinghy, had its flag bravely flying, and it seemed as if there was no room for other craft to move.

As the barge drew father into the river James saw that more watermen were keeping a space clear. It was yet three hours to full tide but already the river level was high and most if not all of the mud flats were covered with water. From the banks naked boys dived and swam, going up to ships riding at anchor and holding out their hands in supplication. Most of these were water thieves by night, the mudlarks who swam close to the ships to secure and swim away with stolen articles of all kinds tossed overboard by crew members or by ratcatchers or other workers from the city.

There were masses of people.

On ships and on quaysides, on terraces and on roofs, there were people. On the castellated walls of the Tower of London there were people, for the Tower Gardens had been thrown open. On the cannon and on the walls, people sat and watched and waited, while street sellers moved among them, never still, never silent.

‘Look!’ cried a youth next to Timothy, and he pointed with joy towards a church steeple. On the top two lads were clinging, getting the finest view of all London and the pageant. If only they did not fall and break their necks, thought James grimly.

Slowly the barge turned the curve in the river between Temple and Charing Cross, and gradually Westminster Bridge came into view. Sated though they were with spectacle, not one among the company failed to gasp in astonishment, for here there were more ships, banked tight at the sides, three more men-of-war and thousands of small craft.

At the steps by one of the arches, elaborately adorned with flags and pennants and with carved crests and shields painted in bright hues, was the Royal Barge. There were enough men aboard, all bustling fore and aft, to make sure that it was shortly to be used.

‘Is the King coming to Furnival’s?’ a young man called out in awe.

‘It is unlikely,’ answered Timothy. ‘But those of you who wish may doubtless be presented to the Prince of Wales.’ He waited for the chorus of exclamations to die down, then went on: ‘His Majesty was gracious enough to send a message of congratulations and good will, and the assurance that he will be represented, and I have it from the Lord Chamberlain himself that the Prince of Wales will join us. Now perhaps the time has come to explain what has been planned. For the first time in history a pageant has been organised by a private company, with the cooperation of all the guilds concerned as well as that of other great houses, shipping companies and dock owners. The new docks opposite Furnival Tower House will be known as Furnival Docks, where there are sufficient berths to house ten ships at one time - not little coastal vessels but ocean-going merchantmen with a weight of a thousand tons.’

Timothy paused, for the barge went beneath one of the arches, and instinctively everyone on board became silent, although there was ample room for two of the oarsmen to keep the barge in motion, and the quiet was uncanny as they passed. On the far side the scene was very different, sylvan and meadowed in long stretches on either side, with only small craft on the river, for no ship with a mast much higher than fifteen feet could pass with safety. As the oarsmen swung the barge round for the return voyage, Timothy resumed his peroration of the coming events of the night, as if there had been no interruption, but he soon had to raise his voice because of the increasing noise from the crowds.

He broke off again as a dinghy with one small boy in it, naked to the waist, came across their bows, both arms outstretched. His ribs stuck out against his skin; it was a miracle that he had the strength to row. Several of the guests tossed pennies, and his cries of gratitude wafed after them as the barge ploughed on through the water and Timothy resumed speaking.

‘After the formal approach of the craft and the receiving of the masters by the directors of the House of Furnival, there will be a reception in the main hall and on the terrace, with more than seven hundred guests, including officers from the ships, the Prince of Wales and his entourage, the Lord Mayor of London, the Governor of the Tower of London, at least three bishops, no less than seventeen Members of Parliament. . .’

Through gaps in the buildings and in between the sails, James caught fleeting glimpses of the gallows at Tower Hill, and thought again of Tyburn and the day Frederick Jackson had been hanged. He had no doubt that pickpockets and cut-purses were active among this crowd, that every kind of theft was being perpetrated, and that some would be caught and sentenced to death or to transportation for life. Yet, by whatever standards he judged, this was a great day.

All of the group which called itself the New Mohocks were downriver from the new docks, at the beflagged windows of a tall warehouse. But the flags did not hide the sign which was fastened to the wall:

Ebenezer Morgan & Sons

Nine Other Establishments in London

Fine Teas Coffees Spices Rare Fruits Nuts

Finest Produce from all Corners of the World

All Goods of Highest Class

Jacob Rackham put a naval telescope to his eye and studied the gallows at Tower Hill across the river. When he lowered the glass, he spoke through a tight-lipped smile.

‘We shall catch our man one day, Gabriel, and he will know what it is to suffer.’

But Gabriel Morgan was too full of the pageantry and colour of the day to think about revenge. He was far more concerned lest it should rain.

Among the crowds on the riverbank and the quays were thousands of people who would join the revels at every hanging day at Tyburn. The same sellers of fruit and pies, news-sheets and notices, the same thieves, the same singing groups, the same beggars. And most of the men who by night donned masks and became highwaymen or footpads were here also, jostling with others, enjoying every moment of this great occasion.

Frederick Jackson, now over eleven years of age, was with some other youths, a handsome but sober-faced lad who had begged his mother’s permission to come to the pageant. Most people who had known his father might be aware of the likeness, perhaps puzzled by it until they heard the lad’s name - he had been given Jackson’s name at birth at Eve Milharvey’s insistence.

Already on board one of the great barges at Westminster was Lisa, Duchess of Gilhampton, and also on board was not only her husband but at least five men who, in the past, had received her favours; yet few ladies received more respect than she. The Hewsons were on another barge owned by a customer whom they had ‘dressed’ for two generations. Tom Harris, whose duties left him free until dark, was also present; a subdued Harris, whose knee had not yet recovered from the sprain received when James had thrown him over his shoulder.

One other person known to James Marshall was among the crowd, one of five boys who had broken out of their school in Rochester and had persuaded a wagon master to bring them as far as the southern end of the new bridge. From there they had walked to the Tower, and the ringleader of the escape was astride one of the guns, ignoring two Beefeaters who stood near. In the Tower, companies of dragoons were being dispatched to vantage points throughout the City and Westminster as well as the connecting highway. If trouble threatened after the pageant, as well it might, for much drink was already being tossed down hardened throats, the troops would be at hand to keep order.

The boy astride the gun would have been even more readily recognised as his father’s son than Frederick Jackson as his, for this was Johnny Furnival, looking at least four years older than his ten years and startlingly like John Furnival had been in his youth, with the same honey-blond hair and honey-brown eyes which missed little. He was not only big but very strong for his age, and dexterous, too. Every now and then he espied a carelessly open pocket or a loosely held purse, and he would leap from the gun, snatch what he could find from the pocket and take away the purse, then return by a circuitous route to the cannon, where his friends kept a place for him.

Had anyone told Johnny Furnival, son of Sir John and Lady Furnival, that for a single one of the offences he committed he could be hanged or transported, he would have laughed and scoffed, for whatever else was bad about him, he had high courage and great daring.