The Prince of Eden (2 page)

The man threw back his head and laughed openly, struggling for balance atop the shifting shoulders. "No lasting damage, I assure you," he grinned. "I left two broken batons and some missing teeth in my wake. It's becoming increasingly difficult to gain admittance to your nightly salon." His dark eyes burned with a hard gemlike flame, as though it were nothing to him to maintain this ecstasy.

Jawster laughed heartily. "Ask your friends there how they do it, sir," he called down. "They'll give you practical lessons enough."

The man bobbed his head, and as the shoulders were now carrying him away in the opposite direction, he craned his head back and lifted his voice to Jawster. "As soon as the festivities are over, sir, I want your ear for a moment."

Again Jawster nodded. He watched carefully as the scum bore him away, their upturned faces as bright as children's.

Then the new turnkey was there again with his unbroken refrain. "Who is he, sir, please? Who is he?"

Jawster's smile softened into a reflective angle. He leaned forward in a relaxed position on the railing. Quietly he spoke. "The Prince of Eden, lad."

Apparently the identification meant nothing to the young boy. He now pointed down into the Common Cell, his young face awash with indignation. "Look what he's doing, sir. Now, that's not permissible, is it? I mean—"

The boy was becoming tedious. Jawster considered sending him on to the Women's Ward. After all, his job for the first month was to gain experience in all parts of grand old Newgate. Jawster had suffered him long enough. But no. Perhaps this experience was as important as any to be gained in Newgate, the knowledge that, under certain conditions, there were forces larger than all the rules and handbooks, and against such an incomprehensible force, all that the turnkeys and wardens could do was shuck the rules, like foolish burdens borne for too many years.

Against the shocked expression in the boy's face, Jawster turned away. He knew what was going on below. He didn't have to look, but he looked anyway.

The inmates had deposited the Prince of Eden near the center of the Common Cell. Upon the instant of alighting, the man had flung open his great velvet cape, revealing carefully sewn pouches, a walking storeroom containing many bottles of gin, loaves of bread, white bread, unknown in Newgate, and pouches of tobacco. This bounty he was now distributing liberally about the floor to the eager, outstretched hands of the prisoners.

Apparently the new turnkey had been shocked into silence at the sight of the incorrigibles passing bottles and loaves around. Jawster tried again to make him understand. "Pay them no mind, lad," he counseled. "A little gin won't hurt them. Their sins will be intact come morning when, as belated punishment, you can mask the lot of them."

Obviously it was cold comfort. "Does this go on nightly, sir?" the lad asked with clenched jaw.

"Oh my, no," soothed Jawster. "Certainly not nightly. The Prince of Eden gives us the pleasure of his company perhaps once, twice a month. The rest of the time—"

Suddenly a great cheer arose from the Common Cell as apparently all felt the impulse to pay communal homage to their benefactor. Jawster looked down. Someone had arranged a firmly packed throne of straw and on this the Prince of Eden was now sitting, the bottles passing back and forth before him. The conversation had fallen so low that Jawster couldn't hear what was being said. Again, no need. He

knew that families were being inquired after, charges being discussed, knew further that by dusk the following evening, many of the rabble would be back in the alleyways of London, their freedom due to the generosity of a nameless solicitor.

"What's the good?" the new turnkey grumbled. He shook his head, as if nothing within his line of vision made sense.

"Where's the harm?" countered Jawster, eager to relax the boy in view of the events yet to come.

"Who did you say he was?" the new turnkey asked again, looking down.

Annoyed, Jawster snapped, "I told you; The Prince of—"

"No, I don't mean that. His real name—"

In a voice peculiarly lacking in intonation, as though the facts were not nearly as fascinating as the man himself, Jawster recited all he knew about the man. "His name is Edward Eden. He's a bastard. His father was a blueblood. Dead now." He lifted his head. "Rich as sin, the bastard is," he concluded quietly.

Throughout this brief recital Jawster had never taken his eyes off the object of his description. The criminals were beginning to move away from him, taking their half-filled bottles off into the shadows.

Without at first being aware of it, Jawster saw now that the Prince of Eden was staring up at him. Slowly the man rose from the throne of straw and walked through the rabble until he was standing directly beneath Jawster. He reached inside the bounteous cape and withdrew a full bottle. Not mere gin this time, but as well as Jawster could tell, a lovely bottle of red and warming port.

"I didn't forget you, Jawster," the man called up. "Here! Catch!"

Within the instant the precious bottle was sailing upward toward the railing. Eagerly Jawster reached out and grabbed it before it started the downward descent. It was port, blood red and capable of warming a man on the coldest night.

"I thank you, sir," Jawster grinned, eyeing the bottle lovingly, seeing in it the promising temporary relief from loneliness and a wasted life.

At this, the new turnkey's indignation reached its height. "You— can't," he stammered. "That's b-bribery, that's what it is. It isn't—right, sir, beggin' your pardon, but I'm afraid I must—"

Jawster had had enough. He looked over at the boy with clear contempt. "You must what?" he demanded.

The new turnkey looked back. His eyes were sly and cautious. "The handbook says—"

"Damn the handbook!" Jawster exploded. "I run the Common Cell, have for over thirty years. I don't need no green twig telling me about handbooks and the like." He was aware of a small audience gaping up

from the floor of the Common Cell. And he had his satisfaction in the stricken face of the boy. "Now, go along with you," he commanded, a portion of his anger receding. "Look in on the Women's Ward. Their snores should calm you right enough. There's no place in the handbook where it says prisoners can't snore."

The boy backed meekly away, tripping once on nothing whatever. A moment later, he disappeared, almost running into the black interior of the prison.

Jawster continued to focus on the prison door through which the lad had passed. His eyes were heavy, a small nerve in his left temple jumping. Perhaps he shouldn't have dismissed the boy like that.

But at that moment, he heard his name being called from below. "Jawster Gray?"

He looked down. The Prince of Eden was staring up at him. His face in the light from the wall torches was a shadowy arrangement of eyes, a patrician nose and opened mouth, the appearance of one who has been sharpened by a kind of hunger into an impression of devilry.

"You called, sir?" he replied, not really wanting to ally himself with that face, yet powerless to prevent it.

The mysterious features softened. "Who was the lad?" he asked, head tilted back.

Jawster tried to dismiss it. "Merely the new turnkey," he muttered, eyeing the bottle of port. "The wages draw them off the farms and out of the factories and we have to put up with their bloody virginity." He shook his head, feeling more regret than was healthy for him. He was a man aware of his responsibilities.

Still he tried to minimize his feelings. "Pay it no mind, sir," he called down. He knew that countless bribes had passed countless hands even for Eden to be standing there in the Common Cell. What was this bottle of port compared to the coin that now rested in the night warden's pocket?

His feelings assuaged, Jawster grew expansive. "You mentioned business, sir," he called down. He tried to hide the bottle of port, but there was nowhere.

"In a minute," the man called up. "Warm yourself with that in your arms and shortly I'll call for the ladder."

Jawster nodded. He eyed the bottle. Apparently you could trust God to make allowances, but not new turnkeys. Again he turned the bottle admiringly over in his arms. Taking a bribe was one thing. Drinking on duty was another. No, he'd wait until dawn, until he was released for the morning. Then he'd go to his flat on Charing Cross and drink himself senseless.

He hurried now to his small office at the north end of the catwalk, a

cell as mean and narrow as those scattered throughout the prison. Beneath the stained pillow on the low cot where he sometimes stretched out in the dead of night, he stashed the precious bottle and moved back out onto the catwalk. The Common Cell below was almost quiet, the gin a powerful sleeping potion. And there—his attention fully engaged—there near the far wall he saw the Prince of Eden bending over the young woman, the woman herself as lifeless as ever.

Jawster moved quietly around the catwalk. As far as he could tell, the man was simply staring down on her. Then Jawster saw him remove the black cape and place it over her. Still Jawster watched with held breath. There was whispering out of his range of hearing. But there was no response from the young woman. Obviously the shock of her harsh sentence had plunged her into a deep, safe sleep.

Jawster watched fascinated as the man looked up, saw him with a single hand summon two whore's bullies to his side. Again, there was a whispered exchange, and a moment later Jawster saw the two bullies take up a vigil close by, one seated near her head, the other at her feet, a curious yet effective guard.

Then he saw the Prince of Eden moving among the other prisoners, bidding them a whispered goodnight as a loving father attends to a large family. Within a few minutes the vast Common Cell was completely quiet except for the one tall figure who continued to move among them, offering solace, bidding them not to fret.

To Jawster's complete astonishment, he felt his *eyes mist. His emotions were in a turbulent state. If what he was witnessing was wrong, he had no working definition of right.

Then the man was standing below him, whispering urgently, "The ladder, please, Jawster, if you will—"

He stared down at him, hesitating. With distance between them, Jawster stood a chance. But finally he lowered the ladder, and as the man scrambled effortlessly up, Jawster backed away, as though already lacing his defenses into place. Eden stood directly before him then, towering over him, his form lean and hard beneath the crimson waistcoat, his eyes seeking Jawster's face as though hungry. Again Jawster backed away until he felt the support of the railing behind him, and tried to steel himself against the man's invisible strength.

He leaned helplessly back. "Your—pleasure, sir?" he mumbled.

"Not here," the man said. "We might disturb them." He gestured toward the sleeping convicts. "May I suggest your office?"

Meekly Jawster led the way back to the small cell which served as his office. Once inside, Eden glanced quickly about and apparently seeing no chair, elected to stand. /

"The cot, sir," Jawster apologized. "I'm afraid it's the best—"

But Eden dismissed it and continued to stand against the wall. When at last he spoke, his manner was kind, as though he was well aware of what Jawster had already sacrificed on his behalf. "How long have you served here?" he began, obviously starting a considerable distance from the heart of the matter.

Jawster didn't mind the distance. It was the heart of the matter that alarmed him. "Well onto forty-two years," he replied, eyeing the comer of the cot, thinking he'd be more at ease off his feet.

Considerately the man suggested, "Why don't you sit, Jawster? You probably cover quite a distance on that catwalk each night."

"I do indeed, sir. Round and round and back again." He laughed self-consciously and sat on the edge of the cot.

"Do you like your job, Jawster?" Eden asked then, confronting him, forcing Jawster to look up from the boots.

"I've risen," he grinned with pride, "from slop boy to head turnkey. Must fit me in some way."

But Eden quietly disagreed. "A man can rise and still have no appetite for what he does."

While Jawster was pondering this, the man moved on, the heart of the matter drawing closer. "You have a new guest tonight, I see," he commented.

Jawster's uneasiness was becoming constant. "Aye," he concurred.

"Do you know her?" Eden asked, pacing again.

Jawster laughed. "The only way I could not know her would be if I was blind and deaf."

"And you are neither."

Jawster shook his head. He felt childlike, undergoing the man's interrogation. He was the authority here and as such he must take the lead. On this new determination, he stood up, his scant stature a poor match for the man opposite him. "Look, sir," he began, "I feel an awful weight of pity for her, same as you, but there ain't nothing I can do to—alter circumstances. Ain't nothing no one can do, not even you-"

But Eden stopped him as Jawster knew he would. "I want her out of here," he demanded. "Tomorrow if possible, certainly well before her appointment in court."

Jawster looked back and laughed. "Sometimes wants and gets sit at opposite ends of the church, sir, even for the likes of you."

Rather pleased with his little humor, he reached for the door. Again Eden stopped him as though Jawster had said nothing at all. "I want her out of here," he repeated.

Jawster looked back, amazed. "Sir, a sentence has been handed down—"

"You can open doors."

"And find myself in the Common Cell with your friends!"

"No." Eden stepped closer. "Help me get her out of here, and you'll never be coming back."

Jawster caught a look in the man's eyes which frightened him. "And where would I be going, sir?" he asked cautiously. "And what doing?"

Eden stepped still closer. "With a thousand pounds in your pocket, I'd say you could go and do as you wish."

Jawster gaped as though suddenly the man had moved a fearful distance closer. "A thous—" he stammered.

"A thousand pounds," Eden repeated, smiling, "merely to get her out to safety. After that, another five hundred to get you out of the country."