A Nest of Vipers (17 page)

I went on, ‘So, as I said, when I came into Newgate, they placed me in the Master’s Yard. There were thirty of us packed in and I knew there’d be no chance of delivery from there so I made a fuss, a ruckus – staged a fight with Blueskin Doherty.’

‘I remember that!’

‘And so I was moved. To the rooms called the Stone Castle. Although it was neither entirely stone nor in any shape or form a castle.’

‘We used it as the chapel once,’ said the parson.

‘Yes, a few old chairs and a rather large hole in the ceiling, as I recall.’

‘You lie! There is no hole in the roof there,’ he exclaimed.

‘I went through it! Up through the chimney breast and out onto the roof. I’ve always been what you might call flexible. And I’d done it once before when I was younger, stuck in a fine house with Mother Hopkins calling to me to get out quick and no other way. And that’s how I did it. I caught a good fine rat for Margaret Vernon, that girl who was in for nailing fine French-woven ladies’ manteaus to shop fronts. She will look the other way if you can give her anything of value. She was in the Press Yard, outside the Stone Castle, and she heard
the
noise I was making and kindly sang “The Dublin Girls’ Farewell” as loud as she could while I knocked a few of the bricks away and climbed and climbed.’

‘God’s teeth, boy, the chimney! Wasn’t it close as hell in there?’ said the Ordinary.

‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘But when you can see freedom winking at you in a square of moonlight, it’s funny how’s you’ll put up with a deal of discomfort.’

The Ordinary shook his head and whistled, and I could see his brow furrowing with the effort of imagining wanting to be free so badly that there was close to nothing you wouldn’t do . . .

‘Be sure, sir,’ I said, ‘that I’d be out again if I didn’t have these damned chains. You wouldn’t see me for dust . . .’ And in my mind’s eye I pictured the road to Bath. Me following the cart, watching Addeline swing her legs off the back and listening to Bella and Jack falling out and making up ten times before we even crossed Hounslow Heath.

‘I was only caught,’ I said, remembering, ‘when the alderman – the one in for embezzlement – saw me as I jumped down onto the roof of the warder’s office and swore blind he’d seen Satan leaping out of the hearts of men and onto the warder’s quarters. Margaret tried her hardest to dissuade him, but he stared until he realized it was not Satan but merely a boy, and a boy escaping at that. It was him what gave the alarm, and he kept up his
noise
even after Margaret walloped him with the pot of ease – which, she told me, had recently been filled brimful.’

‘Aye.’ The Ordinary laughed. ‘The man smelled for weeks. But he was let off with transportation for giving you up. And you merely leaped up the chimney! I think the invisibility potion makes a better tale, and if you are willing, I may embroider your tale all the better to sell a few. My daughter wishes a wedding next Michaelmas and we will need every coin I can make. At least that won’t be a trouble to you; the future is a terrible thing.’

I think to myself that I would dearly love any kind of future. Long ago, on the outside, I had thought transportation worse than death, no life better than a life of slavery. I shut my eyes. I would give anything for a chance of life now; grab any opportunity to keep my heart beating and the blood running safe within my veins and not left to drain away on the surgeon’s slab.

The prison is awake now. The Ordinary gets up and stretches, picks up his stool in one hand and bids me farewell.

‘I’ll fetch the best coat I can, boy.’ He leans close. ‘And don’t forget. I want the news of the diamonds before you drop. I’ll make sure the executioner sends you off sharp and snaps your neck before the pain takes hold, boy, and that’s the truth. If not, you’ll take your time, and your last
dance
may be a deal more painful and last much too long for your liking.’

I nod. I can say nothing for fear my voice will be no more than a squeak. I must stay strong. This day will see my last act, and I will go out like a man.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

The Road to the West

THE ORDINARY KEEPS
his word, and when I step, blinking, out into the grey morning light of the prison yard, I am at least clad like the gentleman I will never now be. The coat is dark blue, with embroidery of silver and grey. It reminds me of the river Thames at night. The shirt is soft linen and, although I can tell it is not brand new from the worn softness of the cloth, it is white and the cuffs are well-fashioned lace.

The others in the cart with me are French Peter Villeneuve of Spitalfields, who stole two bolts of cloth and coshed a watchman, then most viciously slandered the judge, and Mary Cut and Come Again, who said she fenced the Duke of Marlborough’s silver but I reckon as she made that up. I had heard her name before and knew she was no more than a pickpocket, but a good one for all that.

They had taken the shackles off my feet in the condemned cell, and I was unsteady, as it had been weeks since I had been free to walk around. My hands, though, were again chained.

‘Poor Cato,’ French Peter says, helping me stand. ‘They treat you miserably. Where we are bound it can’t be any worse.’ He calls the chief turnkey over. ‘Sir. Most gentlemanly warder, will you not loose the boy’s hands of these damned knuckle-confounders on this, our last journey?’

The turnkey wobbles across the yard. He is huge, no doubt from all the food that was delivered to the prison for us inmates but got no farther than his own table.

‘We’ve orders not to. The lad’s like quicksilver and we do not trust him not to vanish between here and Tyburn.’

‘Have a heart!’ Mary says, and I blush at her concern. ‘Sir, will you not look at the boy! His legs have forgotten how to hold him up – he can barely walk, let alone run!’

‘Them’s the orders!’ says the turnkey, and he opens the massive dark gates of Newgate. I see the street and the city for the first time in months, and in truth my heart leaps and I find it hard to contain the joy in my heart as the cart rattles and sways out into Snow Hill. I smell the meat market at Smithfield and hear the sound of the cattle penned and waiting; waiting for the same fate as I am to face soon enough.

As we cross the stinking Fleet river (which to my nose
smells
sweeter than any violets), I see two ladies on the Holborn Road, and my heart leaps higher still for I am sure the fairer one is Bella. But as we get closer, I realize they are only acquaintances of French Peter, and not known to me at all. They call out and rush to the cart and throw their arms around his neck and kiss him as the cart trundles slowly west.

And I am sad again, knowing my family will not be there to call out to me or blow me kisses. I try and tell myself that Mother Hopkins was only ever Mother in name, but in my heart I know that isn’t true. However hard I curse her for my situation, I know she cared more than many flesh-and-blood mothers.

The crowd grows thicker up to St Giles, and then there are faces in the crowd I know of old from the print shops, and even Daley the locksmith’s boy. I don’t recognize him at first, for he has grown a foot in the months I have been locked away. But he calls my name: ‘Cato! Cato Hopkins!’ and seems exceedingly pleased to see me.

I shout back, ‘I cannot wave, young Daley.’

He draws near and leans close. ‘My father bids you adieu,’ he says aloud, then whispers soft so none but I can hear, ‘And your Mother sends you this to see you on your way to a much better place.’ Then he kisses me on the cheek – I am so surprised I would have jumped; then I feel something in the cuff of my coat – something
hard
and metal – and I know instantly what it is. A pick. One of Daley’s best, no doubt.

I could swear the sun, at that moment, strained harder to shine behind the iron-grey curtain of cloud. Perhaps I am not yet quite forgotten.

I shake the pick out of my cuff and into my hand. I sit hard against the side of the cart so my hands will not be seen and begin my work. The thought of hands free to move is more than bliss eternal.

We turn into the Oxford Road and the crowd are now three abreast. As the cart goes, so the mob follows. Mary Cut and Come Again waves like the Queen on her way to open parliament, and French Peter stands up and begins blowing kisses. He has many admirers and, from the cries of the penny-sheet sellers, many stories. But there are many that cry for me too, and my spirits rise a little, listening.

‘The boy who escaped! The boy who nearly got away! The boy who stole the Stapleton diamonds!’

I smile, and since I can neither stand nor wave, incline my head in recognition. For seconds – no, minutes – the thought that in an hour I will be dead is forgotten. We are like minor royalty, or some out-of-town nabobs, feted by the crowd, whistled at and called out to. French Peter is now leaning from the cart and kissing every girl who offers her cheek or lips. Several swoon as if he is some kind of prince. If only Quarmy was here to see it.

Some point at me and smile, and nod, and ask if I may touch their child’s withered arm. Eventually the crowd is so dense the cart practically stops until some of the magistrate’s men that walk alongside are forced to push the people out of the way.

Then, from above the noise of the crowd, I hear the sound of a fiddler, playing a tune I know well. I find myself mouthing the words of ‘The Thames Flows Sweetly’, and before the last line my hands are free, the shackles bumping along empty on the floor of the cart. I stretch and bend them behind my back, at first worried the magistrate’s men might see, but they are too busy gawping at the ankles of French Peter’s admirers. I stretch my arms out in front of me, below the level of the sides of the cart, feeling the relief in my shoulders. Mary Cut and Come Again sees and smiles, but says nothing.

I push myself up to see if I can spot the fiddler, and no lie, it is Quarmy! He is there, in the throng at Oxford Market, and he bows low at me and smiles. Even though there were times when I cursed him in prison for being our downfall, I cannot help but smile back. Two faces I know! In such a short space of time! Maybe if Quarmy comes close, I can ask him to send a message to Addeline and the others – maybe a last word or two. Perhaps he has some news, some hope.

‘Quarmy!’ I shout and wave. Then again, louder, ‘Quarmy!’ He plays on. I am yelling and waving my
enfeebled
arms. Perhaps he can do something: make a diversion, overturn the cart. Perhaps Mother is in disguise – is she the woman I can see selling watercress? ‘Oi! Mother, Mother!’ I shout. The woman turns to face me and it is not her. A wave of anger breaks behind my eyes. My teeth hurt, my hands are both in fists. Quarmy is not looking at me; he cares only for himself, head bent over his fiddle, playing a sweet tune, while I am on my way to go to heaven on a string. I curse and spit. Mary puts an arm round me, but I push her away. I wipe my face and it is damp. The anger turning to tears, I breathe deeply. I will not cry.

The Ordinary, riding along on a fat grey mare, sees my hands are free, but Mary puts a finger to her lips and I, now calmer, mouth the word
Diamonds
slowly and clearly, and he looks straight ahead. I keep my eyes on Quarmy, even as the cart moves away. But the tune fades and so does he.

I am, once more, alone in the crowd.

As we near Tyburn, I can almost smell the open space that lies to the west. It is the end of London, and the end of me. The spring has been late coming and now it is autumn again. Mother Hopkins would be making apple and blackberry comfits and pies. I wonder if she had found her house in Bath. I wonder if Sam and Jack and Bella and Addeline are sitting around a polished wooden table, laughing and joking and not thinking one jot of me.

A drummer beats out a death tattoo. Now I can see the triple tree, black against the sky. All scraps of joy leave me. This is no celebration. Mary, French Peter and I look at each other and – I am sure – see only dust and bones. We are all stung and instantly infected with a fear so dark and heavy that it feels as though death rides beside us in the cart.

The wheels stop. The crowd, cheering seconds before, quietens. A young woman, heavy with child, throws herself at French Peter, sobbing. Then a small boy starts up some truly awful lament on the pipes. If ever anyone deserved to hang, I think, then natural justice would choose him over me for his crimes against music.

We step down from the cart. I am weak and Mary holds me up. I scan the crowd filling the wooden seats rigged up on a stand for the gentry so they may get a better view. Look us in the eye as our necks snap goodbye. Pretty women, faces lathered in make-up, hold their handkerchiefs to their noses. Their beaus, with wigs as high as heaven and coats that put my own to shame, sit beside them. All pointing at us, laughing, waiting to see us swing. I turn away and meet the executioner’s gaze. He is a broad and heavy-set man, and I wonder if the killing weighs against his soul, or maybe he tells himself the story that we are all monsters and truly deserve our dispatch.

One lady laughs, and I look back to the rows of seats
stretching
up into the sky. Elizabeth Stapleton, sat arm-in-arm with her father, Captain Walker. His eyes are crueller than the executioner’s. I hold myself as steady as I can and spit upon the ground. He smiles at me. If I could be a ghost, I tell myself, then I will come back and make their lives more miserable than my last months in Newgate.

The Ordinary begins his prayers for our souls and a Roman priest chants in the Latin tongue for Mary, who is Irish, and swings a metal ball which trails incense, a heady, dreamy, sickly smell that makes my senses giddy. The sobbing is louder now.

A cry of: ‘For shame to hang a woman and a boy!’

An echo: ‘Shame! A shame.’ A rotten turnip head whistles close to the executioner’s ear. He ignores it, and holds the ropes like an armful of snakes that will suddenly spring to life and wrap us in their coils. I feel my knees buckle, but take a deep breath. I stand at the foot of a small wooden ladder, my last ascent.