Jack Lark: Rogue (3 page)

Mary laughed. It was a good sound, and Jack felt a smile appear on his face, despite his disappointment.

‘We’ve got to stick together, you and me. If we don’t, then there ain’t no one else who’ll look out for us. Besides, you’d look after me, wouldn’t you, Jack? If the tables were turned?’

Jack nodded, his breath catching in his throat as he drank in Mary’s presence. He would look after her whether she let him have his way or not.

He leant forward and laid his head on her chest, in the way he’d done for as long as he could remember. He breathed in her scent, savouring being so close to her whilst he could. It may not have been quite what he had hoped for but it was good enough.

‘My eye! Why it’s young Mud Lark himself come to serve us! Come sit yourself down here, Jack-o, spend a minute with me and the lads.’

‘Good evening, Sergeant Tate.’ Jack bobbed his head as he walked towards the recruiting sergeant, who had taken his usual seat in the saloon.

‘My eye we are formal tonight.’ Tate threw back his head and guffawed at Jack’s choice of greeting. The sergeant was holding court to three young lads who were drinking their gin as quick as Jack could refill their glasses. They knew the score as well as the sergeant, who had recruited dozens of men in the gin palace. ‘You going to make me a happy man and take the Queen’s shilling tonight, Jack-o?’

‘Not tonight, Sergeant.’ Jack set down the four fresh half-quarts before collecting the empties.

Sergeant Tate watched him carefully. ‘I want my guinea for bringing you in, Jack-o. You and I both know it’s only a matter of time.’

‘Maybe.’ Jack could not hold back the hint of longing in his voice. Sergeant Tate visited the ginny at least once a month. Jack had been taken for as long as he could remember with the flowing red, blue and white ribbons that hung from his undress hat, and with his fabulous scarlet tunic. Tate wore his uniform well. His barrel chest filled the tight-fighting coat so that the crimson sash across its front was stretched tight and the sleeves with their bright gold chevrons bulged over his strong arms. But Jack had never seen the sergeant look to use his formidable physique. He greeted all comers with a smile and a laugh, and he was quick to offer a drink and an ear to any who wanted to spend time in his company.

‘Maybe, indeed.’ Tate puffed out his cheeks in mock disappointment. ‘Now listen well, lads.’ He leant forward and spoke to the three boys drinking his gin. ‘Young Jack here is missing a trick. I reckon he has a taste for adventure but he is too damn timid. Not like you sensible fellows. You know what you want. That’s why you will be taking the Queen’s shilling, isn’t that right?’

The three lads drank their gin and kept silent. They knew the trade they were making. Life in the rookeries of Whitechapel offered them precious little. Tate was promising a shilling and a penny a day, two good meals, a clean bed, a smart uniform and a daily ration of rum. To the lads of Whitechapel it sounded like heaven. They had no need of any of his blarney.

Tate was good at his job. He knew he had the three lads; that they were just biding their time and drinking as much gin as he would care to buy before they came with him to the barracks. But he wanted a couple more, and he had spied a thin-faced boy loitering in the corner who was listening to his every word. Four recruits would make for a good day’s work. So the sergeant lifted his glass and gestured at Jack, speaking loudly enough for the thin-faced boy to hear every word.

‘Hark on this, Jack-o, and see what you’re missing. When I was in India, I learnt what it meant to be a soldier.’ Tate sat back in his chair, his eyes taking on a faraway look as he delved into his memories. ‘And I learnt it the hard way: on the battlefield, no less. Now, them Sikh boys, why, they know what they’re about and no mistake. They were hard battles but we won ’em, we won ’em all. And afterwards, we had a rare old time. You lads ain’t seen nothing till you see the inside of one of them Sikh palaces.’

Tate paused, glancing across to make sure the thin-faced boy was still listening before he carried on. ‘We made off with so much loot that day that the boys were dropping dozens of these silver coins ’cos they couldn’t carry them all. Can you imagine that? Tossing away silver coins as big as your hand just because you ain’t got room! Ten years’ wages I took in that one day. Ten years! And all in gold.’ The sergeant looked out of the corner of his eye and saw the thin-faced boy sitting on the edge of his seat. ‘Then there was the women. Why,’ he shook his head as if unable to believe his own memories, ‘those women couldn’t get enough of us. Two, three, even four to a man we had. Did everything for us, they did, fighting each other for the chance to do our laundry or cook our meals, and I don’t think I need to tell you what other favours they were happy to bestow.’ He turned and winked at the thin-faced boy. ‘You want to come on over, old son? That drink of yours looks just about finished to me, and I got plenty to share around if you fancy a little sharpener.’

The thin-faced boy moved closer. Jack looked him over. He did not recognise him, but that was not so unusual. All manner of flotsam and jetsam washed into the ginny. The boy looked half starved and a little simple. A perfect recruit for Tate if ever Jack saw one, and he shook his head as the younger boy took a seat at the recruiting sergeant’s table.

‘Good lad.’ Tate welcomed the newcomer with a warm smile and pushed his own half-quart of gin in front of him. ‘Don’t you fret. You just sit there and listen. I ain’t going to slip you a coin when you ain’t looking. We don’t need to do that any more.’

The boy took the drink, his eyes darting around as if he was expecting someone to snatch it off him. He looked like a cornered mouse.

‘Course, you don’t need to go all the way to bleeding India to make some rhino. Now then, Jack-o. How much do you think you get just for joining up?’

‘Dunno, Sergeant.’ Jack could not help but smile. He knew that Tate was really talking to the latest addition to his table, but he was happy to play along.

‘You might want to sit down, Jack-o, my lad. Four pounds, that’s what we give you just for attesting.’ Tate glanced at the simple-looking lad. ‘That means signing up,’ he explained, not sure the boy was following. ‘Four pounds! Can you believe it? And that’s not all. You get a shilling and a penny every day, and we feed and clothe you and give you a bed. What a lark, eh!’

‘Sounds good, Sergeant.’ Jack wanted to laugh. Tate was laying it on thick.

‘Good! You lot don’t know you’ve been bloody born! It weren’t like that in my day, I can tell you. Damn easy you boys have it. But that’s progress, I suppose.’ Tate shook his head as if unable to believe how fortunate the Queen’s new recruits would be. ‘And progress is what you boys can look forward to. Why, in a year or two you could all be sergeants like me! Can you believe that, lad?’ He reached out and slapped the simple-looking boy on the arm.

The boy laughed, then gulped down his gin.

Tate chuckled and pounded him on the back. ‘Good lad, you get that down you. There’s plenty more where it came from, and only the best for you. Why, I don’t think I have ever seen a finer bunch of boys in all my born days. I reckon you lads could even be officers one day. You fancy that, Jack? You would outrank me! I would have to call you sir!’

It was Jack’s turn to laugh. ‘I’d like that.’

‘So then, Jack-o, what do you say? Is it time to break your ma’s heart and come with me and these four bonny lads?’

‘Not this time, Sergeant.’ Jack glanced anxiously towards the bar. He saw his mother glaring in his direction. She would not approve of him lollygagging with the sergeant, even though he was one of her best customers.

‘Well, you knows where to find me when you change your mind.’ Tate seemed happier now that he had his fourth recruit. He earned a guinea for each one that passed the army’s medical examination. Four recruits would turn a tidy profit, even taking into account the gin he had bought to bring them to his table. ‘The Mitre and Dove on the corner of King Street and Bridge Street over in Westminster. You reckon you could find it, Jack-o?’

‘Reckon I could.’ In truth, Jack had no idea where it might be. He knew the rookeries as well as he knew his own skin. Outside of their narrow alleys and packed streets, he would have no clue.

‘I’m there most days. But don’t let your head get turned by the cavalry sods. A good boy like you don’t want to be in the bleeding cavalry. Twice the work it is, looking after a bloody horse as well as yourself.’ Tate considered Jack through narrowed eyes. ‘No, it’s the infantry for a smart young man like you, Jack Lark. So you come and find me when the time is right.’

‘Jack, get your bleeding arse back over here.’ Jack’s mother had a voice as loud as a docker’s, and it cut through the background hubbub like a good knife through tripe.

‘Off you go, Jack-o. Do as you are told, I know how it is. But I’ll be waiting for you.’

Jack nodded and went to answer his mother’s summons. He liked Tate’s certainty. He fancied himself in the scarlet and gold. Mary would be unable to send him away if he turned up with a set of chevrons on his arm.

It was a pleasing notion, and Jack could not help but smile even as his mother scowled as he dived back behind the bar. It was a fine dream and one that had already sustained him through his darkest hours. One day he would be a redcoat. Then Lampkin had better look out.

‘What’ll it be?’ He snapped out the litany of his trade, drifting back into the routine of pouring drinks and taking pennies. But his mind was far away, picturing the day when he would walk back into the gin palace dressed in the full finery of a sergeant in the service of the Queen.

Sir Humphrey Ponsonby looked across at his son before skipping deftly around a puddle. ‘How are you feeling, my boy?’ He stifled a belch by raising a gloved hand to his mouth.

‘I’m fine, Father,’ Edmund Ponsonby answered, forcing himself to swallow the sour gullet full of vomit that he had come close to depositing on the macadam road beneath his boots.

‘Good boy. Now, I must warn you.’ Sir Humphrey weaved closer to his son, his stick waving in front of him as he gestured at the houses pressed close on either side of the road. ‘This is not the sort of part of town I would expect you to visit on your own. It is as foul a den of iniquity as you will find this side of Southwark. Yet I felt it was an essential part of your education. If you are to take your place in society, then you must learn more about the wider world in which our society sits. I consider this as much a part of your education as whatever it is you learn at that school of yours.’

Edmund was barely listening. Instead, he was gawping at a pair of young girls hurrying along, their bare heads an indication of their employment. One caught his eye and blew him a kiss before rushing past, her skirts lifted high above ankles encased in faded pink silk stockings.

‘Whitechapel is no different from any of the other rookeries that plague the city.’ Sir Humphrey carried on with his lecture, only pausing to smile as he saw the direction of his son’s gaze. ‘We shall not venture in far. The place is full of robbers, cut-throats and thieves, and even I should be lost within minutes. But at this hour we should be reasonably safe. Most people will still be sober, and we are too early for the drunk to have started a ruckus. We shall take just a taste of the atmosphere; I know a place that should suit us admirably, one that is listed in
The Swell’s Night Guide
, a book I heartily recommend you read.’

Sir Humphrey reached across and laid his arm protectively around his son’s shoulders. He put his lips close to the boy’s ear, his voice hushed. ‘I shall be honest with you. I should not be brave enough to venture into such area once the light has gone.’ He glanced upwards. The day was grey, the sky the colour of smoke, but it was not yet four in the afternoon and he felt reasonably confident escorting his son into the fringes of Whitechapel. They had enjoyed a fine luncheon at his club before taking a hackney carriage to Bishopsgate. From there they had walked, picking their way through the side streets that led in the direction of Petticoat Lane. ‘I fancy we shall be safe for a while longer. I would suggest that you keep your wits about you and look sharp.’

Edmund glanced keenly at his father. Even through the fog of claret and port he heard a hint of fear in the old man’s voice. It was hard to read the face hidden behind the white mutton-chop whiskers, though, and Edmund did not know his father well enough to understand his emotion.

They stepped on smartly, Sir Humphrey’s cane pointing the way, but their progress was soon slowed. The streets were busy, and a great crowd of people bustled this way and that, the noise washing over father and son as they attempted to make their way through the river of bodies. Edmund trotted after his father, doing his best not to get left behind. People jostled past, heads down, and he was knocked from side to side by the jarring of an errant elbow or shoulder used to force passage, the collisions so common as to be taken for normality in such a crowded thoroughfare.

Not everyone was on the move. The streets were where people came to do business, and the sound of fast-moving boots merged with the cries of the mechanics touting their work and the loud voices of the patterers, the aristocrats among the street-sellers, who harangued the passing crowds, their fantastical boasts and wild claims falling on the deaf ears of those who had heard them one time too many. Yet not all the traders were having such poor luck. The watercress sellers were doing a fair business, their penny bundles bought by housewives preparing for their tea; one such seller, a girl of no more than eight, stepped towards Edmund, the tin tray suspended around her neck held out towards him.

‘Cress, mister? Penny a bundle?’

Edmund shook his head and hurried on. He wondered at his father’s sanity in bringing him on such an expedition. Edmund spent little time in the family’s house in Wilton Crescent, yet Sir Humphrey had insisted that he learn something of the great city before he finished his studies, and so he had come to town with his mother and three sisters.