Dodger of the Dials (22 page)

Soon the long-servers was led back to their cells and we condemned was taken to our quad where we could spend the rest of the morning at our leisure. There had been no snow over the last few days – which was unusual for Christmas – but now a heavy frost covered the cobbled floor and we was given thick coats to warm ourselves as we stayed in that communal space to share cigars, drink and converse with one another. The silent treatment, I was then informed, was just for the long-serving convicts who was expected to be reformed while in here and the authorities thought it best for them to have as little contact as possible with bad influences. But this hope of reformation did of course not apply for us who was set for the noose and so once we condemned men was alone things became much more convivial.

‘I don’t care for the cats much,’ I said by way of an opener once I had taken a strong swig from a bottle of whisky what belonged to another convict. ‘Sinister looking things.’ This convict squinted at me in confusion as he took back the bottle he had won at gambling the previous week. The Newgate turnkeys was well known to run a decent trade in getting prisoners such treats to play with.

‘Cats?’ said the whisky owner in an Irish accent once he had wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I ain’t seen no cats.’

‘You ain’t looking then,’ I replied and told him that I had marked six cats in the press yard, two in the chapel and that there was four in this very quad looking down on us right now. This convict, whose name was Meehan, cast his eyes around the quadrangle walls for any feline observers but did not spot them.

‘If there was any cats about,’ he grizzled, ‘I’d smell ’em. I can’t abide the creatures.’

‘He means them stone cats,’ said Mouse, as the whisky was passed to him. ‘Up there.’ He pointed to the first of the many discreet little statues what was poking its head over the top of the quad’s one door where the turnkey was standing. Then he showed them where the other three was, high up on the other walls of the quad, the same colour as the brick work and as ugly as gargoyles.

‘It’s Whittington’s cat,’ the turnkey informed us with a chuckle. ‘Keeping watch over the human mice.’

I had marked the stone cats because I was making a thorough note of everything I might be able to use to help me scale the walls should I be able to gain entry to this courtyard after dark. The task looked difficult, however I did notice some large windows high up on the building side of the courtyard. These was barred like the rest and it struck me that they was much larger than any cell windows I had seen elsewhere in the prison. I asked this Meehan if that part of Newgate – what was the floor above the condemned cells – was where they kept the debtors.

‘Debtors are on the north side,’ Meehan told me after a loud sneeze. ‘Up there is where they keep the women. Now who’s for skittles? I need to win some more whisky.’

Much to my surprise the next hour was almost pleasant and that, even with the terrible fate what hung over our heads, we six men
still managed to distract ourselves with gaming, bawdy humour and some well-earned profane language. All the convicts had something to bet with – be it clothes, drink, actual coinage or, in one case a fob watch what I very much desired on account of there being no other clocks inside our cell. The turnkeys then produced a set of nine-pins and some balls for us to entertain ourselves with until lunchtime and beyond.

‘So you’re going to hang an’ all, eh?’ said Meehan just as I tossed my first ball. ‘And whose fault is that?’ I struck the wall beyond, missing every skittle.

‘Did you ask me that to put me off my stroke, Meehan?’ I asked as he pulled a sly face. ‘I shall have to watch out for you.’

‘I only meant,’ he smiled as he picked up his own ball, ‘who was the judge what done for you? Mine was called Venmore-Rowland and he was a hard-hearted man indeed.’

‘Judge Aylesbury,’ Mouse answered as Meehan knocked down six pins with ease. ‘That was the name of ours.’

‘I know of him,’ said the one who had bet the fob watch as the skittles was replaced. ‘He sentenced my brother to death for killing a policeman.’

‘Your brother killed a peeler?’ Mouse asked in genuine shock. Nobody liked the blue lobsters but you would have to be a mad dog to think you could get away with something like that. ‘He must have been longing for the noose, your brother.’

‘Yeah, well, he claimed he was innocent,’ replied this convict whose name was Tanner. ‘But don’t they all?’

‘We
are
innocent men,’ I informed them all. ‘We just fell in with a bad crowd.’

‘Unlucky for you then,’ said Tanner as took his throw and struck a seven. We all whistled in appreciation at his skills and then it was the turn of Mouse. Mouse’s ball, like mine, missed every pin. ‘And
your luck ain’t changing much,’ Tanner grinned as he told us to remove our smart shoes which we had put up.

As the skittling continued Mouse and I continued to lose our jackets, waistcoats and cufflinks until at last we had to remove our trousers and place them on top of the ever-growing pile of prizes. The other convicts seemed very amused to see us shivering in the cold as the games continued and there was lots of jokes about how at this rate we would be leaving this Earth with less than we came in with.

‘As for me, I am
not
an innocent man,’ said Tanner as he inspected the quality of our belts, ‘I’ve killed several people and I bet I’m one of the few in here what’ll admit to it.’

By now everything worth having was on the pile and it was a large haul. The worth of it would not have got you much on the outside but in Newgate there was buying power in these possessions. When my turn came next I threw a floorer without any real effort. Tanner congratulated me on my first lucky throw but Meehan was a little sharper. He had just bet a purseful of shillings what his wife had given him on her last visit and I could tell he had now realised they was not as safe as he had thought. When Mouse threw next it was another easy strike. Within two rounds we was both dressed once more and the whole pile was ours.

‘Swindlers!’ Meehan spat to the floor as I counted the coins in his wife’s purse. ‘They should be hanging you for bad sportsmanship as much as anything.’ This would be the last of life’s many defeats for these men and few took it with good humour. Tanner, though, was not as bothered about losing the fob watch I had wanted so much.

‘I’m happy to be rid of that anyhow,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It’s got a loud tick on it and I don’t care to be reminded of the passing seconds.’ He then wished me luck with shutting the contraption up.

Mouse and I counted out the value of our winnings and I hoped that the turnkeys would soon start showing some interest in us now we was Newgate rich. This was the main reason I had wanted to win the game – so that I could start paying for privileges from the guards what might be useful to us in escaping. They did not disappoint.

‘That’s a good score, son,’ the fatter of the two turnkeys beamed. ‘What do you plan on spending it on, I’m wondering? We can get you smokes, drinks, whatever. You’ve only got a short time left to decide.’ He was rocking on the balls of his feet with glee but just then he was interrupted by a shrill voice what provided another suggestion.

‘What handsome boys!’ It was a woman’s voice calling down from the large windows above. ‘The ones with all the nice things!’ I looked up to see the top half of a red-headed woman with dishevelled hair and who appeared to be in a state of undress. She had lifted up the glass on her side of the window and her left hand was around one of the thick iron bars what she stroked in a manner most suggestive. Beside her was another woman who was just as unkempt but younger and black-skinned.

‘They’ll want to share all his winnings with us I ’spect,’ this other woman added. ‘They’ll want to give ’em all to us in return for our unending love!’ The red-haired woman laughed at her friend and there was much leering from all the convicts who was gathering under the window to hoot back at them. The turnkeys meanwhile shut the door to the quad behind them and the fatter one crossed over so he could tell them to quieten.

‘Behave yourself, Sessina!’ he shouted up in a tone less commanding than the one he used on the male convicts. ‘That’s not the way now. If the governor sees you flaunting yourselves so brazen there’ll be trouble.’

‘And not just for us, eh, Max?’ the red-haired woman shot back and blew him a kiss. Then she indicated Mouse and myself. ‘Be a good boy and tell those handsome brutes down there that they knows where to find us. We ain’t going nowhere.’

‘Even if they will be,’ sniggered the black girl and they both shrieked with laughter as the glass window fell down between us with the force of a guillotine.

Turnkey Max then made a convincing performance of shouting up at them in rebuke. ‘We’ll have none of that now, ladies!’ he declared loud enough for the whole of Newgate to hear. ‘A little more decorum from the women prisoners, if you please! What would Mrs Fry think if she could hear you now, eh?’ But, once this admirable display of censoriousness was over he placed his arms over the shoulders of Mouse and myself and walked us over to the other side of the quad for a whisper. With one arm around my shoulder and an eye on Mrs Meehan’s coin purse he got straight down to business. ‘The flame hair is called Sessina Ballard,’ he informed me with a music-hall wink. ‘And she don’t disappoint. The other’s name is Black Meg and she’s available too if you prefer the type. But whatever it is either of you are after just give the word because there is all sorts up there.’

‘And you’re the man to arrange the visit up there, are you?’ I enquired with interest. I had been wanting to strike up an acquaintance with a gaoler what was of a corruptible bent and it looked like this here Max was my man.

‘Or bring them down to your cell if you’d rather,’ he offered. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it though, their quarters is more comfortable than yours.’

‘And who gets the coins? Them or you?’

‘Some of those women would entertain you for nothing,’ he told me, ‘if they thought you’d get them with child. Female prisoners
get treated like queens if they can plead the belly so they’re very welcoming of male seed.’ He was relaxing now and seemed less concerned by who might overhear. Some of the other convicts had wandered over to hear our chatter also. ‘But it could cause a lot of fuss and enquiry so you still need to pay. Some for them, some for me and a lot for Rum Mort for allowing it to go on. But you’ve just won enough on skittles to keep all of us happy, ain’t you?’ He patted me on the back and reminded me that there was not much else for me to spend it on in these remaining days.

‘Rum Who?’

Tanner had walked up close to us now to join in the conversation. ‘I can see you’ve never been to the Stone Jug before, Dawkins,’ he said. During the skittle match both he and Meehan had been comparing notes from their previous – less fatal – experiences in Newgate Prison.

‘Newgate is a web, lad,’ Meehan put in. ‘And at its centre there sits a dirty great spider what goes by Rum Mort. Nothing much happens within these walls without the Rum feeling a twitch upon the thread. The rest of us is just flies.’

‘So who is he?’ I persisted. ‘The governor of the prison?’

‘In all but name, yeah,’ Max sniffed. ‘The Rum Mort governs all from a solitary cell and woe betide any man what crosses old Rum. But don’t you concern yourself, lucky Jack, you won’t even meet the fiend. You just pay me what you’ve won there and I’ll distribute to the interested parties. Come now, what’s it to be? We’ve got old or young up there, meek or wild, ebony or ivory. It’s your last ride so feel free to be particular.’

I was far less interested in taking advantage of his offer than I was in learning more about this Rum Mort person who wielded so much influence. It was clear that the turnkey was referring to a top prisoner and so this was someone what I very much wanted
to speak to. I was familiar with such dominant figures from my time in the Australia penal colony as there had been a convict there who had intimidated even the soldiers and that man ruled like a king. Gaolers may come and go but such prisoners are a constant, growing in size and power over the years until the gaol is theirs.

‘I will not be requiring any female company just yet, thanks for offering,’ I said to Max with a wave of the hand. ‘In truth, I would be much more grateful to be granted audience with this Rum Mort you speak of. There’ll be something in it for you if you can arrange things accordingly?’

‘Well the Rum Mort don’t wish to see you,’ was his curt reply. ‘Or any of the other prisoners.’

‘What about Sessina Ballard?’ interrupted Meehan.

‘What about her?’ sniffed Max.

‘When I was in Newgate last year I was told that you turnkeys took her to visit the Rum’s cell regular. The rest of us never even laid eyes on the man but we all knew that if you wanted to speak to Rum then you went through Sessina.’ He turned to me and added, ‘not that any of us ever dared.’

Turnkey Max then confirmed that there was indeed an intimacy between the mysterious Rum Mort and the red-headed woman and that, since we was all so curious, he would tell us a story about it.

‘There was a terrible business on account of Sessina about a year gone,’ he confided. ‘Which’ll help you understand why the Rum Mort needs avoiding. It’s an incident that still gives me the chills whenever I’m in the press yard.’ He looked over to the shut door of this quad then to ensure that none of his superiors was about to walk in before continuing. ‘There was a prisoner here then, a Frenchman. I had taken this Frenchman to spend an hour in the company of Sessina but he had failed to heed my warnings about
not abusing her. By the time he was done she had been treated most cruelly and there was bruises all over her body. Well, Rum Mort hears of it and ain’t happy none whatsoever.’ His voice grew even quieter then and the few of us standing close by had to lean in to hear. ‘Any of you lot ever heard of
Peine forte et dure
?’ We all exchanged blank looks. ‘It’s French,’ he added in case we was wondering. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘it’s the name for a form of torture used in Newgate back in medieval days and it’s how the press yard got its name. It involved tying a prisoner down with cord and stretching them along the yard floor. Then they would place a wooden plank across his chest and, one by one, add metal weights. A horrible business what no man could endure. They outlawed the practice centuries ago and it’s not been used since. Except by the Rum Mort.’