Jack Frake (25 page)

Redmagne kept his promise and took Jack Frake to the site of Skelly’s emporium. It was covered now with shanty hovels made of scraps and discards from the city’s refuse, and lay just half a block from a prosperous street. Beggars, prostitutes, and children in rags eyed them hungrily as they stood there, and to keep them away Redmagne drew the sword from his cane as a warning. “I can’t look at this without cursing the Crown, Jack. Skelly’s business could have been a jewel of the city. Instead, the Crown’s greed has spawned an ugly blight that has become a charge to us all. There’s not a single creature in that dunghill who isn’t in the almshouse racket —
and who thinks he needn’t try to leave it or this dunghill, and has made poverty his career.” He turned away in disgust. “Come, Jack. Enough of this. Let us go into the enemy’s camp, and watch him preen himself. The Duke of Cumberland is reviewing the Horse Guards on the Parade Grounds. ’Tis a sight to see.” Back on the Strand, Redmagne hailed a hackney and told him to drive to Whitehall.

From a distance, on the edge of the field, standing with a crowd of other onlookers, they watched the Duke review the mass of mounted scarlet after the Guards performed intricate maneuvers on the green expanse. As the Duke rode up and down with his aides between the ranks of the assembled cavalry, the band of the Foot Guards played The Hohenfriedberger March. Jack Frake had never heard a band before, and he watched the musicians carefully. He noticed that the drummers were black men, leopard skins crossed over their tunics and green and yellow ostrich plumes adorning their caps.

Little of this would Jack Frake be able to remember as a continuous whole. The magnitude, elegance, variety, beauty, crudity and shabbiness of all the things he saw and heard registered in specific places in his mind, and would come back to him later, unsummoned, for reasons he would grasp only after long incubation, in a flash of insight or realization.

But there was one thing he carried away from London as a distinct memory. It was a single chorus from the
pasticcio
at the King’s Theatre that evening. Again, this was his first time in a theater; the magical scenery, the vibrant actors and singers, the stupendous orchestra laboring in the pit, was a beckoning confluence of elements funneled in the darkness of the vast chamber to a single elevated frame of light, all combining to hold him in awe at both his capacity to enjoy it and men’s capacity to imagine it and produce it. The musical numbers followed one after another, but the one that seemed to turn his nerves to atoms and reduce his soul to a quivering aspic of gratitude was the last, “See, the conquering hero comes.” A soprano led the chorus in the performance, and many in the audience joined in. The power, the lyrics, and the delivery of it invited him to adopt it as his personal anthem. He thought that this must be what was sung in St. Paul’s Cathedral; at least, he associated the chorus with that edifice. When it was over, and attendants appeared to relight the candles for the departing audience, Jack Frake sniffed and was surprised to feel a tear roll down his cheek.

Redmagne noticed it, but did not comment. “It says here,” he
remarked, holding a candle to his program, “that the last chorus was included in
Judas Maccabaeus
in the season last year. But I attended a performance of that oratorio, and I don’t remember it.” He closed his program. “Oh, well. The whims of composers are a mystery, even to me.”

To this, Jack Frake’s reply was merely to wipe his cheek with his sleeve.

When they were outside, they lingered for a while at the entrance to watch a succession of carriages come to pick up aristocrats, merchants and other wealthy patrons, and also to wait for a hackney looking for a fare.

“Look!” said Jack Frake, pointing to the night sky. “What is it?”

Up the river, somewhere over Whitehall, the streak of a rocket burst into a star of blue, gold and red, and before its arching, falling arms faded, another star exploded, and another.

“Fireworks, Jack,” said Redmagne. “Some duke or other is celebrating an event, or entertaining guests. Well, does it matter which? It’s a pretty sight.”

After a moment of watching the display, Jack Frake exclaimed, “Oh, Redmagne! I belong here!”

Redmagne clasped his shoulder. “So do I, Jack,” he sighed. “So do I.”

Ranelagh Gardens, outside the city in Chelsea, on the north side of the Thames, was an imposing round rococo building enclosed by landscaped grounds. Beneath a vast rotunda and in the center of a wide promenade was a fireplace that reached to the chandelier-hung ceiling eighty feet above. The night was warm, and so no fire had been lit. Two tiers of private boxes looked over the space, broken only by an enclosed multi-level orchestra stand. The tables around the fireplace were laid with red baize cloth and fine silver tableware; thousands of candles produced as much light as the noonday sun. Paying guests would stroll in groups or pairs on the promenade around the fireplace and the red baize tables, while musicians in the orchestra serenaded them with violins, oboes and harpsichords. It was a place to see princes and princesses, lords and ladies, and even dukes and duchesses, to be seen by them and to walk in their footsteps; perhaps to exchange nods, bows, curtsies and even frigid smiles. It was a place to gossip and to gather gossip for the next day, a place to flirt with all propriety, and to make discreet arrangements for a passionate tryst that same evening. The sparce fare of cold cuts, coffee and tea was expensive, served with grace and efficiency by an army of waiters. Redmagne ordered triple portions of everything for himself and Jack Frake. “On each
of our plates, thank you,” he instructed the attentive, liveried waiter, “as when we take a stroll we wish to converse with each other, and not with each other’s stomachs.”

They sat at a table in a box and watched the leisurely, talkative parade of guests. A bejeweled lady in the next box flirted with Redmagne, but his stare was distant. Jack Frake knew that his mind was on Millicent Morley, and that he was desperate to find some trace of her in the city before he left.

“Is this all one does?” asked Jack Frake, looking at the people with amazement.

“This is all one does,” confirmed Redmagne. “It is human company of a sort, I suppose. I thought it would be more enchanting. But it is not. Now it is reminiscent of a racecourse. One may place bets on who speaks first to whom. It is an aspect of London I don’t miss.” Then his whole body became alert when he spied someone in the crowd. Jack Frake looked to see who it was. A family had come in and was being shown to a table near the fireplace by a splendidly attired assistant master of ceremonies. He recognized Millicent Morley, who held Etain McRae’s hand as they followed the parents at a discreet distance. He smiled, and was pleased to see Redmagne beaming.

“Jack,” said Redmagne, “there will be a short delay in our departure from here. We will not leave until I have a moment with her.”

That moment came half an hour later, when the governess rose and took the daughter for a turn around the promenade. In the meantime, Redmagne, between snatches of conversation with Jack Frake, had taken out his brass box and penciled a missive on five pieces of paper. Into these he folded two golden guineas.

Redmagne left the box as Miss Morley and the girl passed them. Hat under arm, he followed the governess and her charge for a moment, and then strode up beside her. “Milady, you are again about to be accosted by a bandit.”

Miss Morley started, first at the sound of his voice, then at sight of him. She stopped with a gasp. “It’s Redmagne,” said Etain McRae, pointing up at him. Then she hid behind her governess’s skirts, and would crane her neck now and then for a peek at him.

Redmagne said, “Do continue walking, Miss Morley. Your employer and others will simply conclude that I am just another Ranelagh rogue.”

Miss Morley obeyed. “Have you been stalking me?” she asked in a whisper.

“No,” said Redmagne. “I asked about for your employer, Mr. McRae, in the city, but no one there knew him.”

“He has been here only a year,” said the governess, “and is only a junior partner.” She paused, then said, “Oh, Mr. Trigg! I did
not
think I would see you again!”

“Have you recovered from your trip?”

“Yes, thank you. As soon as we reached Ealing, the Neaveses went to the constable there, and told them about you and your nephew. And then the constable sent a messenger to the city.”

Redmagne chuckled. “I’m afraid the hue and cry was raised long before the Neaveses had the notion. The book I recommended to you may be banned. I am in danger, and cannot stay here for long.” Redmagne twirled his cane. “But — what
is
your employer’s address, Miss Morley?”

“Crooked Lane, by St. Michael’s church, near the Monument.”

“I know the street.” Redmagne paused to study the governess’s profile. He noticed a white ribbon peeking out from beneath her cape. “I see that you are a sympathizer, Miss Morley. Does Mr. McRae tolerate such a display of politics?”

“A sympathizer of what, Mr. Trigg?”

“Of the Jacobites, or of Lord Lovat, who is to be axed soon, I have heard.” Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat of Scotland, was one of the Young Pretender’s chief plotters.

Miss Morley raised her head and stared hard before her. I do not wear it for Lord Lovat or for any cause, Mr. Trigg.” Her voice lowered to a near-whisper. “I wear it for you.” Before Redmagne could reply, she said, “I did not thank you for the gallantry you showed yesterday. I thank you now.”

“Gallantry?” asked Redmagne. “No, it was not gallantry, milady. There were two reasons why I acted so quickly. I do not like being robbed — which is why I am an outlaw.”

“You admit it? That you are an outlaw?”

“Freely and with no shame.” Redmagne chuckled again. “I daresay I am wealthier than your employer and all his partners combined — excluding the firm’s assets, of course. There are many men like me in the country. We are outlaws, but smuggling needs capital, investors, and smart direction, too.” He paused. “But, were I standing before you in the rags of an Alsatian footpad, I would admit the same as freely and without shame.”

“And your second reason?”

“You, of course, though I suspect that you know that. Mind you, I would have taken the same action had we not befriended each other. But you were there, and that made my aim the truer.”

He felt Jack Frake come up beside him. “Redmagne, look!”

The boy was pointing to the entrance near the orchestra far across the promenade. Standing with a group of people waiting to be seated were the Neaveses.

“Damn!” said Redmagne. He took Miss Morley’s elbow and hastened her to a point in the promenade where the great column of the fireplace obstructed their view. “Milady, we must go, as you can see. Here are some verses for you.” He reached into his coat and handed her the mass of folded paper. “They are not quite as stirring as Lovelace’s, but I will improve with time. I promise you.” He smiled down at her. “And, should you not have as many shillings to spend as did Pamela, you will find enclosed in that packet something which will enable you to purchase the adventures of a man who could
not
love her.”

“
Adieu
, my cavalier,” said Miss Morley, clutching the paper and holding it close to her breast. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, then turned sharply and led her charge away. “Good-bye, Redmagne,” said Etain McRae, who had managed to turn her head and wave to him.

Redmagne grinned, and swept his hat in a low bow, then led Jack Frake to a side entrance.

In the morning they stepped out of the Three Swans, valises in hand, and had a hearty breakfast at the Bedford Coffeehouse in Covent Garden. The place attracted the London literati and Redmagne pointed out some notable wits and writers to Jack Frake. “This would be my second home, if things were otherwise.” He perused a newspaper,
The Morning Advocate
, and read a short item in which it was noted that “John Smith, notorious smuggler, is reported to have entered the city under the name of John Trigg, gentleman from Devon, in the company of a boy, whose true name is unknown, and is thought to be staying at one of the better inns. The Sheriff of London has offered a £50 reward to anyone who first lays hand on him in arrest. Innkeepers are advised to scrutinize suspicious-behaving travelers applying for accommodation.”

“That was cutting it close,” remarked Redmagne, handing the paper to Jack Frake. “Another few hours and we would have found ourselves in irons and sitting in the Fleet Prison.”

He had planned to retrace their route back out of the city, but the newspaper item made him cautious. He hired another waterman to row them to Battersea, and in the village there they boarded a coach at an inn on Lavender Hill.

Two days later, they reached Marvel and the caves. Skelly, alerted by the watchman on the hill that they were coming in on the path through the brush, met them at the entrance to greet them.

“Back so soon?” he asked with a grin. “You had leave to spend a week.”

Redmagne shook Skelly’s hand, and then gave him his copy of the
London Gazette
. “It was a trying but satisfying trip, Augustus,” he said. “But you were right. I have been marked for extinction.”

Skelly glanced at the proclamation. “But you always knew that,” he said.

“Yes. But not for
that
reason.”

A
UGUSTUS
S
KELLY NOTICED CHANGES IN
R
EDMAGNE AND
J
ACK
F
RAKE
. He was not sure if these changes boded good or ill. He viewed them from the perspective of a leader who could do little about them.

The reason for Redmagne’s change was clear, for it had been confided to him: a woman. The man had, after a series of discreet episodes over the years, met his match, and the man was happy. And miserable. Skelly knew the pain of separation from such a woman, and also a pain that he hoped Redmagne would never know: that his action years ago had probably driven his own wife to suicide. He still did not know which thing moved her to poison herself: remorse, the prospect of a shameful future, or perhaps — and he was willing to concede this last possibility — the loss of the man she had truly loved, the man he had killed. But he would never know which was true, for his wife had left no note.