Smuggler's Moon (25 page)

Indeed I was correct in supposing that the press of cases to be tried was such that Lord Mansfield had been forced to begin early. When I at last was admitted to the main courtroom where he presided, I heard from my seat companion, a richly dressed woman of near forty years, that three had already been tried that morning.

“With what result?” I asked.

”You dare joke with me, do you?”

“No, no, I assure you that—”

“—me, who’s come for one last glimpse of my son, Billy, before they hang him?” She spoke over me, interrupting, ignoring my attempts to apologize, determined to have her say: ”There’s none who comes as far as this can escape the rope—or so I’m told. The least I could do was come down and bring all my girls to see the darling boy off. An’t that so?”

“I…I suppose so,” said I, a bit uncertainly.

Her reference to ”her girls” intrigued me. I leaned forward a bit and saw, to my surprise, that our pew was crowded with a bevy of gaudily dressed and generously berouged young women of uncertain virtue; there must have been seven or eight of them visible to my eye; two of them returned my gaze rather boldly, and one of them winked.

“Are all these young ladies truly your daughters?” I asked the older woman next me (somewhat disingenuously, I confess).

“La, young sir, they might as well be, but they an’t. My womb an’t near so generous. Billy’s my only.” She was, in her own way, a proper mother come to mourn, though her child still breathed.

Needless to say, our conversation took place ”between cases,” as one might say, whilst Lord Mansfield sat resplendent in his scarlet robes, conversing idly with his clerk, awaiting the next defendant to be called. That next defendant, as it happened, was William Neely. Thus I found that the woman beside me was the notorious brothelkeeper, Mother Neely. He was summoned loudly and appeared but a moment later in the dock. He was in chains, though otherwise quite presentable; his coat was of velvet, and his shirt was apparently of silk and newly washed. At a sign from Mother Neely, our entire row burst into a great fit of sobs and boo-hoos; kerchiefs were waved; a few of the boldest of ”her girls” called out to him. This demonstration,
which caused quite a commotion in the courtroom, brought an immediate call to order, complete with threats of expulsion,
et cetera.
For my own part, I sought to dissociate myself from my pewfellows by shrinking down and away from them. And as for the prisoner, he seemed to take great pleasure in all the noise made in his honor; he smiled broadly and nodded two or three times; and had his hands not been manacled, I feel sure he would have waved in response.

The indictment, when read out in court by the prosecution, did shock me—and I, working for years with Sir John, was not easily shocked. It told of how William Neely had bound and tortured the members of a diamond merchant’s family, that he might learn where gemstones were hid about the house. When he was satisfied he had them all, he murdered the entire family—or thought he had. One, a daughter, survived her stab wounds and was able to identify Neely as thief and killer from the witness box. Asked if he could say anything in his own defense, the accused shrugged and said that if they’d been a bit more helpful, it wouldn’t have been necessary to be so nasty.

“Then you admit the crime?” asked the Lord Chief Justice.

“Might as well,” said Neely, with another shrug.

“Answer yes or no.”

“Awright then, yes—
yass, yass, yass!
”

“Then,” said Lord Mansfield, ”it will not be necessary for the jury to adjourn, confer, and vote guilty or not guilty.”

So saying, the judge donned the black cap and pronounced the death sentence. Then did he add with no more than routine piety his wish that God might have mercy upon the soul of William Neely. And having said it, he banged thrice with his gavel and called a recess to the court session. When the prisoner was led away, I expected a repetition of the earlier performance of the ladies, complete
with crocodile tears, yet there was no such. Mrs. Neely stood, and her companions with her as I, too, made ready to leave the courtroom. I knew not what to say, and so I simply held my tongue, bowing silently and politely as they left.

“He weren’t really so bad,” said Madame Neely to me. ”It was just that he was tryin’ to prove he could make his own way. Boys is like that. They got to prove that they’re grown up—when they really an’t.”

And saying no more, she led her bevy out and up the aisle. She who had winked at me winked at me again and said, ”Come see us sometime. We’re in Tavistock Street. So easy to find.” Then she, like the rest, followed their leader out the door.

I, too, hastened to go, yet I left by a side exit, one which I knew would bring me nearer to the judges’ chambers. Yet there I found my way barred by a court guard.

“Where you goin’, young sir?”

“I have a letter for Lord Mansfield from Sir John Fielding which must be delivered. It is a most urgent matter.”

“Give me the letter, and I shall present it to him.”

“Much as I should like to do so, sir, I cannot. Sir John forbade me to let the letter out of my keeping, except it be to Lord Mansfield.”

“Hmmm,” said the court guard who, bless him, did truly seem concerned. ”Well, I must say you look like a responsible lad.”

“I am Sir John’s assistant.”

“Ah, indeed? You don’t say! Well then, I shall take a risk with you. If you take my place at this door and turn away all who seek exit through here, I shall go to the chambers of the Lord Chief Justice and ask him if he wishes your visit.” He gave me a sharp look. ”Do you accept this offer? It is the best I can do.”

“I accept it gladly.”

”Well and good.” And with that he departed, leaving me in charge.

I took my assignment seriously and turned back two or three during the few minutes he was absent. When he returned with a smile upon his face, I took heart that all was well with regard to my visit—as indeed it was.

“The Lord Chief Justice will see you,” said the fellow, ”for he assumes you would not trouble him were it not an urgent and important matter. You’ll find him third door on your left.”

I thanked him and ran to the door he had designated, beat upon it, and threw it open the moment I heard the invitation to enter.

“Ah, you, is it?” said Lord Mansfield, wearing his scarlet and regarding me in his usual skeptical way. ”I thought it would be. What have you for me?”

“A letter explaining the situation in Deal, my lord.”

“Well then, let’s have it.”

He took it from me, broke the seal, and read. As he did so, his expression changed from mild displeasure (which was his usual) to sudden concern, and on to absolute outrage. By the time he finished Sir John’s letter, he was breathing fire and snorting smoke (I mean that figuratively, of course). He then asked me a number of questions to learn more of events which were no more than mentioned in the letter. Then did he conclude by sitting down at his desk and writing out the document of temporary appointment which Sir John had requested. In addition, he wrote a letter of his own to the Commanding Officer of the Tower, another old chum of his, said he to me with a wink—”actually a cousin.”

“You must take this to Colonel Murray forthwith,” Lord Mansfield continued, ”and he will provide Sir John with a small contingent of mounted troops. Sir John may use them as he sees fit. That should help even things up a bit, eh?”

“Oh yes,” said I, ”that will help considerably.”

The rest of the day was taken up with the delivery of the remaining letters, which entailed a good deal of racing about from one destination to the next. Colonel Murray provided no problem. He simply read through Lord Mansfield’s missive, smiled, and assured me that the requested troops would be provided and should arrive in Deal sometime during the day after tomorrow—or upon that night.

“And where should they report to your fellow, Sir John?”

“To Number Eighteen Middle Street, sir. And if I might make a suggestion?”

“By all means.”

“A daylight arrival and a ride down High Street might be best. A show of force would be in order.”

“Very well, you shall have it.”

Thus I left the Tower in a state of high elation—only to begin what proved to be the most taxing of the errands, which was the delivery of Sir John’s letter to Mr. John Bilbo.

First, I set off for his residence in St. James Street. It was yet early in the day, and so I had every hope of catching him there before he left for his gaming club in Mayfair. Nevertheless, by the time I arrived, he had gone. Nor was Bunkins present to advise me on any change in plans his ”cove,” Mr. Bilbo, might have made for that day. All that could be said was told me by Mr. Burnham, Bunkins’s tutor. According to him, both Mr. Bilbo and Jimmie Bunkins had left together for the club.

And so I went on to Mayfair to find them. By that time, it was into the afternoon. Upon my arrival, I found the crew of cleaners busy at work, preparing the place for its evening opening at seven. A dealer of cards sat in the main gaming room, performing feats of sleight of hand with the deck for his own amusement. I waited respectfully for his
attention. When he withheld it, I could do naught but shout for it.

“Where’s Black Jack?”

He stopped and looked me up and down. ”You know him well enough to call him so?”

“I know him well enough—and Bunkins even better.”

“Then you should know where the two of them spend most of their time these days.”

“In Wapping at the dry-dock.”

“Ah, then you do know a little something, don’t you?” He gave me a smirk he may have meant for a smile. ”Well, they’ve just left for Wapping, but the sloop is no longer in dry-dock. It’s in the slip next on.”

“Thank you,” said I as I turned and headed for the door.

“Better see them today, if that’s your intention. They’ll not be about for long.” He called it to my back. Turning, I saw that he had gone back to his amusements. I nodded and stepped outside.

I did not like the fellow. He acted entirely too pleased with himself. I wondered how long he had been in the employ of Mr. Bilbo—and how long he would remain so. He did not seem the right sort.

The prospect of walking to Wapping had little appeal. Footsore and bone-tired from my journey from Deal, I thought it right to travel to my next destination in style: I would take a hackney—one from that line there at the end of the street. Time also was a consideration. Having missed Mr. Bilbo and Bunkins twice afoot, I could not afford to miss them again. Thus, bolstered by logic, I rode.

It was, by any measure, a considerable journey. We hugged the river except near Tower Hill, where it was not possible. Peeking out at the crowded streets, seeing the waves of people pouring this way and that over the kerbs and sidewalks, I wondered how I might find my place among them. As I grew older, I found myself thinking more and more (and not always optimistically) about how I
might make my way in the world. It would not be long, after all, until such conjecture must be replaced by action. Jimmie Bunkins and I often talked of this; he was as much perplexed about the possible direction of his own life as I was about my own situation.

In this way do such heavy thoughts often catch us unawares.

The last part of my ride, which was taken along Wapping Dock, led past ships loading and unloading, fitting and refitting. I looked sharp at the docks and slips along the way that I might not be conveyed past the one which sheltered the
Indian Princess.
Then, of a sudden, I spied the Bilbo coach-and-four waiting next a dry-dock and supposed beside it was the right slip. I beat loud upon the ceiling of the hackney that the driver might stop where it was proper. He guided the horses over to one side and halted. Paying off the driver, I ran cross the street and up to the slip.

Mr. Bilbo’s sloop lay half in and half out the water at a slight angle, ready to be launched into the Thames. All glistening and new-looking it was from the many coats of varnish it had received. I saw that the tempo of work had increased markedly since last I visited. Where earlier workmen had walked about in a manner near casual, they now scrambled about from one end of the deck to the other. And in the middle of all this stood Black Jack Bilbo, shouting directions and encouragement, reminding them, none too gently, of their obligations.

“If you’re lookin’ to get paid tonight, gents, you’d best finish the job.”

Then did he give his attention to another group, one which seemed not to be performing to his high expectations. ”Work, lads,” he hectored them,
”work!”

And so it went. I watched, fascinated, for minutes as he hammered away at them with threats, a few blandishments, and occasional curses. Yet at last I reminded myself of the business at hand.

”Mr. Bilbo,”
I called out to him. ”Permission to come aboard!”

He turned round and looked in my direction, squinting a bit against the afternoon sun.

“Ah, Jeremy, it’s you, is it? Permission granted.”

I made my way carefully across the gangplank, finding that the slight slant of the deck made quite a difference when out on the board between slip and sloop. In any case, I made it across and found Mr. Bilbo waiting at the far end to steady me as I jumped down.

“Good lad!” said he. ”How goes it down there on the east coast? Has Sir John come back with you?”

“No, he sent me back with letters to deliver. One of them’s for you.”

With that, I brought it out and handed it over. From some secret pocket he produced a pair of spectacles and carefully hooked them over his ears. Putting the sun to his back, he broke the seal and read the letter. When he had done, he folded it with a dark frown and tucked it away.

“It sounds bad,” said he.

“It
is
bad.”

“Well, as it happens, we’ll be leaving here on the morning tide on a run down through the Channel, to Cornwall and return, just as a test voyage, as you might say. Sir John’s asked that I bring you and a pair of his Bow Street Runners with us to Gravesend. I can do that with no trouble at all. He says that he’ll meet us there, for he has something to discuss with me which he’d prefer not to commit to paper. Do you have any idea what that’s about, Jeremy?”