Black Wreath (11 page)

Eventually a rumbling could be heard in the distance and James heard a wave of jeering, faint at first, but swelling eastward until it filled every inch of Castle Street. James had never heard a noise like it; you couldn't make out any particular word. There was something savage in it. It was as if a hungry beast had entered the city and was baying for blood. James looked at the people around him and saw the beast in their faces, heard the beast in their roars.

A gang of boys pushed against him, shoving him out of the way in their hurry to get to the front. They craned their necks and raised their fists. They spat and shouted for all they were worth.

James was beginning to think he should leave when he saw Vandeleur, or what might have been Vandeleur's ghost. First came the horses with the sheriff and the men of the Watch, then the hangman and his assistants, and then the cart with the condemned man. He stood upright on the cart,
leaning forward for support on his coffin. The form was the same, but James had to search hard to discern the face he once knew. Gone was the arrogant sneer, the always upturned lip. Instead, the face was white and haggard and twisted in the shape of pure fear. Vandeleur was dressed in his best finery: silk waistcoat, purple coat, fine breeches and stockings, but the clothes hung loose about his frame, as if they belonged to someone else. Around his neck was the rope, the long end of it coiled about his body.

Missiles fell all about him, and his fine clothes were already soiled by the mob's ritual fury. Vandeleur didn't look at the mob, but fixed his eyes at some distant space not in this world, as if he had managed to remove himself already from the earth he was about to leave. When an egg splattered on his cheek he made no effort to remove it but continued his staring, as if he had already taken his leave of his body.

James tried to catch his eye, thinking maybe the sight of someone he knew would be a small comfort. He had never liked Vandeleur, but he was going to a lonely and painful death, and James would have liked to offer him a token of human companionship. But what if Vandeleur recognised him and called out, ‘He was there too, why do you hang him too?'

James shrank back, pulling out of the baying crowd. He leant against the wall of a shop, not trusting his legs to keep him upright. Imagine McAllister could just as easily be there! And what of him? James had helped them, after all; he had helped McAllister to leave the country: who knew
what the punishment for that might be if anyone connected him with Vandeleur or McAllister? And who knew how long his current life would last before the law found him out, and he'd find himself trundling down these streets like a common criminal? He must change his life, he thought.

Seventeen

A Visit to Newgate

I
t can’t be that hard to escape, James thought as he sat in the hide, whittling a stick with his knife. I could just walk out these woods and not come back. Avoid Red Molly’s and dark alleys and try for a new life. That was where he kept getting stuck. Walking out was one thing; a new life was another, much harder thing. Where would he go? What would he do? He thought of the ships in the river. Maybe he could sneak onto one and hide in the hold until the ship was on the high seas. Then he would reveal himself and they’d let him become a sailor, and he would go ashore in strange new countries and see what life had to offer there. He had stripped the stick completely, and was climbing the mast to the crow’s nest to look for land when Kitty came rushing in to the hide. For a second James thought he had spied into his head and seen his plans. He tightened his grip on his knife.

‘Darcy’s taken!’ Kitty shouted. Kelly and Hare, who had
been slumped against a tree, shot up as if stung.

‘Wha’?’ they said with a single voice.

‘He was drinking in the Ram when that man we attacked in Kilmainham spied him.’

‘The one you cut up.’ James couldn’t help himself. The ship, the ocean, the exotic ports and all thought of escape had vanished.

Kitty glared at him. ‘He asked for it.’

‘Get on with it, we don’t want your confession,’ Hare snarled. ‘How do you know what happened?’

‘I was going there to meet him when I saw him being taken out by the sheriff’s men and the cut man with him.’

Kelly looked at Kitty suspiciously. ‘Strange how you happened to arrive after he was taken,’ he said.

Kitty was indignant. ‘There’s nothing strange about it. And it was lucky I wasn’t taken too – lucky for you that you have me to tell you the tale.’

‘What will happen now?’ James asked.

‘The cut man will file charges with the magistrates,’ Kelly answered. ‘Then they’ll prosecute Jack and if they find him guilty, he’ll be sentenced to hang.’

‘Then he’s doomed,’ James said. He wasn’t sure what he felt about Jack Darcy, but he didn’t relish the prospect of any man being hanged.

‘Don’t be so quick,’ Kelly came back at him. ‘Jack won’t go down so easily. But we’ll need to get to him quick. He won’t thank us if we let him stew in Newgate. They’ll already have taken what coin he had on him.’

‘Who will get to him?’ James often wished he wasn’t so quick with his questions. This one was met with a thoughtful pause as all three looked long at him.

‘He’s perfect for it,’ Hare said. ‘No one there knows him.’

‘No,’ James began. ‘I couldn’t–’

‘Oh, he’s afraid, lads. Poor James is afraid of nasty Newgate,’ Kitty interrupted.

‘Why don’t you go?’ James asked.

‘Do you think they’d ever let him out?’ Kelly asked angrily. ‘He’s known all over the city for his knife-work.’

Kitty smiled with gratification.

‘He’ll need money for his rent and his penny pot,’ Kelly continued. He seemed happy to slip into the role of leader in Darcy’s absence.

James supposed all gangs must work like that, their members swapping roles interchangeably as the circumstances demanded. He couldn’t imagine himself leading a gang, but then he didn’t even really want to be in one.

He thought it strange that Darcy had to pay for his imprisonment but, this time, he kept his mouth shut. Then another thought occurred to him. ‘Can we help him escape?’

Kelly snorted. ‘This isn’t some boy’s adventure,’ he said. He looked at James as if this question had been the height of idiocy. ‘No one escapes from Newgate. It might have been possible once. The last keeper helped some lads escape for a handsome fee, but they got rid of him, and it would be more than Hawkins’ job’s worth to let anyone go.’

‘The horrible Hawkins,’ Hare added. ‘Him and his harridan
wife who’d charge the fleas if they could.’

‘Are we safe here?’ Kitty suddenly asked. ‘I mean, what if–’

Kelly broke in abruptly. ‘What if what? Do you think Jack would lead them here?’

‘No,’ Kitty said, but he didn’t sound convinced. ‘What if Hawkins tortures him? They say he loves money more than anything. What if he made Jack tell where the hide was?’

‘Jack wouldn’t tell. He’d be too clever for him.’ Kelly’s voice was very definite, but he was rattled by Kitty’s question, James could see.

‘Maybe we should wait and see,’ Hare said. ‘See if anyone tries to come to the hide tonight.’

‘Alright,’ Kelly said at last. ‘We’ll wait one night and see what happens.’

They ate some bread and smoked fish and drank what small beer was left in the hide, then took turns as lookout through the night.

James tried to sleep, but it was bitterly cold and his mind was racing. He was terrified of the mission they had assigned him, and as he tossed and turned he began to wonder what might happen if he didn’t stop at Newgate but fled westward through the gate and out along the great road that led into the heart of the country. Had he not said he must change his life? Why did life keep opposing his plans, putting fresh obstacles in his way at every turn? If he didn’t go to the prison, what would happen? Darcy would be badly handled by the keepers, enough to kill him maybe, or he’d be hanged after his trial. What difference would his visit make? And if Darcy was
dead, who would come after him? He saw the brutish faces of Kelly and Hare, and knew they wouldn’t think twice about wringing his neck if they found him. Kitty he couldn’t care less about; he’d relish the chance to fight him. But the three of them?

Yet it wasn’t just his fear of what might happen if he fled that bothered him. He couldn’t find it in himself to betray Jack, even if he was a ruthless thief he shouldn’t care a fig about. It wasn’t that Jack was a great friend of his, but still James looked up to him. It didn’t make any sense, James thought, as he edged towards a fitful sleep.

It was still dark and very cold when Hare shook him awake to take his turn on watch. So far no one had come near the hide. James walked to the edge of the clearing and looked into the distance as far as he could. He could see nothing other than the vague shapes of trees, but there was plenty to be heard: bird-cries, the shufflings and brushings of unseen parallel lives, the stealthy night animals about their business in the dark – if they were animals, James thought, and not some other strange creatures – ghosts, maybe, desperate and desolate forms living out some demon life. James shivered. He couldn’t decide if he wanted the grey light of a winter dawn to percolate through the trees or if he wanted to stand in this blackness forever, frozen in time.

James made his way down the northern quays. If his mind
had been racing last night, it was swimming now in a flood of information. There was the under-keeper, Bullard, to be paid, and he must also try to speak with, and offer money, to Hawkins the keeper. He was not to leave the prison until he had done so. The most important thing he learned in the schoolroom of the forest was that the prison ran on money, and the life of a prisoner depended on a plentiful supply of it finding its way into the hands of the gaolers.

As he crossed the river, he was nearly knocked down by a low cart pulled by two scrawny dogs.

‘Get out o’ the way, can’t ye,’ a cripple shouted from his cart, as James jumped awkwardly to one side.

‘Have ye e’er a few pence for the King of the Beggars?’ The cripple’s voice was wheedling, yet confident enough to suggest he was successful more often than not. This was Hackball, a familiar figure who took up his position on the bridge and lived on what he could extract from those who had to cross it.

He was one of the reasons James tended to avoid the Old Bridge. Shrugging his shoulders, James showed his empty palms to the beggar, who let fly a stream of oaths so virulent that James felt their violence would cling to the back of his coat like a stain. James climbed up the hill with slow feet, every step bringing him deeper into the dark old city. He could hear the butchers calling out from the market square behind the houses on his left. It made his heart sink because it reminded him that he’d already reached the dismal district that housed Newgate and its sister-prison, the Black Dog, where debtors and many others languished. Some dreaded the
Black Dog more than Newgate itself because the gaolers were even greedier, and many who entered it had never come out again. At the border between the Liberties and the old city a heavy throng of people flowed in both directions. He stood there a few minutes watching the people and listening to the sellers from the Glib Market shouting their wares, gathering his courage. Finally, he turned into the narrow, crowded alley and arrived at the prison. As he stood in front of its mean-looking door, he again thought of bolting away, but he found his fist, almost of its own accord, banging on the wood. A slat shot back and a pair of eyes considered him.

‘Please sir, I wish to see the prisoner Darcy. I have a message for Mr Bullard and Mr Hawkins.’

The slat was closed again and James heard the working of iron bolts from inside. The door opened and he was admitted to a dark antechamber. The gaoler looked him up and down. For a man in a position of authority, even if it was a low one, he looked dismayingly unkempt. His clothes were filthy and his face unshaven and grimy.

‘Been here before?’ he asked James.

James shook his head.

The gaoler seemed to find his response funny. He unlocked the inner door of the antechamber and they entered a corridor, at the end of which James could see another iron door. The stench hit him immediately – foul, stale air and rank human odours all mixed together. There was yet another door on the right about halfway down the corridor and the gaoler now stopped in front of it and unlocked it.

Inside was a throng of prisoners, men and women as well as children no older than James. They stood or sat or lay on the bare stone floor. There was no bedding that James could see, not so much as a handful of straw. If the stench in the corridor had been overwhelming, the stink coming out from this packed room was barely endurable. They looked at the gaoler and James without interest.

‘This is the Felons’ Room. Do ye see yer friend?’ the gaoler asked James.

His voice was mocking, but even so James scanned the room to see if Darcy might be there. None of the ashen-faced, emaciated figures was familiar to him. They all seemed to have been rotting in this room for years. How long would it take it to look like one of these? James wondered. Suddenly one of the women prisoners lunged towards them, as if she meant to leave.

The gaoler lifted his arm. ‘Get back out of it if you don’t want the back of my hand on yer gob,’ he said.

The woman halted abruptly, then turned on her heel, raising her middle finger at the gaoler as she slipped back towards the far wall.’

The gaoler stepped back and slammed the door.

‘Well, maybe he’s not there yet, but we’ll save a place for him just in case,’ he said.

‘If I could see Mr Bullard,’ James said. He willed his voice to be strong and clear, but he heard the hesitation in it as he spoke.

‘Oh don’t worry, you’ll see him soon enough,’ the gaoler said.

They went to the end of the corridor. The door was already open and James could hear the sounds of commotion inside. The gaoler led him in. The room was slightly less crowded than the other. A slit near the top allowed some light in and James noticed a covering of very thin straw on the floor. A short, stout man was berating and striking one of the prisoners, who was secured by two guards. Blood poured from the prisoner’s nose. From the corner of his eye James saw Darcy in the far corner, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. He didn’t look too much the worse for wear. He raised an eyebrow at James, and James nodded slightly in return.

‘This gentleman was asking for you, Mr Bullard,’ the gaoler said, indicating James.

‘Was he indeed?’ Bullard replied without looking up.

He removed his coat, handed it to the gaoler who had brought James in, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Then he began calmly and methodically to punch the prisoner in the stomach, ribs and face. The prisoner groaned.