Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (11 page)

Our guide led us into the men’s wing only, the women’s side being barred to us. Some of the more lucid inmates were allowed to take exercise in the halls, while closely watched by their keepers. Only because they were somewhat better dressed than their charges, and armed with clubs and keys, was I able to tell one from another.

Though assured by our guide that the straw in the cells was frequently changed, the stench of filthy bodies, night soil, and rotten food pervaded every breath in the place. My cousin and I found some relief by holding handkerchiefs to our noses, which amused the guide and the other keepers. They maintained that they were quite used to it, and we should soon be, too. I prayed that we should not stay so long as to verify the truth of their statement.

Some of the more interesting cases were pointed out to us, and Oliver took time to study each with an absorption that surprised me. Flighty as he seemed most of the time, here he was a genuine student, apparently serious in his pursuit of knowledge when the fit was upon him. It was contagious, for his comments to me quickened my own curiosity and sparked a lengthy conversation on the causes of madness.

“You and I both know that it can be passed along in the blood,” he said. “There are whole families running loose that should be chained up in the basement. But some of these cases just seem to come out of nowhere as though the wretch had been struck by lightning. That fellow back there in the straw cap preaching so fervently to the wall is an excellent example. You missed hearing about him, but his keeper said that his was such an occurrence. He was once a curate and while doing his rounds one day, he just fell right over. They thought it was apoplexy or too much sun or the flying gout, but he fully recovered the next day, except for his wits, which were gone. Now he thinks he’s a bishop and spends his time in theological argument with invisible colleagues. To add to the singularity of his circumstances, his arguments are quite sane and sound. I listened to him and he makes more sense than others I’ve heard of a Sunday.”

The poor man was certainly in a minority, for many of those around him either stared at nothing with frightened or blank faces or raved in their cells, rattling their chains and howling in a most pitiful way. If one became violent, others might follow, so the keepers had to watch them constantly. I’m sorry to say that when drawn to one of the barred windows set in the stout door of a cell, the creature within began screeching in a most alarming way at the sight of me. I fell back at once, but that alone did not calm him and he continued until a keeper opened the door and threw a bucket of water on him. This inspired much merriment in those others who were able to appreciate it. The screams turned to sputtering, died away, and his door was again locked.

“That’s the only bath ’e’s like to get in a twelvemonth,” the grinning keeper confided to me. “Lord knows ’e needs it.”

Considering his own utter lack of cleanliness, I thought he had no reason to judge another, especially one unable to care for himself. With my handkerchief firmly in place I caught up with Oliver, who spoke to a lad whose sullen expression reminded me of young Nathan Finch back home.

“I don’t belong ’ere,” he insisted. “ ’m not like them others. I never ’urt no one nor meself, so they got no call to put me ’ere.”

“Is this true?” Oliver asked our guide.

“ ’Tis true enough the way ’e tells it. He never ’armed ’imself or others, but they put ’im ’ere anyways.”

“Why? If he’s not mad—”

“Oh, ’e’s mad enough, sir, for they found ’im ’sponsible for slittin’ open the bellies of a dozen cattle. Said ’e could ’ear the calves ’nside callin’ ter get out ’n’ ’e were just ’elpin’ ’em along lest they smother. They’d a lynched ’im at Tyburn for ’is mischief, but ’e were judged to be too lunatical for it to do ’im any good, so he were brung ’ere. Leastwise ’e won’t get no more chance to cut up no more cattle.” Laughing heartily at this observation, the guide patted the lad on the head, and moved on. Looking back, I saw the boy make a murderous face at us, followed by an obscene gesture. Harmless or not, I was glad to see that he was solidly chained to a thick staple set in the floor.

The hideous stenches, the noise, the pervading sadness, anguish and rage assaulting us from every direction were exhausting. After two hours, even Oliver’s earnest quest for knowledge began to flag and he inquired if I was prepared to leave. Out of consideration for his feelings, I tried not to appear too eager, but indicated that a change of scene would not be unwelcome.

He consulted with the guide, who quickly led us to the entrance where we settled with him and were invited to return at our earliest convenience. Again, he laughed at this, giving the impression that he was not expressing hospitality, but something more sinister. We were well down the lane before finally slowing to a more dignified pace.

“What did you think of it?” asked Oliver.

“While I can appreciate that seeing the sights within was a rare opportunity, I can’t honestly say that they were entirely enjoyable.”

“I’ll be the first to agree with you on that point, but it was certainly of excellent value to a student of the medical arts. I hope I can remember everything for Tony later.”

“If not, then please consult me. I’m sure I shan’t forget a single detail for the rest of my life. I hope that man of his does as promised with my clothes, the stink of the place clings to me still. I shall want to change them, but what I’d most like is a decent bath.”

“Well, if you think you need one,” he said, but with doubt in his tone. “I’m sure something can be arranged before the party tonight. There’s the Turkish baths at Covent Garden, but we haven’t the time or deep enough pockets, I should think.”

“How much could it cost for a bit of soap and water?”

“Very little, but it’s the extras like supper and the price of the whore you sleep with that add up, and that can go as high as six guineas.”

I abruptly forgot all about Bedlam. “Really?”

Oliver misinterpreted my reaction. “Yes, it’s disgusting, isn’t it? Even if you forgo the bath and meal, the tarts there will still demand their guineas. And they’re not much better looking than the ladies that trade at Vauxhall, who are considerably more reasonable in their prices, I might add.”

My head began to reel with excited speculation. “Where is this place?”

He waved a hand. “Oh, you can find it easily enough. But another time, perhaps. We’ll have to get back to Tony’s before that barber he promised disappears.”

It was not fair. I’d spent a horrid afternoon in Bedlam when I could have been wallowing in a scented bathing pool like a turbaned potentate with any number of beauteous water nymphs seeing to my every desire. Though Oliver and I had much in common, it seemed that our ideas on practical education were quite different. I wanted to ask him more about his experiences at Covent Garden and Vauxhall, but we’d reached the end of the lane and had to consider our mode of transport.

After expressing my preference of a cart over a sedan chair, we managed to find one going in the desired direction. This one had outward facing seats and was crowded with other passengers, two of whom were ladies of the respectable sort. Their inhibiting presence kept me from obtaining more details from Oliver, so I had to content myself with conversation on less exciting topics than the tarts of London.

Our trip seemed shorter, whether by speed of the horse, or the amusing nature of my cousin’s comments as we traveled. The streets were just as busy as ever as people hurried to finish their errands before nightfall. Oliver said that the city could be a deadly trap to the unwary or the unarmed, and if the footpads were bold enough during the day, they were positively bloodthirsty at night. Since we would be going over by carriage, with footmen running before and behind with torches, we would probably be safe enough.

“Can you defend yourself?” he asked.

“Oh, yes.” With an easy twist, I opened my walking stick to reveal part of the Spanish steel blade within. Oliver whistled with admiration. “It was a present from Father,” I added. “He’d ordered it nearly a year ago, intending it for my last birthday, but delivery was delayed. As it was, it made a fine parting gift for my trip here.”

“Or anywhere,” he added, his eyes lighting up with a touch of envy. “I shall have to take you along to the fencing gallery we have at Cambridge so you can show us your skill.”

“I should look forward to that.” It had been ages since my last match at home, and I wanted the practice.

“Tell me, before you left, did you have any opportunity at all to put it to use?”

“Use? What? Against the rebels? They’re miles from where we are.”

“No-no-no! I meant against all those bloodthirsty red Indians!”

“Eh?”

He explained his eagerness to hear whatever exploits I might have had fighting savages, being under the misapprehension that the colonies were comprised of besieged forts under constant threat from roaming hoards of feathered fiends. My lengthy explanation about the complete lack of hostile natives on Long Island disappointed him, but served to fill the time until we reached Tony Warburton’s front steps. Though ostensibly a guest in the house and therefore not subject to paying for lodging and board, I might have spent much less money had I remained at The Three Brewers. The many vails were adding up, and my supply of pennies dwindled before I came to an understanding with the butler that all things could be settled at the end of my visit. This promise, rather than putting the servants off, caused them to be more attentive than before, so my request for a bath was greeted as an easily met challenge rather than an impassable obstacle.

Because Mrs. Warburton was a great believer in maintaining a clean body (hence the family holiday at Bath), facilities were at hand, even if they weren’t exactly ready. Two stout boys carried her bathing tub to my room and then lugged bucket after bucket up the stairs to fill it, while another man lighted a fire to warm the room. Though it was August, the weather was cool today, and they weren’t going to risk my catching a chill while under their care. Their concern might also have been that if I died from that chill I should be unable to pay them for their trouble. Even so, the water they brought was barely lukewarm.

Ah, but it was water, and I sank gratefully into the cramped tub for a much-desired soak. With a fat bar of soap and a flesh brush I was a happy man. Oliver and Tony came in for a short visit to view “the antics of this rustic colonial” as they joked to me. In turn, I shocked them by briefly recounting the many times on the crossing voyage that I had voluntarily stripped and had myself doused with seawater from the deck pump.

“Well-a-day, man, ’tis a wonder you’re not dead,” Oliver exclaimed with hollow-eyed horror.

“On the contrary, I found it to be refreshing and greatly improving to the appetite.” I left off telling them about the awful food.

“He
is
still alive,” Tony pointed out.

My cousin conceded that I was, indeed, still alive, by the grace of God and no thanks to my foolish habits.

“You made mention of Turkish bathing, Oliver. How is it so different from this that it is better for the health?” I asked.

“For one thing you’re not slopping about in a drafty room, but working up a proper sweat wrapped in a hot blanket.”

This didn’t sound much like the marble-lined pool surrounded by the graceful seraglio I’d envisioned. He apparently didn’t hear my invitation to continue his description, suddenly recalling a task he’d left undone in his room. Tony chuckled at his departure.

“Oliver is a bit bashful when it comes to talking about his wenching,” he said. “It seems he’d rather do it than waste time in discussion, which is quite sensible, after all. Perhaps later I can persuade him to take you ’round to meet some of our fair English roses after the party.”

Well-a-day
, I thought, a deep shiver coursing through me at the prospect. Perhaps this very night I would at last learn the pleasures of physical love. I applied the soap to the brush, and the brush to my flesh with happy diligence.

As the boys carried the buckets of dirty water back downstairs, I worked to get my hair combed and dried before the fire. Mother had insisted on fitting me out with a wig, which I suffered to accept in order to keep the peace. However, the one she chose was a monstrous horseshoe toupet nearly a foot high with a sweep of Cadogan puffs hanging from the nape. No doubt another man would look quite handsome in it, but my first glimpse was enough to convince me that my own appearance would be extremely grotesque. I would sooner sport a chamber pot in public than to be seen wearing that thing. Brightly oblivious to my pained expression at the buffoon in my mirror, Mother pronounced that it would be perfect for any and all social functions I should be fortunate enough to attend and gave me lengthy instructions for its proper care. This upcoming musical evening would have met with her rare approval.

But she was thousands of leagues away and unable to command my obedience; I blithely cast the wig aside. This was no light decision for me, though.

During today’s travels, I had ample opportunity to observe that no matter how mean their station in life, every Englishman I’d clapped eyes on that day (except for only the worst of the wretches in Bedlam) wore a wig. Foreigners like myself who chose to eschew the custom were either laughed at for their lack of fashion sense or admired for their eccentricity. Since I had a full head of thick black hair, I would take a bit of sinful pride in what God had given me and wear it as it was, tied back with a black ribbon. In this I was almost copying Benjamin Franklin, at least in general principle.

He’d made himself quite popular in polite society by choosing to dress simply and make an affectation out of his lack of affectation. He’d made a sober, but good-humored contrast to all the court peacocks, and had enjoyed no end of female companionship. Though I disagreed with his politics and those of his fanatical friends, I could admire his cleverness.

Tony Warburton’s barber came and went, leaving my face expertly scraped and powdered dry. He grumbled unhappily over my attitude about the wig, which he had expected to dress. If all gentlemen made such a calamitous decision to go without, he would lose more than half his income. Before sending him on, I compensated him with a generous vail, having made it a practice to always be on good terms with any man who plays around my throat with a razor.