The Sparks Fly Upward (15 page)

The air of danger was different again here, emitted by the risk the inhabitants ran. At any moment magistrates' men could appear to march into a house and drag away a protesting writer who had upset the government's sensibilities or, more often, his creditors.

Offending presses were supposed to be broken up, and more magistrates' men came with warrants to that effect—as they had for John Beasley's after his arrest and not for the first time. One of Philippa's errands today was to ensure that his was rescued from destruction. Presses were valuable and, fortunately for the printers, magistrates' men were human. What usually happened was that they disassembled a press, took it to a pound where, once some silver had crossed their palms, the pieces were smuggled back to somewhere else in Grub Street and put together again.

Of its very nature, the street's literary radicalism had bled into its surroundings, as a splash of ink seeps more palely into wet paper, so that it was encircled not just by small associated tradesmen like paper-makers and stationers but by people of more dubious callings who also served it or required its services; struck-off lawyers, defrocked priests, agents provocateur, hunted men wanting to publish their innocence, apothecaries selling strange substances, Jacobite apologists and—Philippa hoped—forgers.

They passed Number Eight, where there was silence, on to the lopsided door of Number Twenty-seven and sounds of printing activity.

Philippa knocked and declared herself, adding her bona fides, ‘Do you remember me, Mr Lucey? I am the missus's daughter.' People frequently forgot her but never her mother, she was used to it.

‘Of course you are,' said a voice with enthusiasm, though a careful eye peeped out at her from behind a curtain before the door was opened. ‘Come in, come in. My heart, what
are
you wearing? And who are these dear people?'

Philippa made explanations and introductions. ‘Ginny, this is Mr Lucey who takes over editorship of
The Passenger
when John Beasley can't.'

They were led into a monochrome room, all lead, black beams, distemper and white paper, its light coming not from the street windows, which were curtained but from a large window at the back, overlooking a yard. The flat bed of a press that hadn't changed in design since the time of Gutenberg took up most of the space. In what was left, an aproned young man was squinting at a chapbook and choosing type from racks to set into a forme.

Mr Lucey provided the color; he was tall, abnormally thin and wore a brilliant turquoise tasselled smoking cap on his bald head, a pink and gold brocaded waistcoat and green breeches from the days when they still tied them at the knee with ribbons. His long, tapering fingers flirted constantly with the air and looked inadequate for the pressure all printers had to exert on the great lever of their press. Like most members of his profession, he had a bad back and his hand went frequently to his suffering lumbar region.

‘You've heard the latest, of course?' Mr Lucey clutched at the press's handle for support as if transmitting the news was going to be too much for his legs. ‘You know what they're accusing poor dear John of?'

‘Sedition, surely.'

Mr Lucey's chin and eyes described a withering arc. ‘High treason.
Treason
. Do you know where they took him and Horne Tooke and John Thelwall yesterday, the lambs? To the
Tower
.'

‘Treason?' Philippa's shock was sufficient to gratify even Mr Lucey. She turned to Georgiana. ‘Oh God, Ginny, they'll hang him.' Sedition had been bad enough but at least it was not a capital crime. She looked back at Lucey. ‘How can it be high treason to publish a tract on reform?'

‘Well, they
say
he and the others formed a convention and, as we know, thanks to our bloodthirsty Froggy friends, the word “convention” has become a tribal war whoop against anyone who disagrees with Mr Pitt.'

Mr Lucey had fetched down a book from a shelf. ‘Here we are. I looked it up yesterday. High treason defined in a statute of 1351 as “compassing the death of the King or levying war against him.” '

He shut the book with a slam. ‘
Well
. They raided Number Eight yesterday looking for arms, didn't they, Jamie?'

The young typesetter looked up and nodded.

‘We all know our John, the dear heart. Breathes fire like a dragon but couldn't wield a hatpin, bless him. Anyway, they raided Number Eight and came away with a blunderbuss. Old Mr Prosser, he's got the rooms above John's, he told them it was his, he collects memorabilia from the Civil War. Didn't he, Jamie? Didn't he say it was his? Over and over, he told them but, no, they would have it the thing was John's. It's old enough to blow up in their faces if they fire it—and I do,
do
hope it does.
What
your dear mother will say when she hears, I can't think. Such a friend she's been to him.'

‘A lawyer,' said Philippa, ‘we'll get him the best lawyers.'

‘Well, yes,' Mr Lucey looked dubious, ‘though I always agree with dear Ollie Goldsmith who said: “Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law.” '

Georgiana broke in brightly: ‘Or Shakespeare who said: “First thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.” '

‘Dick the Butcher,' exulted Mr Lucey. ‘I've found a twin soul.'

Philippa interrupted their exchange of literary esteem. The sooner she could finish her business here, the sooner she could organize John Beasley's defense. ‘I need a forger, Mr Lucey. It's a matter of helping a friend escape from France. Before he went off to get arrested, Uncle John said that you might know of someone who could make a French
certificat
for me.'

‘
Look
at her,' Mr Lucey exclaimed to Georgiana. ‘The very pattern of an English rose and can I find her a forger. So like her dear mother in many ways. Well, Miss Philippa, it so happens that I
can
, not that I've used him in an illegal capacity, of course, but occasionally one wants things authenticated that haven't been authenticated, if you know what I mean. Only the other day one got one's hands on a long-lost play by Ben Jonson which dear Ben had neglected to sign though one
knew
it was his ...'

He caught Philippa's eye and bridled. ‘Don't you look at me like that, miss. We all get inky fingers if we're to survive in this business.'

‘You mistake me,' Philippa told him, gently, ‘I am very grateful.'

Mollified, Lucey slapped the back of one of his hands with the fingers of the other. ‘There I go,
such
a temper. I'm just a-tremble over this treason affair. All forgiven? Now, I'm not saying Scratcher's your man but he
is
foreign and very thick with our Froggy friends.'

‘He sounds the perfect thing.'

‘Not perhaps the best description of our Scratcher.' Mr Lucey went to an ink-stained shelf and scribbled some words on a scrap of paper. ‘He's not the most salubrious member of our little coterie, is he, Jamie? Festering would not be too strong a word. And
cautious
. . . my dear, he suspects his own
fleas
of informing on him.'

‘Perhaps you could let him know that I won't.'

‘That's what I'm doing. Jamie dear, run this round to Scratcher and see if he's fit to receive. We don't want Miss Philippa encountering him in one of his turns, do we?'

While they waited, Lucey told them he had already been to the Tower to see if he could gain admittance to the prisoners. ‘And got nowhere, of course. When I demanded to see the lieutenant, the beefeater I talked to was
unbelievably
rude, he told me to . . . well, I won't tell you what he told me to do but he wouldn't let me in. I said to him, I said: “I suppose I'll only be able to see my friends when their heads are stuck up on poles, will I?” But it was lost on that vermin, of course, simply
lost
.'

In the circumstances, Philippa thought it had been brave of Lucey to go at all, especially if he'd been dressed as he was now. But courage was all around. Hidden upstairs, Lucey told her, waiting for distribution, were several dozen copies of Paine's
Rights of Man
, which he had managed to retrieve from Beasley's print shop before they could be burned—‘
Such
a worthy book'—and he was happy to accept some money with which to rescue Beasley's press from the pound. ‘Do thank your mother,' he said, as he took it and, resignedly, Philippa said she would.

While the printer was out of the room fetching some refreshment, Georgiana explored, picking up one of the sheets that Jamie had been setting into type. ‘Hannah More,' she said. ‘Look at this, Pippy, he's publishing the enemy.'

‘
Pirating
the enemy, I think.' It did not seem likely that a woman who was gaining fame as a purveyor of morals and education to the poor would use Lucey to print her tracts; it was hardly less surprising to find Lucey prepared to broadcast strictures echoing the hellfire that Old Testament prophets had promised to the Cities of the Plain.

‘I'm sure dear Miss More would be delighted to have her work disseminated in these sinful parts, permission or no permission.' Lucey had returned, tray in hand. ‘Those little chapbooks sell like Christmas beef at a penny a time. That only provides me with a ha'penny profit. Still, times are hard and a ha'penny is a ha'penny.'

He looked over Georgiana's shoulder. ‘Ah yes,
The Story of Sinful Sally
—
very
popular. I've seen raddled old whores break down and cry at poor Sally's decline into sin and her eventual repentance. Of course, it has to be read to them ...'

‘I suppose if she's inspiring the lower classes to learn to read ...' Georgiana said, doubtfully.

‘I suppose so,' Philippa said. ‘I just wish she wouldn't lecture them.'

Miss More's works had been urged on her by Stephen, who was an admirer. There was no doubt the woman wrote entertainingly for a public that was otherwise catered for by churchmen prepared to bore it into virtue, but Philippa disliked her insistence on telling the poor to be content with a position that had been designed for them by Providence, at the same time urging them to give thanks for an upper class good enough to bestrew them with charity.

‘She lectures women as well,' she said, and picked up another sheet. ‘She wouldn't approve of us, Ginny. It says here: “A woman's obligation to promote good works in her husband restores her to all the dignity of equality.” I hope you're promoting good works in Sir Charles.'

‘It's a good day's work if I can stop him raising hell at his club.'

‘Then you must be resigned,' Philippa said, reading on, ‘because Miss More further tells us that “to demand equality is to quarrel with Providence and not with the government. For the woman is below her husband and the children are below their mother and the servant is below his master.” '

‘Does she, indeed?' said Georgiana. ‘Give me a pen.'

Jamie was back. ‘Scratcher's a bit waxy, Mr Lucey, a-cause of he's missing his pipe but I reckon that's all to the good along of that'll make him agreeable to do what the lady wants.'

‘Scratcher's an opium eater,' Mr Lucey explained. ‘I wonder if I should come with you. I only hesitate because he and I had a falling out over our last transaction. Better perhaps if Jamie accompanies you. He's very sound in these matters, aren't you, Jamie?'

As he cupped his hand round the back of the boy's neck, Jamie preened with a mental and physical gratification. ‘I'll see she don't come to no harm.'

‘I know you will.'

Georgiana had got herself writing material and sat herself down on a stool with the absorption of one visited by a muse, so Philippa left her to Chadwell and Lucey.

As they walked down the street, she asked, ‘Are you happy as a printer, Jamie?'

‘Only a 'prentice yet, miss, but Mr Lucey, he says I'm comin' on wonderful. Never learned nothing but how to filch till Mr Lucey took me up . . . he's a tip-top man, miss. People laugh at him but they don't know.'

‘No,' Philippa agreed, ‘they don't.'

They turned into a narrow, fetid alley, empty for the most part and with its few windows shuttered. Philippa nevertheless received the strong impression of being noticed, as if they were passing a succession of blind men who turned to watch their progress when they'd gone by. She saw that Jamie stared aggressively at some of the shutters and tapped the side of his nose with intent.

They stopped outside a door so badly rotted at the base that it only filled three-quarters of the entrance. ‘Do I call him Mr Scratcher?'

But that, it appeared, being the local term for a forger, was the man's designation, not his name which, Jamie said, started with Vladimir and ended in more consonants than was decent. ‘Nobody don't know where he come from and I reckon as he's forgot but he talks a mort of languages and when his hand's steady he can copy a cully's signature so's that cully'll think he signed it.'

He gave one knock on the door, then slid his hand through a hole in the wood and lifted the latch inside. ‘Me again, Scratcher, with the lady.'

They had to leave the door open in order to see the man whose upper body sprawled across a table which, apart from the stool he sat on, made up the room's only furniture. Philippa would have left it open anyway; the room was too cold to get any colder and its smell was strong and extraordinary—dirt dominated by the sweet scent of opium cut through by etching acid.

‘Mr Vladimir?' asked Philippa.

He raised his head; he was so emaciated it seemed to take effort for him to do that much. ‘What you want?'