Fortune's Son (28 page)

Following the blow-up with Sukey, and thinking what a delusional dolt he'd been to believe she would agree to carry on as before, Philip sought the first public house to lose himself in a bottle. The more he drank, the more morose he became. Though he sought oblivion, even drink could not free his mind of her anguished look of disbelief when he'd told her what he'd agreed to.

Deep down he'd known she would never accept a second woman who would bear his name… as well as his children. He had only seen the easy way out. Blind to all but the fifty thousand pound mountain of gold, he had convinced himself that he could convince her.

Bloody
stupid
jackass!

Though he still stood on the brink of losing it all—money, property, title, honor, none of it mattered when faced with the prospect of losing her forever. He resolved to end his agreement with Gideon, if it meant sacrificing Sukey.

After suffering a miserable night at the George and Vulture, Philip returned to Stepney, knowing he could face a breach of promise suit for his actions, but consequences be damned.

In finding Gideon away from home, he'd left a note with the footman giving his present direction as the George and Vulture where, summarily evicted by Sukey, he had once more taken rooms. He dispatched a second message to Jonathan's Coffee House, Samson Gideon's well-known domain on Exchange Alley, and then returned to his lodgings.

He spent the rest of the evening lost in a bottle and self-rebuke while he alternately meditated his options of returning to military service or starting anew in America. While he'd come to no conclusions on either head, he
was
determined to make amends with Sukey. He had wronged her, taken for granted what she'd so freely given, and he couldn't fathom a life without her.

Philip had no more than snuffed the candle and closed his eyes when the heavy clomp of boots sounded outside his chamber, followed rapidly by a fist striking thrice in succession.

“Bailiff of Westminster,” shouted a voice through the door.

“What the devil do you want here?”

“We've a warrant for the arrest of one Philip Drake, alias Lord Hastings.”

“Arrest? There's obviously some mistake.”

“I've a writ signed by the Westminster Magistrate Fielding hisself. There be no mistake. Now open the door afore we knock it from the hinges,” the bailiff commanded.

Philip threw the bolt free to face his arrestors. “This is beyond the pale! What are the charges?”

“That of insolvent debtor,” spoke the bailiff.

“You are assuredly misguided. I'm a peer of the realm. Privilege of peerage exempts me from such charges. Unless I have committed a criminal act, you have no right to arrest me.”

“Beg pardon,
your
worship
, but you are the misguided one.”

Philip swore under his breath. “The devil you say!”

“The Chancery Court has suspended
your
privilege
, and thus your immunity from arrest,
my
lord.
”

“How is that possible? Who has ordered it so?”

“The king's own Lord High Chancellor Hardwicke. Unless you have the ear of his Majesty hisself, there be no higher power.”

Philip protested. “As a peer, I am guaranteed precisely such an audience.”

“Ah, back to that again, are we?” said the bailiff. “According to the high chancellor, you are no longer amongst that august company.” He turned in mocking empathy to his deputy. “'Tis a pity to see such a great man brought low as us commoners, eh?”

Philip looked from one to the other with deliberation. “Even if you deny me the privilege of my station, you can be hanged if you'll deny my full rights as an Englishman. The due process of insolvency precludes arrest before trial.”

“You are arrested upon
mesne
process
with a writ for
capias
ad
respondendum
,” the Latin term rolled awkwardly over the bailiff's tongue. “That is to say, you must 'ave crossed a man greater than yerself, as you are to be bodily detained until called before the King's Bench to answer the charges.”

“What of bail?”

“Let's see.” The bailiff scratched his head as he examined the legal document. “Ah, here it be—bail.” He smirked. “If your lordship has about his person the sum of fifty thousand quid, we'd be most delighted to release you on bail.”

Philip was stunned. “'Tis five times what I owe!”

“It seems you be deemed a flight risk, my lord.”

“Whose hand is behind all this?” Philip demanded.

“There be more than enough time for questions at the King's Bench,” the bailiff replied. With full awareness of his position, panic began to set in. Philip's gaze flicked from one potential jailer to the other, his every nerve poised to act.

“Ah, come now, my lord. Don't make it harder on yerself.” The larger of the two men looked to his deputy, who produced and rattled a set of iron manacles. “For a guinea each, we can agree to forgo the shackles, or do we go about this the hard way?”

Realizing the futility of flight, Philip asked, “How long do you intend to detain me?”

“Now that is the question yet to be answered, isn't it, guvn'r?” The bailiff chuckled.

***

When Philip finally heard from his solicitor, Willoughby informed him that his case would be petitioned by one of the lower clerks of the King's Bench.

“But you are my family's solicitor,” Philip pointed out.

“I am the trustee of the Hastings estate,” Willoughby corrected him. “I can no longer represent your personal interests as they are in direct conflict with those of the estate.”

“You would leave me here to rot?” Philip asked in alarm.

“Certainly not, my l… sir.” The lawyer amended the honorific, to Philip's added chagrin. “But the process will take time, and the complication of your case in the Chancery does not help.”

“How long will I be caged in this shit-hole?”

“You are interned under the
mesne
process, without the means to make bail. It could be months before you are brought before the Court of Insolvent Debtors.”

“But what of my petition in the Chancery? If my title is restored…”

“If the matter of the estate were to be decided in your favor, this eventuality would secure your immediate release, but I would not pin too much hope upon it. The girl's mother is pressing the claim most fervently on her daughter's behalf.”

“The social-climbing Beatrix? Of course she would, and no doubt her elderly country squire has all the money required for the legion of attorneys to back her, while I sit helplessly by watching it all slip away.”

“Thus it would appear.” Willoughby made no attempt to dispute Philip's grim assessment.

“Then what is to become of me, Willoughby? How long am I to languish here?”

“It is difficult to say,” the lawyer dissembled. “From time to time Parliament passes acts of amnesty for insolvent debtors. Perhaps when the prisons become too overcrowded…”

“How long?” Philip demanded. “Weeks? Months? Years? Give me a straight answer, damn it!”

Willoughby had the grace to look apologetic. “I'm sorry to say, but without the means to pay the debt in full you could well be sentenced for life.”

***

The King's Bench, on the east side of High Street, was the largest of the debtors' prisons, and the most commodious, by penitentiary standards. The exterior walls, over twenty feet high, were built to enclose a very large common area, and the upper galleries overlooked the back of St. George's Fields, at least for those inmates flush enough to afford a window.

The lower prison gallery was comprised of the chapel, the tap, and coffee rooms, the latter two farmed out by the warden at exorbitant rents, with their prices reflecting that very extortion allowed under the full protection of the law.

For those wretches with no other means of support than begging for alms, the prison provided an iron grating encompassing a full exterior wall on the street-side for the express purpose of entreating charity from the passers-by.

The common prisoners, those too poor to afford private accommodations, were allotted twenty-five-square-foot rooms, appointed with seven or eight sleeping racks, where the less-fortunate slept two or three to a bed. The rest of the floors, or galleries, were comprised of private quarters, housing as many as were able to pay for the privilege.

Philip was, at least for the present, among the lucky ones. Although he had no means of paying the debt and legal fees to achieve his release, he did have sufficient coin to secure a modicum of comfort, relative to the prison. He had procured a private though flea-infested bed and was the sole occupant of a third-flight, windowless chamber.

The greasy, black-toothed turnkey, receiving him from the bailiff, had offered the comparative luxury of complete bed and board for the paltry sum of twelve shillings per night. Fifteen if he desired clean bed linens.
Sodding
extortionist
, thought Philip. The same price could have secured him a set of rooms for a week at one of the better public houses in London, but after surveying the chamber and finding no evidence of rat droppings, he placed the silver in the turnkey's extended palm.

“I knew ye was a fine gent when I first seen ye,” he said, pocketing the coins. “There be a number of quality what resides wifin these walls.”

“Is there indeed?” Philip voiced his skepticism.

“Aye, and ye'll be taking yer supper in the taproom wi' the rest,” the jailer informed him. “Is there nuffin aught you require, guvn'r?”

“Only my personal effects. You will see they are brought to me?”

The turnkey scratched his head, picked out a louse, and pinched it between his fingernails. “You mean wifout incident?” he asked, rubbing his thumb and fingers together.

Growing all too familiar with the routine, Philip pulled another shilling from his purse. The man pocketed the money with a wink. “I knew ye was no rum cull.”

In the first week of his internment, aside from his solicitor Philip had received only one visitor. Though they'd gone their separate ways years ago, George Selwyn's unexpected appearance had proven him a true friend to the last.

“My apologies for the appalling state of my person, George, but to my utter dismay this institution, housing over one thousand people, has not a single bath.”

“From what I've seen of the place, it's the least of your concerns,” George remarked with a shudder. “Now tell me, how the deuce am I to get you out?”

“I can't begin to answer that question until I understand how I got here to begin with,” Philip said.

“Hang it all! I hold myself to blame!”

Philip's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, George? How can you possibly have had anything to do with it?”

“It all began over cards at White's when March, damn his eyes, brought to light your case in the Chancery.”

Philip frowned. “I understood it was not to become public knowledge until decided.”

“Nevertheless, March got wind of it and you know how these things go. Before I knew it he'd proposed a wager.”

“A wager? Over the outcome?”

“Aye.”

“A friend indeed,” Philip remarked cynically, “I'd expect no better from March, but I still don't comprehend.”

“Did I not say Weston was one at the tables?”

“Ah, Weston was it? Now your convoluted tale begins to make sense.”

“Apparently, he's close to the lord high chancellor.”

“And used his personal connections to prejudice the court against me, thus suspending my privilege. He must have then gone to Gideon. The rest, as they say, is infamy.” Philip laughed mirthlessly.

“The buggering bastard!” George exclaimed. “But what can be done?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing until the Chancery makes its decision. It's my only hope of release. In the meantime, I can only endeavor to survive this interminable state of purgatory.”

“Here, ol' chap, I had some luck at the tables last night. I've no need of it.” George reached into his pocket, but Philip stayed him.

“I'm not reduced to charity yet. Though coin disappears here at an alarming rate, I've yet a few resources to keep me from starvation. I do need assistance with some other matters, Bosky, someone to act as my agent before the bailiff discovers and confiscates my personal effects and what little remains of the Hastings Stud.”

“Go on,” George said. “Of course you can count on me.”

“Firstly, you recall the wager with March? I was to have provided half the stakes and half the horses. I need you to transact the business on my behalf. Roderick Random, Chance, Tawny, and Little Dan are the best prospects. Among the lot, Little Dan is the only one who's not won a plate race, but tell March not to discount him. He has tremendous bottom.

“After settling with March, I need you to disperse what other horseflesh you can, and then find me a decent attorney. Put on retainer someone you trust.”

“Surely. Is that all, old friend?”

“No,” Philip said at length. “There is one last boon I beg of you. I've some items in a box at the Bank on the Strand. One is of particular value. You'll no doubt recognize it.”

“You wish me to sell it?”

“No, George. You must give it to Sukey. She should understand what it signifies.”

Philip spent the next fortnight at the King's Bench in self-imposed solitude, ordering via the turnkey what little food or drink he could tolerate, and refusing most. On top of that, he hadn't slept. The solid stone corridors of the prison echoed with the slightest sound. The nights were the worst, with the squeals of scampering rats, the ring of raucous, drunken laughter, the sobs and moans of abject despair. The grunts and groans were of another sort altogether, as the women who were able plied their only available trade to anyone who could afford the fleeting pleasure.

Those who were able to make an honest living within the prison walls did their best just to keep body and soul together, while the jailers raked their profits from every shoe re-soled and every clean-shaven face. Those with no trade to barter simply wasted their days in idleness, drunkenness, and assorted vice.

When Philip first arrived, he was keenly aware that a gentleman in such finery as he wore would present a tempting target to the rogues and footpads inhabiting the walls of such a purlieu, but safely calculated the sword at his side would serve to discourage any would-be assailants. Now the sword was sold and the price it had brought nearly gone.

He would have been surprised to know the wild look he had acquired in his weeks of confinement proved a much greater deterrent to the prison denizens than if he'd carried his weapon. His form was lean and hard, three weeks on the prison food having etched away any ounce of fat. His hair, long and lank, partially concealed his hard, hooded gaze, set now in a face chiseled almost to gauntness.

Weary of his own company, he was nevertheless more wary of the common taproom. Though strong drink was prohibited, the place swam in illicit gin; and no gaming hell in London boasted more sharps, blacklegs, and rogues than the King's Bench Debtors' Prison.

Adopting his swagger of old, Philip entered the tap and slapped tuppence onto the bar. “A tankard of your best.”

“Ye be tuppence short,” said a mountain of a man devoid of front teeth and sporting a cauliflower ear.

Once Philip matched the coins, the tapster poured from the keg a tankard full to the brim of a cloudy, dark, amber brew. “The best in the house,” remarked the mountain, spitting on the floor and setting it before him.

“Is it indeed?” Philip remarked with a curious look. “I'd say it more resembles piss from a poxy whore.”

“Have you a death wish?” asked a man in shabby soldier's garb, appearing at Philip's elbow.

“I didn't say from
his
poxy whore,” Philip amended as the tapster, laying both hands on the bar, cast his massive menacing shadow over him.

“Ned,” the shabby soldier addressed the barkeep. “Pay no heed to me friend 'ere. 'E's a foul-tempered fiend when in drink but will cause you no further trouble.”

“Ye best see 'e don't at that!” growled Ned.

“Now my fine friend,” the shabby soldier turned back to Philip with a smile, “since the house brew is not up to your exacting standards, would you care to join me and my comrades in the back? I've procured a case of mediocre Madeira I'd be honored to share with a gentleman of your obvious discernment.” His gazed skimmed Philip's soiled and rumpled but still aristocratic accoutrements.

“Would you indeed? And just who the devil might you be?”

“Captain James McAfee, at your service.” He swept a low bow.

McAfee reminded Philip of none more than MacHeath the highwayman from Gay's
Beggar's Opera
. Still, with a reckless disregard of the danger, he followed the captain to the back of the taproom, where cards, dice, and drink abounded amongst the ragtag occupants. While those few with sufficient coin shared in the smuggled fortified wines, those without tippled illicit gin, often adulterated with turpentine or sulfuric acid.

After drinking, supping, and drinking a great deal more, those who'd not already passed out formed rough circles around the tables, producing cards and dice, the drug of diversion for despairing souls.

The captain cleared a table with a forceful stroke of his arm and retrieved a greasy pack of cards from his pocket. “What say you to some friendly play, your lordship?” As Philip had in no way disclosed his rank, the honorific was more mocking than deferential. “Losers pay the reckoning?”

They had emptied several bottles of Madeira, not to mention the food. Philip doubted he had sufficient money remaining to cover it all, but then again he'd never played to lose.

“A gentleman's game between gentlemen?” The captain now spoke with a clipped and precise enunciation of every syllable. “Shall it be whist, dear boy?” His creditable aping of Philip's more cultured tones revealed much about the true nature of the self-styled captain's background.

“If you like.” Philip shrugged acquiescence.

With a narrowed gaze, McAfee scanned the tap for likely prospects to complete a quartet for whist. “Sir Archie will no doubt join us.” He nodded to an emaciated man in an old-fashioned wig wearing the tattered dress of a country gentleman. “The old squire loves nothing more than a game of chance. Lost a vast estate to his passion fifteen year since.

“And over there,” McAfee jerked his head to indicate a shabby young man, “Willie Wills, the linen-draper's son. Squandered his entire patrimony on the dice, though his heartbroken papa still religiously sends him five shillings every Sunday fortnight. Being 'tis only Tuesday, he should still be ripe for the plucking,” he added with a callous lack of shame.

McAfee only had to begin shuffling for both of these worthies to express interest. Within moments they were seated at the table and dealing out the cards.

Philip's hardened gaze flitted from face to face, wondering how long before his own would be stamped with such wretched resignation. He shuddered to think himself brought so low that he would even consider fleecing the helpless and hopeless inmates. No, his conscience couldn't allow it, at least not yet.

He resolved to play an honest game unless McAfee evidenced an inclination to cheat, but soon learned to his consternation that it was actually
he
who had been accounted a pigeon for the plucking. Philip almost laughed at what was a truly remarkable set-up.

The play, commencing in a fast and furious manner, would have confused anyone inexperienced with the game or who may have overindulged in drink. It was almost comical as the players, to a man, employed every device of a cheat: signaling, mucking, culling, pegging, and palming the cards.

Although Philip's first impression of McAfee as a sharper of the lowest order was not mistaken, he had failed to anticipate that the captain would play in confederation with the other two hapless and benign-looking individuals. Even his partner, Sir Archie, conspiring with their opponents, was throwing good cards after bad and intentionally losing every possible trick. He would receive a cut from the winners after the game. It was an old and unoriginal ploy, but now he'd discovered the ruse the question remained—precisely how was he to counter their tactics?

At any gentleman's establishment, the rules of conduct were clear. Call the cheat and call him out, but this was the King's Bench, not White's Chocolate House. Here such actions would be thought laughable, or worse might merit one a knife in the back.

Deciding discretion the better part of valor, upon completion of the play Philip threw down his cards and pushed back his chair.

“Surely you don't quit so soon, when we might take our revenge in the next rubber,” baited Sir Archie.

“My friends, you are the worst assortment of blacklegs, rascals, and rogues, the likes of which I've not encountered for a goodly number of years. The worst of it is you're not even very good at it!” Philip tossed his purse onto the table with a snort. “I commend you all for a most diverting evening… that shan't be repeated.”

***

Dangerously low on coin after this experience, Philip failed to break his fast. Famished by noon, he inquired of the turnkey if he might take the midday meal alone in his chamber.

“Here ye be,” said the jailer, picking his teeth. “We have a joint of mutton, some boiled cabbage, a loaf of white bread, and a pint of porter, all for the meager sum of two shillings.”

“Bloody highway robbery,” Philip remarked under his breath.

The jailer smiled. “Tell you what, guvn'r, I'll give ye double or nuffin' on the dice.”

Philip had already taken up the two-pronged fork and knife to attack the first meat he'd had in two days. He paused, fork to his lips. “Double or nothing, you say?”

“Aye, guvn'r. Call your main. Best of three casts.”

“All right, I accept your wager, Mr…” He realized belatedly that he had yet to learn his jailer's name.

“Cox. Allred Cox.” Having made his introduction, Cox pulled a shaky wooden chair over to the narrow table and pulled a dice box from his pocket. He handed it to Philip, who laid his eating utensils aside. With a half smile, he called seven and threw, rolling up a pair of twos.

“Six be my lucky number,” said Mr. Cox and took up the dice for his cast, turning up a pair of threes. “Nicked on the first roll, b' Jesus!”

Philip's second roll, called again at seven, turned up crabs, while the turnkey nicked again with twelve. “There appears no need for me to throw again,” Philip said. “Unless you'd care to double once more?”

Cox grinned, a broad black-toothed grimace. “Didn't know you was such a sporting cove.” He offered Philip the dice.

“No, no. You may cast first,” said Philip and took up his fork.

Having studied the number of pips turning up that singularly defied the odds, a pattern had emerged in Philip's brain. One more “lucky” cast from the turnkey would either confirm or refute his theory.

As suspected, Cox rolled his second combination of sixes in as many turns. As he reached to retrieve the dice, he was startled by the awful crunch of cartilage and bone as Philip impaled his two-pronged fork straight through his jailor's right hand, effectively nailing the offending appendage to the table.

The primal howl that ensued was said to have rung clear through every one of the four prison galleries.

“A thousand pardons, my good fellow, if there are
not
two sixes on each of your dice and a set of low rollers in your left hand.”

Some seconds passed before Cox could regain enough sense to remove the fork. Cradling his crippled right hand to his breast, Cox removed his dingy cravat with his left and fumbled to wrap it around the bloody and mutilated member. “You'll pay dearly for this, ye soddin' whoreson.”

Philip smiled a humorless smile. “Then the joke is surely on you, Mr. Cox, for my money is already gone.”