Jack Frake (23 page)

London was diseased; even after the Great Fire had reduced most of its vermin-ridden timber, wood and plaster buildings to ashes and moved the inhabitants to replace them with brick and stone, smallpox killed fifteen thousand people in a single year, while scarlet fever and typhus were as common as colds. The city had water mains, supplied by the pumps of three major waterworks, but its imperfectly connected, hollowed-elm conduits mixed supposedly clean Thames water with ground water and sewage from the streets. The city’s three thousand coffeehouses and innumerable taverns were the only places one could safely slake one’s thirst; boiled or distilled water was safer to drink, though no one then knew why. And so London was drunk.

On the other hand, London boasted over a dozen hospitals, dozens of schools, numerous colleges, over forty markets, and fairgrounds. It had opera, concerts, art galleries, Covent Garden and Drury Lane for the theater, and Ranelagh Gardens and Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens for dining, music and amusement. It had countless bookstores, printers and publishers. It was a center for silversmithing and other metal work. Danes, Dutch, Germans, Jews and Quakers all had their own quarters, chapels and fraternal associations within the city. There were chess clubs, philosophy clubs, scientific clubs and clubs for the study of antiquities. And if one grew
tired of London — as Samuel Johnson claimed one could not do without tiring of life — the countryside was but an hour’s hike or ride by post chaise in any direction, where one could picnic or stroll through meadows and forests.

Much of this Jack Frake already knew; none of it mattered. He was entering the city of London on one of its glorious days. By the time the waterman rowed them beneath an arch of Westminster Bridge, a long white arm of stone that languidly spanned the river, Jack Frake was in a trance of expectation. He stood on the Whitehall Stairs, valise in hand, listening to the murmur that emanated from the city before him. Redmagne, after he had paid the waterman, had to put a hand on the boy’s shoulder to propel him forward.

On Whitehall Street, Redmagne signaled an idle hackney. “To the Three Swans Inn,” he shouted, “on the Strand, near Burleigh Street.” The coachman snapped his whip and the vehicle jerked to life as Redmagne and Jack Frake fell into their seats.

“My last legal lodging in the city,” said Redmagne as they moved past Scotland Yard, “was on Dirty Lane, not far from Covent Garden. Then, after the Epping affair, I moved about as often as I held the odd job. I was even tutor to a duke’s sons for a while. I happened to hand his footman one of my business cards. That footman was once in our troupe. He played Iago in
Othello
at Drury Lane, and the critics said that he was the best Iago they had ever seen. Then some obscure malady made him mute, and he wound up painting our sets. Then, the Epping affair.”

Jack Frake broke his attention from the window to ask, “What name did you use
then
?”

“Peter Gammage, tutor in history, Latin, and geography. I believe I still have a card back in the caves.”

“You must show me where you and Skelly met.”

“At the Blue Boar, near the Corn Exchange.”

“And his emporium.”

“On St. Martin’s Lane. I can show you where it stood. It was ultimately sold to the parish, which converted it into a hostel and workhouse. It burned down years ago.”

“I would like to see where it stood.”

Redmagne grinned. “All right. You’ll see as much as can be seen in two days, Jack.”

“Look at all the shop signs!” said the boy. “They’re so big!”

“That’s for the benefit of coachmen, most of whom can’t read. Their illiteracy puts rather a crimp on trade names, as you’ll note.”

“What are all those stone posts for in front of the shops, and all along the way?”

“So that one may walk without being trampled or knocked over by coaches. They’re not allowed in the footpaths, though sedan chairs are.” Redmagne peered out the same window. “Actually, I’ve always thought those paths should be raised above the muck of the streets. Wrote a letter to
Gentlemen’s Magazine
years ago suggesting just that, when I was with the troupe. Started quite a debate, though nothing came of it.”

When they had unpacked their things in their room in the Three Swans, Redmagne said, “It’s still light out, Jack. Dawson will still be open. Come on. We’ll have dinner, then take a brisk walk to his shop.”

They walked along the Strand, then up Fleet Street. Redmagne pointed out the Bank of England, the Inns of Court, and other noteworthy sights, appending a running commentary. He was not certain that his companion heard everything he said. A great carriage-and-four passed them as they approached the Fleet Bridge, and one of the footmen standing on the back of the vehicle was black, the first black man Jack Frake had ever seen. “Where did he come from?” he asked.

“Most likely his parents were brought here as slaves from Africa long before he was born, else he could not have risen to so high a station as
footman
,” said Redmagne with irony. “One of our egregious faults, Jack, is the slave trade. There are ships down river, and at anchor in Bristol, crammed bilge to deck with those people, and many of them won’t live long enough to be slaves once they start the crossing to the colonies. They’ll die en route, and their bodies will be tossed overboard. Rival tribes in Africa round them up and sell them to the slavers. I don’t know about the condition of the Negroes in the colonies, but those who live here have their own clubs and taverns, and even their own newspaper.”

“Why don’t they revolt, or demand their rights?”

“Why don’t
we
, Jack?”

Jack Frake thought about it for a moment. Then, in affectionate mockery of his friend’s style, he answered, “A good question, Redmagne — and the beginning of a good answer.”

They stopped at a bookseller’s shop, and Redmagne laughed when he found a pirated copy of
Hyperborea
. He bought it, and said to the proprietor, “You have impeccable taste in literature, sir.”

The bookseller grinned up at him. “Thank you, sir. That’s one of our most popular titles.”

“And questionable scruples,” added Redmagne.

“Sir?”

“I shall not receive a single penny in compensation for all the copies you sell.”

The bookseller’s mouth opened. “Are you claiming to be Romney Marsh?”

“I
am
Romney Marsh.”

“Well, sir, you must admit that
anyone
could claim that.”

Redmagne quoted from memory a passage from one of the longer chapters.

The bookseller looked uncomfortable. He began to stammer something, but opened his money drawer to return Redmagne’s money. Then he stopped and regarded Redmagne with suspicion.

Redmagne laughed. “Keep the money, sir! You have some scruples, and I would not penalize you for that. Good day to you.”

When they rounded a corner of Fleet Street from the bookseller’s, Jack Frake stopped in astonishment at the sight of St. Paul’s Cathedral a few blocks away. As they came closer, he could not take his eyes off of it. It loomed above the chimneys, gabled roofs and modest steeples of the neighborhood, then soared above them, majesty in its round colonnade and dome that rendered its origins, use and purpose irrelevant. Religion, indeed, was nothing to Jack Frake; the great domed pile seemed, to him, not addressed to God, nor to the King, but to something greater than those inaccessible entities. It was an immense sight, the Cathedral, as immense as he felt about the possibilities of his life. Presumably, he thought, people worshipped in it; presumably, they held as sacred the things they worshipped. He thought that it was appropriate that so great a thing was the venue for so important an action.

“Truly a wonder of construction, Jack,” said Redmagne. “As the mass rises, the stone on each level is of a lighter weight.”

“It’s marvelous,” said the boy in a near whisper.

“That can’t be denied,” said Redmagne, glancing up at Wren’s monument to authority. “Remember, though, that it is not only a cathedral; it is also the state, toleration of Dissenters, Jews and Quakers notwithstanding.” He paused. “The lightest stone in that magnificent pile, Jack, can kill you just as easily as the heaviest — depending on the hand that pushes it.”

It was when they entered the premises of A. Dawson & Son, Printers, on Paternoster Row, that Redmagne encountered another of his country’s egregious faults. Dawson saw them from the rear of the shop and rushed to meet them at the door. He took Redmagne aside and hurriedly whispered, “There is a problem, sir!”

“With the engravings?”

“No, sir. There has been talk in the newspapers about your book!” The printer took a newspaper from under his apron and pressed it in Redmagne’s hands. “Sir, if you would take this and meet me in half an hour at the Graceful Garter, where we first talked, it would be, well, convenient.”

Redmagne frowned, and his expression demanded an explanation.

Dawson said, “Please, sir, read the proclamation on page one! Now, please, sir, leave the premises! I beg of you, no questions now! We may be observed!”

Redmagne stared at the printer, it seemed to Jack Frake, for a very long time. It was actually only a moment, but it doused the exuberance with which they had entered the shop. Redmagne smiled, tucked the paper under an arm, and without another word, doffed his hat, and turned to walk out the door. Jack Frake followed.

T
HE
G
RACEFUL
G
ARTER WAS A COFFEEHOUSE ON
D
ISTAFF
L
ANE, A FEW
blocks away from Dawson’s shop. The place was a noisy hive of printers, dealers, tradesmen and apprentices. It was bigger than the Sea Siren, and, being in the center of London, more cosmopolitan in the composition of its clientele. They went in, found a table, and after Redmagne had ordered them coffee, he unfolded the paper. It was the
London Gazette
, dated two weeks earlier. The first proclamation read:

“Whereas John Smith, of Wapping, the city of London, commonly called Rory O’Such, Toby Trist, Methuselah Redmagne, Vivian Crisp, and divers other names, author of a recent work called
Hyperborea
, was, upon the 16th day of April, 1744, on information of a credible person upon oath, by him, subscribed before James Wicker, one of His Majesty’s Justices of the Peace for the County of Cornwall, arrested in Gwynnford in said county by agents of His Majesty’s Treasury, under suspicion of running and carrying away uncustomed goods; then did subsequently flee said arrest while armed with firearms with the assistance of members of the notorious Skelly gang; which information was afterwards certified by James Wicker, under his hand and seal, who has laid the same before His Majesty in his Privy Council, who doth require and command that John Smith do surrender himself within the space of forty days, after the first publication of this order in the
London Gazette
… ”

Redmagne handed the paper to Jack Frake. “Who knew that
name
?” he asked himself.

Jack Frake read the proclamation. “That’s why that coachman knew your name! He must have read this.” He paused. “What name?” he asked.

“Toby Trist.”

“Drury Trantham’s cabin boy?”

“Yes.” Redmagne explained that no one should have known that he was the author of the novel, except someone who recognized the name of Toby Trist. “You see, Jack, the title of the masque my troupe was performing that unfortunate day was
Toby Trist: or, A Taxing Dilemma
. Trist was a picaroon, an opportunist, and a rogue who, because of some fantastic circumstances — they can only occur in satires — becomes First Lord of the Treasury for a week. Not only is he an unscrupulous, corruptible fellow who makes placemen of all his pauper friends and criminal associates, but also he hasn’t bathed in ten years, and he has halitosis. Obviously a caricature of Robert Walpole.” Redmagne paused. “When I went to ground after Epping’s son died of a broken neck, I had no time to save all of my work. I had just enough time to stuff my bag and vacate my room. No copies of that masque survived. The troupe disbanded and my friends joined other troupes or found other employment. I had presumed the masque lost. But the Marquis is dead, and his other sons were not even at the performance. The masque was never published, and that evening’s was its only performance. Someone remembered that name.”

“Why did you use it again in
Hyperborea
?”

“For remembrance’s sake, Jack. I wanted to mark a connection between my old life and this one, if only in the form of a minor character, as a contrast, and a continuation.”

After a while, Dawson came in, spotted Redmagne, and hurried to his table and sat down. He shook his head when Redmagne offered to buy him a coffee or an ale. There was fear in his eyes; Jack Frake could not determine what was its cause. The man hunched forward and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve come under pressure to abandon your book.” He glanced around him and continued in a lower voice. “Certain people don’t like it!”

“Don’t like it?” replied Redmagne. “What of it?”

“Why, even Mr. Griggs has decided to withdraw his encomium which prefaces it! In fact, he plans to have printed a pamphlet of apology and repudiation!” Mr. Dawson snorted. “And he’s given the business to another printer. That’s gratitude!”

“Did I misinterpret your letter, Mr. Dawson?” asked Redmagne. He took out his pipe and a twist of tobacco, slowly packed the clay bowl, and took his time lighting it.

“No, sir! You did not misinterpret it! I gave it to the postman a day before I read the… er… proclamation.” Dawson paused, then asked, “Is there any truth in it, sir?”

“In the proclamation?” answered Redmagne with a smile and a puff from his pipe. “Yes, it was all a true bill. Incomplete, but true.”

“Oh, God!” exclaimed the printer, pushing his chair back a little. “I’ve been a fool!”

Jack Frake saw now of whom the printer was afraid: Redmagne. For some reason, it made him angry.

Redmagne saw it, too, and shook his head. “My dear Mr. Dawson, I must assure you that you are in less danger from me than from the authorities.” Then he casually asked, “Which certain people don’t like
Hyperborea
, Mr. Dawson?”