The Flight of Sarah Battle (5 page)

‘I'm serious, young man.
I
hate this corrupt world, this vicious self-seeking government.'

‘Then why do you work in it?'

‘How precise you are! Have you read Tom Paine?'

Matthew wishes the man would go. He knows they'll find out and beat him sooner or later, but later is what he hopes for. He's here because he hates his
life
, not because he hates the government.
Wishes
the man would go.

‘Look!' Leopard rummages in his stuffed pockets and pulls out a book. Thumbed, greasy.
Rights of Man,
Part I. ‘Have you read it?'

‘It's banned,' Matthew says. Embarrassed at the folly of this remark he stutters: ‘
And
I've read Part II.'

‘I knew it! A man after my own heart. Shake hands, citizen!'

The gulls fly up at this burst of activity and noise from the quay.

‘What a book it is! Who has done more for the world than he? But here, you won't have seen this.' He thrusts a creased pamphlet at the boy.
King Killing
, it's called, published at the British Tree of Liberty, Berwick Street.

‘Take it! Still, it's no good reading banned books behind closed shutters, is it? You're too young for action, I suppose. But sitting on the quayside's not going to help the world.'

‘
You're
sitting on the quayside, too.'

‘Yes, yes,
now
I am. But not for long. Well, no doubt dodging school is a start. What is your father?'

Matthew mumbles.

‘A
chaplain
! A man of the cloth! Oh Lord! Then I admire you, Matthew. You defy your school, you defy your father. You've started on the right road.'

‘Are
you
on the right road?' The boy's voice squeaks infuriatingly. He's unused to praise; isn't sure that's what this is.

‘I myself shall go to America.'

‘Ah!' Matthew sits back and stares at this surprising companion with the blackguardly face. Pocked skin, lank hair, all-seeing eyes.

‘France
was
the place, as you know. Once. But the French have defiled themselves, betrayed their principles. They have not drowned corruption in all the blood they've spilled; it has surged up again. America is the only place to be. Paine knows that himself, of course.

‘But you have made a beginning, young Matthew. The right road, as I said. Already you are countering authority. Is there not something even bolder you could do?'

‘Perhaps.' As he hesitates an idea forms. Of striking simplicity. ‘Tomorrow. I think I can do something revolutionary by then. Will you come again tomorrow?'

‘Well, young man. I
could
. Yes, I could do that. I need some time to make arrangements, in fact. But maybe we should meet somewhere else. Mustn't arouse suspicion. These new river police are on the prowl looking for men with hogsheads stuffed down their trousers.' He laughs immoderately. ‘How about the beach below the Tower? At low tide.'

‘
No
! Here's better. There's nobody about, is there?'

‘True. Tomorrow might be different, though. Well, all right, here then. But look. Should anyone ask for me, you haven't seen me. Have no notion who they're talking about. Nobody of my description.
Could
you describe me?'

‘Easily.'

‘Well
don't
. And
I
haven't see
you
. Truant? Never met one! Agreed?'

They shake hands. ‘Porters' Quay, eight o'clock!'

Matthew watches the insolent set of Leopard's shoulders as he walks briskly up the street. He turns back to the river. He can't go home for hours yet.

*

It's clear and hot soon after daybreak. The river teems with boats. Barges form an inner margin below quays and wharves, dredgers, lighters, floating fire engines lie by. Mid-stream, masted ships rock, their sails half furled. They can go no further up-river for London Bridge stands in their way on all its legs. Brigs, cutters, West Indiamen, their cargoes unloaded into small boats by lightermen. Over the rest of the water dart skiffs and rowing boats, sculled, punted; fishing, scouting, ferrying.

At eight Matthew is pacing the quay. Smiles break on his taut face. Leopard is late and he can hardly bear the wait.

At last, some twenty minutes later, the man arrives, walking rapidly, panting slightly. They shake hands. Matthew notices that Leopard wears exactly the same clothes. A strong sourness suggests he slept in them.

‘Citizen Dale! Did anyone ask for me? No sniffing quay guards?'

‘No, Citizen Leopard. Not a soul.'

‘That's a relief. But let me warn you, Matthew, I am a little jumpy today.'

‘Oh?'

‘My business has not gone well. I cannot stay long. But now, let me see. No one found
you
out either, then? Your parents do not suspect? The school?'

‘So far not. But have you forgotten, Mr Leopard? Have you forgotten my revolutionary act?'

‘Ah! No, by god, no! What have you done then, citizen?'

‘I should like you to guess.'

‘How can I do that? I hardly know you. It's impossible.' He looks around him and back at Matthew, taps his right foot impatiently.

‘What I have done can be seen,' says Matthew proudly. ‘It can be seen from
here
.'

‘From
here
! Well! In that direction I see ships, more ships, London Bridge, waterworks, Hanks's timber, Fowler's, Clove's.' He tails off. Must he play
games
for this final ‘transaction'?

‘Wrong direction.'

‘Oh. Behind me then?'

‘No.'

‘Then that leaves the river itself, barges, ships. Nothing revolutionary that I can see. All looks the same. Wharves, warehouses on the other side. Left is all that remains,' he swings round slowly, ‘the walls of the Tower.'

‘The Royal Arms are flying,' says Matthew, ‘for it's the King's Birthday today. June 4
th
.'

They both look towards the White Tower.

‘Good God! Do my eyes deceive me? Did
you
do that?
Did
you? Your revolutionary act. The work of a genius! Citizen Dale!'

From the ramparts of the White Tower a second flagpole protrudes and from that flagpole the French Tricolor flutters in the glory of the June morning.

‘Did you do that?'

‘Yes.'

‘But how? How on earth?'

‘My father is chaplain of the Tower,' says the boy, ashamed and proud.

‘You
live
there then?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is it true there are apple trees in the grounds?'

‘Yes. But what of that? I was up early. No one saw me – not even the lions in the menagerie. And
still
no one has noticed else it would have been struck by now.'

‘Where did you
find
a Tricolor?'

‘We made it. My sister and I. We sewed it last night from pieces of silk we found.'

‘So, you're not in this alone. Did you tell her about me?'

‘No. But in any case, Lucy will not tell. Nor shall I tell of
her
when I am found out.'

‘Then surely you had better not return. And I…'

They are stopped by an immense booming.

‘Don't worry. It's not the powder mills exploding!' shouts Matthew, for Leopard has nearly jumped out of his skin. Cannon are firing from St James's and suddenly, very close, they're answered by those at the Tower.

‘It's for the King. Yet my flag still flies!' The boy laughs like a child.

‘Matthew. Tomorrow I take a ship to America. To freedom. The only land in the world where liberty, equality and fraternity truly live – better by far than your France. No, don't be downcast. The flag's a grand gesture. You have proved yourself.'

Leopard paces around the boy with tense steps.

‘Come to America with me! I shall escape my little trouble here and you will escape punishment. For what will they do when they find that it was you?'

The boy's delight has gone. He watches the sharp eyes darting like flies.

‘Yes, come with me. We can meet here tomorrow before the sailing. It had better be nine o'clock; we can't board before the tide's in. Bring as many clothes as you can fit in a single bag. I believe the winters are cold there. And bring as much money as you can. For your passage.'

‘I shall have to steal it.'

‘Is stealing worse than hoisting the flag of the enemy on the King's Birthday? We are at war with France! That's
treason
! Punishable by death!

‘Now Matthew, think only of America. Your future lies there not here. Here there's only repression and punishment. The ship sails to Philadelphia. I shall set up a law office and you, with your precision you could take up the law yourself! Oh, there'll be all manner of opportunities. And women, Matthew! There's women aplenty in the land of liberty!'

The boy looks down, oppressed by youth and desire. Leopard glances about him again. His ears prick up, cat-like.

‘Come now, Matthew. Let us shake hands on it. If I'd a bottle we could toast ourselves. To America! Till tomorrow! Nine o'clock!'

And he's gone. Along stones still black from the stream of liquid fire when the sugar warehouse went up. Matthew feels utterly dejected and excited beyond anything he's ever known before.

America. Freedom.

He looks up. The tricolor is no longer there.

*

June 5
th
is hot again. A burning sky dries the sludge at low tide, magnifies the stink of fish and sewage. The upper air is clear, the lower clammy with steam and smoke, hops, malt, pitch. There's little activity on the river, the barges beached, boats bobbing only in mid-stream. The gulls at Porters' Quay have flown up-river to Fishmonger's Hall to await the flounders and smelt, shad, lampreys, jack, perch, chub.

The tide returns, boats breathe again, ships shift. The gulls, satiated, swoop back to their spattered row on the barges that knock against the stone. The boxes from B E N G A L have not been unloaded. Porters' Quay is deserted. No one comes all day.

4

What with the rioting and the burgeoning number of radicals, Government winds tight the wire. Even in Battle's someone's arrested for giving out handbills urging on the rioters. Sam is disgusted, as near as he can to being ashamed it's happened on his premises. Sarah looks away, knows she's like to be blamed.

Not that James is seen in Battle's: it's not known where he drinks. But Sam assumes that his daughter goes along with her husband's views as a woman should, even with
those
views. After all, his own wife curbed her Methodism at his command. And he's right for the wrong reason. Sarah's feelings diverge: she is drawn to the ideas, no longer to the purveyor of them. His attraction for her was an odd thing from the start.

She and James see each other rarely: she's up and out before six, he comes in late. She leaves supper for him; they write notes to each other.

James,

Betsy says the coal is low. Please call in at Seagur's.

Sarah

Sarah,

I have told Betsy to wrap the rolls each in two napkins so they remain hot. I dislike a cold roll for breakfast.

Did you give her her money?

Jas.

Occasionally they walk out on a Sunday as Sarah no longer goes to church, and of course they've no need to fear recognition as they did during their stilted courtship.

‘Now this will amuse you,' he says, knowing from somewhere before that she likes to be amused. When
was
that? Yes, when he first sat in Battle's and watched her, red in the heat, competent in all she did, not flirtatious. Saw her smile to herself momentarily.

After two years of marriage neither one knows the other. He sees no reason to change his pre-marriage calculations. Her visions from that time have vanished.

‘A cricket match. Team of Greenwich pensioners with one leg against another with one arm. Tars against tars.' He gives his short shout of a laugh that's more shout than laugh. ‘We must go south over the bridge to Walworth. Someone's put up a thousand guineas. Think of that! The one-armers will win, surely.'