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Authors: Mark Keating
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followed.
Bill’s pipe glowed, his voice peaceful again. ‘Go easy, Peter. And bring the captain home.’
Peter Sam adjusted his baldric beneath the long coat and checked the apostles of powder strung across his chest. He strode out without a word.
Adam Cowrie was their man. He was in the Plough with at least a dozen of the others who all became humble when Peter Sam ducked under the door.
The Plough’s regular patrons had all kept to their own corners when the young men in fine but tattered waistcoats and hats had bowled in hours before and slammed their gold onto the counter. The eye of the barkeep held none of their looks and he kept his attention on the coins and the pouring of drinks.
The old salts of the inn knew well the sort of young men who carried more than a gully blade, and who rattled with coin and steel, and so they stayed less rowdy than usual.
They knew most pirates were young, most as little as twenty-six when they finally hanged. They were youths who willingly leapt away, while their spirit still remained, from the lash and drudgery of the merchant or slaver that their father had sold them into.
Why work hard for shillings when you could live easy for gold? The worst of it was just an aversion to choking. And that fear had never filled anyone’s belly.
Adam Cowrie, twenty-three himself, had been with Devlin on Providence when they had escaped from the fort’s old Spanish gaol, two years ago now.
He was not a bold one, not a Hugh Harris or a Dan Teague, the finest cut-throats Devlin had. Cowrie, with still enough of the bible worked into him, needed to be madly drunk when a boarding came, so he shrunk more than the others when Peter Sam loomed over their small round table, peculiar in a coat, so used were they to his powerful bare arms.
‘So you knows Newgate, Cowrie?’
Cowrie whispered over his drink. ‘Aye, I knows it. Knows it too well I fears.’ He opened his palm to show the round scar where he had been burnt in the hand for stealing a pair of clogs.
Dandon appeared behind Peter’s back, pencil and paper in hand. He made himself room at the table. ‘Tell me about your time there, Adam.’
The notion of escape did not cause any horrific reaction from Adam Cowrie. He had been there in December 1715 when Charles Radcliffe, one of the principals of the Northumberland Jacobites, simply walked out of the door after a party with the departing guests. Eight others had done the same in May. Their escapes made the broadsheets, the whole of London being mad for Jacobite blood, but others, dozens of others, had gone out of Newgate without any hue and cry. At Dandon’s request, Cowrie described that which he knew.
The gaol was divided up into three distinct parts: the Master side, for debtors that could pay, and the Common side for those who could not. The third part, the Press Yard, was for criminals of state and those others who could pay whatever price the benevolent owner believed you could afford. There one could enjoy its open air and have the freedom to walk within the Yard’s grey enclosure, handsomely paved with Purbeck stone.
The Master’s Side and the Common Side were each again divided up into three separate wards, although the Master’s Side had several apartments still in the old gateway itself, again – as long as the price was right, of course.
These wards were all on the ground floor, Cowrie informed Dandon. If Devlin was in the hold near the lodge, he was in the right-hand side, south corner. Cowrie took the paper and sketched the ground floor, loosely shading in the location of the hold. Dandon looked up at Peter Sam and nodded once. The boy knew what he was talking about, for that had been the very corner he had visited.
‘Would they have moved him by now, Adam?’ Dandon asked.
‘The doors inside are all locked after nine. If he was in the hold then, he’s staying there. As a felon anyways he’d be in the Common Side with the poor souls that can’t pay.
Bill’s pipe glowed, his voice peaceful again. ‘Go easy, Peter. And bring the captain home.’
Peter Sam adjusted his baldric beneath the long coat and checked the apostles of powder strung across his chest. He strode out without a word.
Adam Cowrie was their man. He was in the Plough with at least a dozen of the others who all became humble when Peter Sam ducked under the door.
The Plough’s regular patrons had all kept to their own corners when the young men in fine but tattered waistcoats and hats had bowled in hours before and slammed their gold onto the counter. The eye of the barkeep held none of their looks and he kept his attention on the coins and the pouring of drinks.
The old salts of the inn knew well the sort of young men who carried more than a gully blade, and who rattled with coin and steel, and so they stayed less rowdy than usual.
They knew most pirates were young, most as little as twenty-six when they finally hanged. They were youths who willingly leapt away, while their spirit still remained, from the lash and drudgery of the merchant or slaver that their father had sold them into.
Why work hard for shillings when you could live easy for gold? The worst of it was just an aversion to choking. And that fear had never filled anyone’s belly.
Adam Cowrie, twenty-three himself, had been with Devlin on Providence when they had escaped from the fort’s old Spanish gaol, two years ago now.
He was not a bold one, not a Hugh Harris or a Dan Teague, the finest cut-throats Devlin had. Cowrie, with still enough of the bible worked into him, needed to be madly drunk when a boarding came, so he shrunk more than the others when Peter Sam loomed over their small round table, peculiar in a coat, so used were they to his powerful bare arms.
‘So you knows Newgate, Cowrie?’
Cowrie whispered over his drink. ‘Aye, I knows it. Knows it too well I fears.’ He opened his palm to show the round scar where he had been burnt in the hand for stealing a pair of clogs.
Dandon appeared behind Peter’s back, pencil and paper in hand. He made himself room at the table. ‘Tell me about your time there, Adam.’
The notion of escape did not cause any horrific reaction from Adam Cowrie. He had been there in December 1715 when Charles Radcliffe, one of the principals of the Northumberland Jacobites, simply walked out of the door after a party with the departing guests. Eight others had done the same in May. Their escapes made the broadsheets, the whole of London being mad for Jacobite blood, but others, dozens of others, had gone out of Newgate without any hue and cry. At Dandon’s request, Cowrie described that which he knew.
The gaol was divided up into three distinct parts: the Master side, for debtors that could pay, and the Common side for those who could not. The third part, the Press Yard, was for criminals of state and those others who could pay whatever price the benevolent owner believed you could afford. There one could enjoy its open air and have the freedom to walk within the Yard’s grey enclosure, handsomely paved with Purbeck stone.
The Master’s Side and the Common Side were each again divided up into three separate wards, although the Master’s Side had several apartments still in the old gateway itself, again – as long as the price was right, of course.
These wards were all on the ground floor, Cowrie informed Dandon. If Devlin was in the hold near the lodge, he was in the right-hand side, south corner. Cowrie took the paper and sketched the ground floor, loosely shading in the location of the hold. Dandon looked up at Peter Sam and nodded once. The boy knew what he was talking about, for that had been the very corner he had visited.
‘Would they have moved him by now, Adam?’ Dandon asked.
‘The doors inside are all locked after nine. If he was in the hold then, he’s staying there. As a felon anyways he’d be in the Common Side with the poor souls that can’t pay.
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