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His garnish would just be for a bed and drink. He’s in one or the other for sure. But,’ his voice became solemnly slow, ‘if he can’t pay as a felon he’s in hell for sure. You see, the Common Side is divvied up for those wretches. Five more wards. Worse than graves.’ Adam crossed himself for probably the first time since his youth.
    Dandon watched him sketch the whereabouts of these other wards and shrank back when Adam added two words above them.
    Below ground.
    ‘ The curse of the Lord is in the house of the wicked .’ Dandon’s voice was almost inaudible.
    Peter Sam leaned over the paper. ‘What about constables within? How many?’
    Cowrie laughed. ‘There’s only four turnkeys in Newgate, mate! Four ! They don’t want to have to pay for any more. The gaol looks after itself!’
    ‘How is that?’ Dandon asked.
    Cowrie began almost to whisper, relishing the feeling of his peers hanging on his words. ‘If you can’t pay for your food and lodgings they makes you a steward. If you’re the last man in you do the scullery and the slopping and the fires, and the man who did it before you gets put up to something better. That can go on for years.’ He paused and his face dropped at some memory. ‘There’s some bastards in there who’ve been at it so long they run the wards now. They keep the order. They have to, else someone might remember they should’ve been hung years ago. Perfect bloody world in there, so it is.’
    Peter Sam scowled. ‘Would they resist?’
    Cowrie shrugged. Answer enough. Dandon thought on the tunnel and the bellman from St Sepulchre tolling his poem down the final cells. ‘Where are the cells for those awaiting execution?’
    Adam went back to his sketch. ‘Along the north side, here, below the streets. The way leads to the sessions house next door to take the condemned straight down. But don’t think you can break into the sessions to get to the captain. You can get out of Newgate eventually. Easy enough. There ain’t no legal way to get in.’
    Dandon folded up the sketch. ‘We do not intend to break into the gaol or the sessions house, young Adam. The Lord will provide our entrance.’ He stood, dwarfed by Peter Sam. Cowrie, sensing his audience was at an end, waved his brothers in closer.
    ‘But listen, lads. I ain’t told you of the worst of it.’ He leered at the faces drawing closer, some of the patrons of the Plough forgetting their manners and edging in also. ‘Debtor’s Hall is on the first floor of the Common Side, near the chapel, a ward without beds, which don’t mean much in itself but next to it is a kitchen.’ He paused again and took a drink from his leather mug of buttered ale. ‘Now there’s lots of kitchens in Newgate but this one has a couple more fires and more grates besides. Grates for the draining of fat . This be called ‘‘Jack Ketch’s Kitchen” to be sure.’ He drank again, swallowed hard. The others passed looks around at the traditional title of the man who held the axe or tied the hemp knot.
    ‘What goes on there, Adam?’ a voice piped up at his side. He smiled again but there was pity in the limp attempt. ‘Well, Old Jack there, that be his galley, see? That’s where he boils the quarters of those been had away for treason, see?’ He swivelled his head to the cold faces waiting on him. ‘It costs you sixpence a day for supper in Newgate . . . But thems that can’t pay has to eats as well.’
    Dandon, Peter Sam and Hugh had not heard him. They were already on their way. To the river. To their captain. London just another horizon to cross.

Chapter Seven

    At Newgate another knock came on Langley’s door. This time he lit up at the sight of the face at the hatch and hurried to unlock the bolts and hasps.
    ‘Jon Wild! General!’ He opened the door wide and Wild stepped in, George following at his heels loyally. Wild sniffed the air, rubbed down his red wool coat and plucked out his cuffs, his silver-capped cudgel under