Read Online Jack, Knave and Fool by Bruce Alexander - Free Book Online
Authors: Bruce Alexander
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was too young to know my way around the place very well. I do recall, though, that there was a very large church nearby.”
“That fixes it a bit,” said he. “I think I knows what part. So you come to London then, did you?”
“No, not immediate. My mother and younger brother died there in the typhus of 1765.”
“Oh, I remembers it—terrible it was, killed many,” he interjected.
“My father and I moved to a smaller town” — I would not deign to mention the name of it —“and there he, too, died” —nor would I describe the brutal circumstances of his death —“and I was left an orphan. Only then did I come to London, alone, at the age of thirteen.”
“Why, ain’t that a sad tale! Yet you made your way in London and stayed on the right side of the law.”
“I cannot claim credit for that,” said I. “To one man alone I am beholden for my salvation. You have met him. Let me tell you what he did for me.”
Whereupon I told Roundtree the longer tale of my first day in London: of how I was gulled by an “independent thief-taker,” so called, and his confederate, and brought to the Bow Street Court falsely accused of theft; of how Sir John Fielding penetrated their deception and sent one off with a warning and the other to Newgate; and of how Sir John made me a ward of the court and finally one of his household.
By the time I had done, Roundtree’s mouth was quite open in awe. Never had I had a better listener to my story —and I had told it often —than this rough carpenter from Lichfield. He seemed quite moved by it.
“And that be the very same one made it possible for me to borrow my fine stead of going off to jail.”
“The very same one —Sir John Fielding.”
“Oh, I heard of him. He’s the one they call the Blind Beak of Bow Street, ain’t he?” He is.
“Right fair and just.”
“He is indeed.” I popped the last of my bun into my mouth; his had disappeared some time before. “But now,” I said to him, “we must be off to pick up your tools and deliver you with them to the house of the Lord Chief Justice.”
“I s’pose we must. But you tell a good story, chum. God’s truth, I could listen to you the whole day long.”
For one of fifteen years to hear that from a man twice his age was heady stuff indeed. I walked along at a steadier pace, buoyed somehow by confidence, a sudden feeling of manliness. We talked —oh, I have no true idea what it was we talked of on our way to Half-Moon Passage. I seem to recall he asked my advice on what new place he might move to, Covent Garden offering too many temptations and bad companions for a simple fellow, such as he was, fresh come from Lichfield. He asked if Southwark would do, and I told him of its bad repute —“no better than Covent Garden, and in some places worse.” I recommended Clerkenwell, “out from the city, with much new building —houses and such.” He thanked me greatly and said he would go out there for a look.
There were other matters —comments upon places and people we passed; women, especially, seemed to interest him. One exchange, however, I do recall for its later pertinence.
Quite without relevance to anything under earlier discussion, he turned to me and asked, “How comes it you don’t wear no red waistcoat like the rest of the constables?”
“That is because I am a constable” — what was Sir John’s phrase? — “pro tempore.”
“Is that like something special?”
“Noo,” said I, searching for some easy way to define my status yel Mill retain some dignity, “it puts me more in the way ol an apprentice constable.”
“Ah,” he said, “well I knows prenticeship. I was a ‘prentice carpenter for six years.”
“As long as that?”
“I had a hard master. Yours, though, ain’t near so hard, nor would he want you to be. Why, I’ll wager those barking irons you got on ain’t even loaded.”
“Oh, but they are. Mr. Baker, our armorer, says there’s nothing so foolish
“That fixes it a bit,” said he. “I think I knows what part. So you come to London then, did you?”
“No, not immediate. My mother and younger brother died there in the typhus of 1765.”
“Oh, I remembers it—terrible it was, killed many,” he interjected.
“My father and I moved to a smaller town” — I would not deign to mention the name of it —“and there he, too, died” —nor would I describe the brutal circumstances of his death —“and I was left an orphan. Only then did I come to London, alone, at the age of thirteen.”
“Why, ain’t that a sad tale! Yet you made your way in London and stayed on the right side of the law.”
“I cannot claim credit for that,” said I. “To one man alone I am beholden for my salvation. You have met him. Let me tell you what he did for me.”
Whereupon I told Roundtree the longer tale of my first day in London: of how I was gulled by an “independent thief-taker,” so called, and his confederate, and brought to the Bow Street Court falsely accused of theft; of how Sir John Fielding penetrated their deception and sent one off with a warning and the other to Newgate; and of how Sir John made me a ward of the court and finally one of his household.
By the time I had done, Roundtree’s mouth was quite open in awe. Never had I had a better listener to my story —and I had told it often —than this rough carpenter from Lichfield. He seemed quite moved by it.
“And that be the very same one made it possible for me to borrow my fine stead of going off to jail.”
“The very same one —Sir John Fielding.”
“Oh, I heard of him. He’s the one they call the Blind Beak of Bow Street, ain’t he?” He is.
“Right fair and just.”
“He is indeed.” I popped the last of my bun into my mouth; his had disappeared some time before. “But now,” I said to him, “we must be off to pick up your tools and deliver you with them to the house of the Lord Chief Justice.”
“I s’pose we must. But you tell a good story, chum. God’s truth, I could listen to you the whole day long.”
For one of fifteen years to hear that from a man twice his age was heady stuff indeed. I walked along at a steadier pace, buoyed somehow by confidence, a sudden feeling of manliness. We talked —oh, I have no true idea what it was we talked of on our way to Half-Moon Passage. I seem to recall he asked my advice on what new place he might move to, Covent Garden offering too many temptations and bad companions for a simple fellow, such as he was, fresh come from Lichfield. He asked if Southwark would do, and I told him of its bad repute —“no better than Covent Garden, and in some places worse.” I recommended Clerkenwell, “out from the city, with much new building —houses and such.” He thanked me greatly and said he would go out there for a look.
There were other matters —comments upon places and people we passed; women, especially, seemed to interest him. One exchange, however, I do recall for its later pertinence.
Quite without relevance to anything under earlier discussion, he turned to me and asked, “How comes it you don’t wear no red waistcoat like the rest of the constables?”
“That is because I am a constable” — what was Sir John’s phrase? — “pro tempore.”
“Is that like something special?”
“Noo,” said I, searching for some easy way to define my status yel Mill retain some dignity, “it puts me more in the way ol an apprentice constable.”
“Ah,” he said, “well I knows prenticeship. I was a ‘prentice carpenter for six years.”
“As long as that?”
“I had a hard master. Yours, though, ain’t near so hard, nor would he want you to be. Why, I’ll wager those barking irons you got on ain’t even loaded.”
“Oh, but they are. Mr. Baker, our armorer, says there’s nothing so foolish
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