His Last Fire Page 2

  Truelock, small, fingers too clean for a fully employed cobbler, fixed an inner gaze on Jesus, soon to visit this world. Yes, he’d spoken to Hadfield and convinced him beyond doubt of the speedy return of Our Saviour. Soon, coming soon, with the birth of the new century.

  Chins, curls, cravats consulted. ‘Deranged’, ‘insane’, ‘lunatic’ tottered to and fro among them.

  Hadfield, hearing, winked wildly at the impassive Truelock.

  For that is how I must play it. Confirm Nancy’s ‘honesty’ and give them the story they seek. Conspiracy and drunkenness won’t do; a madman will.

  Pyke and I saw Garrick play Hamlet, years back. ‘The play’s the thing’: we bandied that about in the Red Lion. What better place than Drury Lane, I said. Lights, splendour, populace to watch.

  Still, Hamlet wanted to catch the king’s conscience not kill him. Why didn’t Harley pull me up on that? He’s our pedant. And when Hamlet did think to kill Claudius it was alone in the dark, not in the glare of a full Theatre Royal.

  But no, that’s not it. The place was right. I was perfectly positioned in the pit, pistol primed, resolve fortified by friends, cock warmed by Nancy’s certain touch. It was my conscience that was caught, sharpened by starving paupers crying for bread in Spitalfields this February. Thrown frost-ruined potatoes by liveried lackeys while the court guzzled beefsteak and creams.

  Why then? Why did I miss?

  Sitting in the three-shillings, unsuspecting clerks on either side, chatter, instruments tuning, I was calm – not even drops of hot wax on my neck made me flinch. The king arrived. I rose. Levelled. Imagined the bullet entering his jacket, waistcoat, shirt, skin, muscle, heart.

  Then saw the snowy-wigged, pink-cheeked face. Gibbous eyes smiling with incomprehension. Madness flitting behind them. How could I shoot such a one?

  He rose and shouted: ‘God knows of the dreams I’ve had. I received a great commission in my sleep, gentlemen. I know I’m to be a martyr. I was persecuted by the French and I’m to be persecuted again. I have not yet suffered sufficiently.’

  Addington spoke: ‘Religiously insane. Take him and Truelock to Cold-bath-fields. I’ll write a report for The Times: Attempt on the life of the King. His Majesty safe. Madman apprehended.’

  FLASK BETWEEN THE LIPS

  ‘Maria. Maria! Come immediately!’

  Brighthelmstone, 1788. The benefits of sea-water.

  During the day Robert carried her to the bathing machine. Most nights she sat up, watching the moonlit sea, listening to waves pounding the garden wall, her beautiful profile framed by a half-open window. The sea inspired her, she said. She wrote reams of poems, distracting herself from pain, humiliation.

  That night she’d heard the knocking of a boat against the wall.

  ‘Come, Maria! Come!’ The table held pens, paper, letters, laudanum. I tucked a fallen blanket under her lifeless legs and we watched two fishermen beach the boat. From it they carried a man, laid him gently on the stones, wrapped a sail around him, pushed the boat out and rowed away.

  ‘A murder!’ she said.

  ‘Hush, Mama. Calm yourself.’

  The men returned, dragging sticks and branches from the boat and built a fire. She sucked in her breath.

  ‘Immolation!’

  Not so. In the moon’s brightness we watched them sit their limp friend up, hold out his hands to the flames, pat his cheeks, push a flask between his lips, fan the heat towards him.

  She called to Robert, who came from his loft, tousled, blear-eyed, pulling on his great coat. We saw him run into the garden, spring over the side wall onto the beach as the men rowed off. All he could do was confirm death in the embers’ light.

  But no one took away the body. No one identified it, buried it. For days bathers came and went, some on their way to the hot and cold baths – hygea devota. They stared, threw up their hands, pressed kerchiefs against their faces or walked past, self-absorbed.

  She couldn’t bear it, she said. Abandoned, unclaimed, she saw the dead sailor as herself, discarded by the world, unjustly treated. When she heard that he could not be buried because he ‘didn’t belong to the parish’, Robert posted up her proposal for a subscription to raise money for burial. When this failed she sent him with a little money to local fishermen who dragged the rotting body to the cliff and covered it with stones. Uncommitted. Unprayed-for.

  I remember it. The cold night, spark-shadowed bulk, hopeless acts of revival, the furtive retreat. More, I remember her declarations of tragedy, gestures of indignation, performance of melancholy. The nib scraping new poems onto backs of envelopes.

  ‘Maria, Maria, come quickly!’

  Bath was worse, without the virtue of salt breezes. She could not sleep at night after a day of immersion in intolerable heat – how we sweated in our brown linen jackets and petticoats in the sulphurous steam, pushing away the useless floating bowls of pomander – and the water in the Pump Room disgusting to drink. Nor was it better out of the water in the crowds of ogling, hobbling sick. Each day we spent hours on her dress, her hair, in case she should be recognised.

  ‘I need not remind you that Royal Heads have turned, Maria. I shall not lose my looks though I have lost the use of my legs. You may not understand, since you cause no heads to turn, but can at least imagine.’

  ‘Maria!’ Here in Englefield in our cottage ornée old acquaintances still called and for each she would perform tragic beauty or woman of wit, once adored, now maligned. We prepared hair powder, muslins, ribbons, gauze neckerchiefs, caps, books, papers, the Prince’s miniature. Alone again, she wrote and wrote, and we posted her collection of poems with the ‘Haunted Beach’, her ‘favourite offspring’.

  ‘I shall never forget that horror,’ she said.

  There was an accident. One morning, lifted from her bed by Robert, she hit her head badly on the sloping ceiling.

  ‘You tossed her?’ I asked him later.

  ‘She made a sudden movement. Clutched my arm: “Robert, I know . . .” but she never said, you see.’

  Towards the end, I slept on a cot in her room. Visitors had become sparse, for few care to enter a sick room, but there were letters by the dozen, providing envelopes on which to write the Memoirs. She worried so much about finishing the second half entitled ‘Completed by a Friend’.

  ‘For they will think the friend is you, Maria, and what better advocate for a wronged woman than her innocent daughter?’ I shrank from her look.

  And now she’s dead, the final, gruelling dropsy over. How often I held her to help her breathe, counted out the drops of laudanum, wiped her, cleaned her, brushed back her damp hair. Had she done the same for me? The Memoirs tell me nothing of my life except where, as a baby, I helped entrance Mr Sheridan. I remember only nurses. Names, places, dresses, poems, a life of beauty, fame and injustice in which I played almost no part; a passing reference. Did Godwin notice me, or Pindar, when they, two lone mourners, came to walk the coffin to its grave?

  In 1788 I was fourteen, no longer a child, useful at last. For twelve years I have tended, nursed, accompanied, approved, averted my gaze, kept the tradesmen from the door. Over the Channel they lit their flare for Liberty until it died, blackened beyond recognition. I, too, needed my revolt.

  Robert Sanders, footman, groom, obliged to buy his own boots, who carried her countless times from bed to chair to commode to couch to carriage, up stairs, down, day and night. I remember that night in Brighthelmstone. For in the corridor leading to the pantry Robert held me in his arms. His great coat smelled of sea and burnt branches.

  Yesterday he said: ‘I have carried her that often I know the feel of her body better than I know yours. That shouldn’t be.’

  We declared our love for each other an age ago. At last we can marry, live here. The cottage is mine – it’s all I have – and Robert can find employment nearby. Our expenses would be fe
w for we’d see no one.

  Or I could attend the voice, still sounding, that would tolerate no scandal but her own.

  ‘Maria! Come immediately!’

  Live alone, write begging letters, publish the Memoirs. Live alone, hold up the image of my famous mother for whom Royal Heads turned, pat its cheeks, draw its hands to the flames. Push a flask between its lips, fan the hopeless heat towards it.

  REVOLUTIONARY

  The boy’s throw was accurate. The gulls were quicker of course; like crows they sensed hostility before it struck. If he sat next to the boy nobody would look twice seeing two anonymous backs along the quay. Not that they’d think to come here. Wrong side of the river. They’d start with Hardman, obviously, his partner in law. Pick up on the copemen in Tooley street and the light-horsemen – but they were far too canny to be caught.

  The bills of lading game was shot. He’d have to clear off soon. Get right away. Try something else.

  He was out of breath after his brisk walk over the bridge, along Tower Street, down Beer Lane. The boy’s legs hung over the slimy stone, a pile of chippings on the ground next to him.

  ‘You’re good at it,’ said William Leopard. ‘Ever tried a pistol?’

  The boy looked up, startled. Leopard noted: clean, well-fed, sensitive, self-absorbed. About fifteen.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ Still no reply.

  ‘William Leopard,’ he extended his hand though it wasn’t taken. ‘May I sit here with you?’

  ‘As you wish,’ the boy growled, voice new-broken. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

  ‘Good question!’ Leopard laughed. ‘Give me one of your stones, will you?’

  Before them were barges lashed together three deep, stretched six along. Wooden chests marked B E N G A L. So easy for scuffle-hunters! Perhaps straight theft was better than false papers. Damned bad luck. But he wouldn’t stoop to jemmies and night work.

  Gulls stood in a row on the outer edge of the barges, flew up, screaming, dived and fought for booty, returned to the row again. Leopard aimed, missed. As he expected, the boy picked a missile, lined up and drove a bird, screeching, into the air.

  ‘Bulls-eye! What did you say your name was?’

  ‘I didn’t. Matthew Dale.’

  ‘Matt?’

  ‘Matthew.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be a little further up, Matthew, fishing from Dice Quay?’

  ‘Can’t take fish home.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘As you said, I’m supposed to be at school.’

  ‘And which school is that?’

  But the boy wasn’t going to tell him, just as he, too, would keep certain facts to himself.

  ‘What is your work?’ the boy asked Leopard suddenly, plucking at erratic courage.

  He looked at the man and found him extraordinary. His clothes were dusty, grimy, stained yet made from good cloth. He was educated too, as well as prying. Must be cautious, couldn’t have the man report him. Yet he didn’t look the reporting type. Too unshaven and amused.

  ‘The law,’ said Leopard. ‘I’m a lawyer. Doing a little business.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘A somewhat difficult transaction, you know. Merchants need me in these parts.’ He waved his hand vaguely.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sugar, brandy, wheat. There’s 77,000 tons of iron due from Petersburg,’ he sighed.

  Matthew yawned.

  ‘I see you’re not interested in trade, young man.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re a revolutionary! A Jacobin – that’s what you are.’

  The boy blushed. His features were delicate; bore the burden of transition, of daring in conflict with caution.

  ‘You hate this corrupt world, this vicious self-seeking government.’

  Matthew hunched himself. The man was laughing at him. Any minute now he’d reveal himself as an unusual friend of his father’s and trudge him back home.

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

  ‘Then why do you work in it?’

  ‘Good question! Have you read Tom Paine?’

  He wished the man would go. He knew they’d find out sooner or later and beat him, but later was what he hoped for. He was here because he hated company. He wished the man would go.

  ‘Look!’ Leopard rummaged in his bulging pockets and pulled out a book. Thumbed, greasy. Rights of Man, vol. I. ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘It’s banned,’ Matthew said. Embarrassed at the folly of this remark he stuttered: ‘And I’ve read volume II.’

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

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

  ‘What a great book it is! Who has done more for the world than he? But it’s no good reading banned books behind closed shutters, is it? You’re still too young for action, I suppose. Sitting on the quayside’s not going to help the world.’

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

  ‘Yes, yes, now I am. And no doubt dodging school is a start. What is your father?’

  Matthew mumbled.

  ‘A chaplain! A man of the cloth! Oh Lord! Then I admire you, Matthew. You defy your school, you defy your father. I myself shall go to America.’

  ‘Ah!’ The boy sat back and stared at this surprising companion with the blackguardly face. Bulbous nose, lank hair, black, all-seeing eyes.

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

  ‘But you have made a beginning, young Matthew. Already you are countering authority – is there not something even bolder you can do?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ As he hesitated an idea formed. ‘Tomorrow. I think I can do something revolutionary by then. Will you come again tomorrow?’

  ‘Well. Yes, young man. I could do that. I need some time to make arrangements. 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 laughed immoderately. ‘How about the beach below the Tower?’

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

  ‘Well, 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?’

  ‘I think I could.’

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

  They shook hands. ‘Porters’ Quay, eight o’clock!’

  Matthew watched the insolent set of Leopard’s shoulders as he walked briskly up the street. He turned back to the river. He couldn’t go home for hours yet.

  It was clear and hot soon after daybreak. The river was thick with boats. Barges formed an inner margin below quays and wharves. Dredgers, lighters, floating fire engines waited. Mid-stream lay masted ships, sails half-furled, brigs, cutters, West Indiamen, their cargoes unloaded by lightermen. Over the rest of the water darted skiffs and rowing boats, sculled, punted, fishing, scouting, ferrying.

  Matthew paced the quay. Smiles broke on his taut face. Leopard was late and he could hardly bear the wait.

  At last the man arrived, walking rapidly. They shook hands. Matthew noticed that Leopard wore exactly the same clothes. A strong sourness suggested he’d slept in them.

  ‘Citizen Dale! Did anyone look 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 busines
s has not gone well. But now, let me see. No one found you out, either, then? Your parents do not suspect?’

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

  ‘Ah! No, goodness no! What have you done, citizen?’

  ‘I wish you to guess.’

  ‘How can I do that? I hardly know you.’ He looked round about him and back to Matthew impatiently.

  ‘What I have done can be seen,’ said Matthew proudly. ‘It can be seen from here.’

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

  ‘Wrong direction.’

  ‘Behind me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That leaves the river, barges, ships; they all look the same to me; wharves warehouses on the other side, or to the left,’ he swung round slowly, ‘the walls of the Tower.’

  ‘The Royal Arms are flying,’ said Matthew, ‘for it’s the King’s birthday today. June 4th.’

  They both looked towards the White Tower.

  ‘Good God! Do my eyes deceive me? Did you do that? Did you? The work of a genius! Citizen Dale!’

  From the ramparts of the White Tower protruded a second flagpole and from that flagpole in the glory of the June morning, flew the Tricolor.

  ‘Did you do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But how? How on earth?’

  ‘My father is deputy chaplain of the Tower,’ said the boy both 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.’