Fifteen

Matthew sat at a corner table in the Horse Head Tavern on a street called Gower’s Walk, with his back to a wall of brown bricks. Before him was a wooden platter of boiled pig’s feet, some kind of mushy greens, a mashup of figs and apples sour enough to curdle the tongue, and corncakes baked to break the teeth. The ale in his tankard was bitter and smelled of long age in a musty cellar.

He ate and drank and thought himself for the moment a king in a delectable dream, for food and drink that would have seemed indigestible at the beginning of Matthew’s ordeal now equalled any delight put before him at Sally Almond’s in New York. He hadn’t realized how starved he was, and so down the hatch went everything, the sour with the bitter and the mush with the tooth-crackers.

This was not the first tavern he’d entered on his exploration of Whitechapel, but at the Goat’s Breath a fight had broken out before he’d taken a chair, and finding the chair he was about to take smashed across the shoulders of one gin-raged blowzabella by another, and men throwing their coins down and clearing the floor for this violent entertainment to continue, Matthew eased himself away from the maddened crowd and back into the foggy street.

Therefore he used caution in studying the tavern signs before committing himself to life-threatening error. The Scarlet Hag, the Leper’s Kiss, the Four Wild Dogs, the Broken Cherry … heavens, no. And as he walked along these narrow, dirty lanes in the weak circle of his lanternlight, with an occasional other lamp or torch sliding past him in the gloom, he was aware that many other figures were on the move with him, all going somewhere or another, some calling out with voices impossible to decipher as if they were speaking haughtily not to anyone on earth but rather to gods unknown, in the manner of daring lightning to strike. Most, however, moved in ominous silence, either singly, doubly or in packs of three, four or more. Matthew kept his lantern uplifted and his other hand on the dagger’s hilt, and he stopped every so often to press his back against a rough wall and make certain he was not about to be jumped from behind.

He had had at least one close call of which he knew. Several times he’d passed bodies sprawled on the ground, one with a head so bashed it was impossible for that broken cup to hold a drop of life. But in one instance Matthew had been called—“Gentle sir! Gentle sir, I beg you!”—from a doorway next to an alley, and found by the lanternlight a not unattractive young girl in dirty rags huddled there holding a baby. The infant was not moving. Matthew had thought its pallor a shade too blue. The girl had asked for coin to feed her child, and asked in so poignant and tearful a way that Matthew almost did not sense a slow uncoiling of something from the alley to his left. He did not wait to see what it was, because the sensation of evil that emanated from it was too horrible to contemplate, and so he quickly retreated as the girl called out with practised sorrow Gentle sir, gentle sir, please help us.

He did not turn his back on that alley until he had put a little distance between it and himself. The last he heard from the girl was a seething release of breath that had all the damnation of the world in it.

Then Matthew had gone on, thinking that anyplace where there was a market for dead infants was a place he did not be needing to wander, yet here he was. His appointment was at the Tavern of the Three Sisters at midnight, and he could not be late for that.

Now, as Matthew finished his meal at the Horse Head, he considered the subject of Albion. Surely there was some connection between the person who wore that mask and the historic meaning of the name. What Defoe had said: It also refers to the elemental force—the strength of a giant—that is fabled to be England’s protection again harm.

Judging from what he’d seen so far, Matthew thought that the elemental force of the fabled Albion had given up the cause and left the country.

But … was it possible that a human being had taken up the sword?

What … one man was going to puncture this evil bladder and release all the devil’s piss? Then London would be a shining example of order and purity, and so bring England back to some golden condition it had never really known?

It was madness.

What had been his impressions of Albion? It was worth summing up. The figure had been slim of build and not quite as tall as Matthew. Male, of course, though age was hard to tell because the whisper had been an effective disguise for the voice. A swordsman, for sure, and not just using the saber as a prop. And, obviously, Albion had to know that Matthew was being transferred to Houndsditch, what time he had left Newgate and what the route would likely be. Matthew recalled that Johnny had said they were near the gate. Albion had been most certainly lurking there, hidden by darkness and fog, awaiting the coach’s arrival. Then he’d taken a leap, climbed up the coach’s side, thrown the driver off and brought the coach to a sudden halt.

But why?

The serving-girl, a dark-haired wench with bruised eyes, came over to ask if he required anything else. He had noted her misshapen nose, obviously broken by more than one fist, and her downcast countenance. It seemed to him this was a city of beasts bound to battle each other because the larger circumstances of their poverty and plight could not be fought by human hands.

He checked the candle clock on the bar and saw that it was burning down toward ten. “Tell me,” he said to the girl, “do you know the Tavern of the Three Sisters in Flint Alley?”

“Heard of it.”

She needed prompting to continue. “Well, is it near?”

She had to ask the barkeep, who replied, “South toward the river. Maybe … oh … half a mile, I’d reckon. But sir … if you’re thinkin’ of goin’ down in there I’d take another think. Awful mean down that way. Wilders left and right, ain’t nobody safe.”

“Cut yer throat for a sniff a’ snuff,” one of the patrons added, and the drunken blonde doxy astride his lap slurred out, “Ain’t got no fuckin’ morals down there.”

“I was afraid of that,” Matthew said resignedly. “Thank you, all.” He asked for another tankard of ale and gave the serving-girl his best effort at a smile, but if she knew what a smile was she had forgotten, for she turned away with the same lifeworn expression she might have had if he’d spat in her face.

A choice lay before him, and here in the warmth of the tavern with a few candles flickering and a low fire burning red in a small hearth, he had the luxury of time and space to consider it. If he ventured forth to reach the Tavern of the Three Sisters at midnight he would undoubtedly learn who Albion was and what in the blazes this was all about. Of course, before he reached there he might suffer a little thing called murder, which would cancel the rest of his evening.

The other half of his choice involved throwing all this to the wind and finding his way back to Houndsditch, where he would humbly turn himself in. He would ask to speak to Gardner Lillehorne on the morrow to both thank him for getting him out of Newgate and explaining that this Albion business was none of his doing, and all he intended to do was be nice, quiet and timid until he could go before Archer in an official court function and state his case.

He drank and considered. Either way, sooner or later he would have to brave the streets of Whitechapel. It appeared from the number of people staggering into the Horse Head that this area was only beginning to come to life as the candle burned toward midnight. He might have one more tankard of ale for courage, but his money would be gone and so would his senses; best to face the rest of this night with a clear head.

He gave it another hour, nursing his ale and watching the denizens of Whitechapel come and go. A dice game was begun, the barkeep’s billyclub slammed the drinkers’ deck to stop several arguments before they became violent, a few garishly-made up dollies sauntered in and out, various mutterings and whispers indicated nefarious plots being planned by shadowy figures that stayed their distance from the light, and then it was time for Matthew to turn his attention to the task at hand.

He had decided. He would go to the Tavern of the Three Sisters, find out what all this was about, and then he would report himself to Houndsditch. The life of an escaped criminal was not for him.

“Would you direct me southward?” Matthew asked the barkeep, who gave him directions as far as the Oak And Eight tavern on Pinchin Street. “Thank you,” he replied, and he left the barkeep and the serving-girl an extra coin. Then he took his lantern outside, pulled his cloak tighter because the night had gotten colder, situated his tricorn a little more westward, and began striding south.

He had been correct about this area coming more to life as the night moved on, for now though the fog had lifted and the chill wind had picked up figures were walking on the street in numbers that would have been New York at midday. There seemed to be four taverns on every block, and all of them doing a brisk business. A body came flying out the door of one of them as Matthew approached, and this was followed by a heavy-set black-bearded brute in a leather apron coming out to dump a bucket of foul unmentionables upon the man’s head, much to the amusement of the throng who seemed to materialize from the air in search of such tragic comedies.

The street curved to the left and downward, sinking toward the Thames. Matthew walked at a brisk pace, his head on a swivel. A rider on a horse came galloping past with two more in pursuit, what appeared to be a chase with violent ramifications. Matthew smelled the ashes of burned buildings and had to sidestep many times to keep his shoes out of a nasty mire. From somewhere or another a woman was screaming and then the screaming became a high-pitched, nearly hysterical laugh. Up ahead, out in the gloom, there came a pistol shot.

The first thing Matthew was going to do would be to ask the man behind the golden mask why in the world he’d had to make this trek into such badlands. Then again, one did not ask too many impertinent questions of a phantom who had already murdered six men and had a saber eager for new blood.

He walked through an area where the painted wagtails marched back and forth like soldiers of a determined army, flagging down coaches by dropping part of their garments to reveal their gifts or actually trying to seize the horses’ bits. But it was apparent that the coaches would not be here if they weren’t bringing customers, and so the wanton troops did not have to wage their campaigns too ardently. In this area the wooden houses seemed to all be crooked and leaned one upon the other, as if their roofs might slide off at any minute like the top layers of rotten cakes. In the light of pink lamps Matthew was nearly lifted off his feet in the arms of fervent females and carried into one or another of the houses while their pimps, armed with stout clubs and hatchets, looked on approvingly and called out prices and practices for male consideration, though Matthew noted a few genteel-looking ladies emerging from some of those coaches. He got out of there with his clothes and his skin still on, but he thought he would be forever haunted by the sight of little girls aged eight and ten, all dressed up and decorated like gaudy candies, who hung back in the doorways while the big bawds launched themselves like fireships.

In another few minutes he was treated to the sight of a mob of men shouting around a sunken pit, and glancing in he wished he had not, for in the windblown torchlight a chained bear was fighting two snarling dogs, and the bear itself had scarred holes where its eyes had been removed. He put his head down and hurried past.

When he got back to New York, he decided, he would kiss every plank of the wharf and by God he would find Lord Cornbury and kiss that horsey face too, for on that day everything would be beautiful.

A cry to his left pierced his reverie.

Matthew dared to look in that direction. He was passing an alley. A thrust of the lantern revealed three men beating a slight figure—a young boy, it looked to be—that had tried to crawl into a mound of crates. One of the men’s eyes flashed scarlet as he looked toward the offending lamp, and Matthew saw that his face was marked with streaks of red and black warpaint. One of the others had the boy’s legs and was dragging him out, and just in that second Matthew had a quick look at the young face and saw that both eyes were already blackened. Then the three fell upon the boy and began to pound away with their fists like workmen intent on any task that called for full concentration.

Matthew went on.

It was not his business.

He had somewhere to be.

This was a city where you were on your own, and God help you.

He wasn’t strong enough to take on three fierce ruffians.

Shit.

He stopped.

The boy cried out again, a high bleat of pain. Matthew could hear the sound of blows connecting.

Why? he asked the fates. And though there was no answer from them, his own reply was Because you are here, and you are not yet so far a citizen of London as to keep walking.

He returned to the alley. The boy was fighting wildly but only gaining a little time. All three of the men—young men, they appeared to be—wore the warpaint on their faces. One of them sported a headband complete with a spiky patch of feathers. That individual fell down across the boy’s back, planted a knee on the spine, and began to pull the boy’s head upward by the chin as if to break the neck.

“That will do,” said Matthew.

Instantly the three figures froze. The boy continued to fight, clawing to get to the dubious safety of the crates.

“Away with you!” growled the man who’d looked into Matthew’s light. “You don’t want none of this!”

“I don’t like what I’m seeing. Three against one, and a young boy too. You should be ashamed.”

“Fuckface,” came the gruff voice of the one with the Indian headband, “you move on or we’ll cut your balls off and feed ’em to you.” He let go of the boy’s chin. His hand moved toward his fringed deerskin jacket and returned with the shine of a knife.

Matthew had seen, to his right, a jumble of flame-blackened boards. He drew out one that bore a couple of twisted iron nails toward the end that would meet flesh. He was frightened of this confrontation, for sure, and later—if possible—he might think himself stupid for having stuck a sharp nose in, but after all the misery and corruption he had seen in this city he could not be a part of it.

“Let him up,” he said.

“Carve him a grin, Black Wolf,” said the feathered gent, who remained with his knee pressed down on the boy’s struggling form.

The one who Matthew had first seen pulled a knife as long as Matthew’s forearm. The second one also brought out a blade.

Matthew stood his ground. “Black Wolf?” He nearly laughed, but he was too tight inside. “Do you apes fancy yourselves real Indians?” He readied himself to throw the lantern into a warpainted face and follow that with a nailboard blow; then, his hand would go to his own dagger, which unfortunately was of a pitiful size in this circumstance.

Black Wolf slinked forward, the league-long knife making little circles in the air.

One more step, Matthew thought, and then the lantern would fly. Come on, you—

A monstrous stormwave hit him from behind, coupled with a bellow of voices, and for an instant he was back on the Wanderer fighting the whole of the roiling Atlantic. He tried to twist around to use the board, but a club struck him on the shoulder and the makeshift weapon dropped away. He had a fleeting second to recognize that in the blur of faces he was seeing, all of them had blackened eyes. Then a fist caught him on the jaw, another one hit him high on the chest and took his breath, he was thrown to the ground and was aware of his attackers attacking those who had been about to attack him. Blades gleamed, fists flew, cries of rage and pain spewed out, bodies tumbled, the boy had gotten up and was fighting like a fiend, and Matthew struggled for air and tried to get to his feet.

He had made it to his knees when flesh smacked flesh in the riotous melee and a body fell upon him, and in the confusion he saw a boot coming but he could not get his head out of its path.

And so, ingloriously but completely … to sleep.