At least once a week, Creighton Brown’s mother predicted that he would come to a bad end. Though she never specified what she meant by “a bad end,” it was understood to mean the end of a hangman’s rope.
Creighton paid little mind to his mother’s warnings. Like most wellborn English lads, he had grown up regarding death by hanging not as a cruel and dreadful fate so much as a form of amusement.
When Creighton was twelve, he and his schoolmates had played almost obsessively at a game they called Hangman. There were two players. One was the Hangman; he drew on his slate a crude gallows that resembled a large number 7, then selected as his victim some well-known public figure—James Bruce, the explorer, for example, or Lord North. The other player had to guess the identity of the condemned man. Each time he guessed wrong, the Hangman suspended a body part from the gallows—a circle for the head, simple lines for arms and legs. If the other player guessed correctly before the stick figure was complete, he won a reprieve for the victim and became the Hangman himself.
After the troubles with the Colonies began, the player who was Hangman often chose for his victim some notorious American—the rabble-rousing Sam Adams, perhaps, or Benjamin Franklin, who was in London at the time, arguing the American cause. This was a clever ploy, for, if the other player suspected that the victim was a Yankey, he usually preferred to let the rascal hang.
When he was thirteen, Creighton attended his first real-life execution, skipping his classes to do so. The condemned was the celebrated highwayman Tom Corbett, who had been making the road from Bristol to London unsafe for travelers for more than a year.
The execution had been well publicized by means of handbills, and hundreds of eager spectators, some with young children in tow, flocked to the courtyard before the jail, hoping for a satisfying show. Corbett did not disappoint them. The highwayman, who was tall, good-looking, and not much over twenty years of age, played to the crowd like a seasoned actor.
When the clergyman asked whether there was anything that might comfort him, the thief coolly replied, “Having another man hang in my place.” The crowd applauded. When the noose was placed about his neck, Corbett did not wait to be pushed from the scaffold; with a cry of “A short life, and a merry one!” he leaped into space.
Though the sight of the dangling body haunted Creighton for weeks, the thing that impressed itself most indelibly on his memory was the dashing, devil-may-care manner in which the highwayman had met his fate.
In 1777, the year that Creighton turned fifteen, hanging became a familiar topic of conversation. Some even called it the Year of the Hangman, because the three sevens in the date resembled miniature gallows, and also because the year had begun with a rash of executions. In one fortnight, in London, thirteen men were strung up on the scaffold at Tyburn. They were not the usual run of thieves and murderers, but respectable men of substance. Some were merchants, some government officials; one was a member of Parliament. All were traitors to the crown, convicted of selling supplies or secrets to the rebels during the short-lived and ill-fated uprising in America.
Creighton was too busy to notice. Though he was still enrolled in school, it wasn’t his studies that occupied him. In fact he seldom cracked a book, and was absent from his classes more often than not—usually because he was sleeping off the excesses of the night before.
Most of his education came not in the classroom but in coffeehouses and taverns, and his teachers were the town’s rakes and wastrels—for the most part, the younger sons of wealthy fathers. As they had no property to manage and no trade to pursue, they made a profession out of drinking, smoking, and playing cards.
Creighton was an eager apprentice to the profession. Even before his father, a career soldier, went off to the Colonies to help keep the rebels in hand, Creighton had shown a tendency toward “running wild,” as his mother put it. The mischief he indulged in was mostly minor—stealing fruit at the market; setting off fireworks under Sir Ambrose Spencer’s privy (while it was occupied by Sir Ambrose); digging up Captain Granville’s yard in search of the treasure rumored to be buried there.
Major Brown’s influence had kept his son’s behavior within acceptable bounds. But with his father off in America, Creighton quickly stepped out of bounds and fell under less wholesome influences. His grandfather, Sir Robert, declared that the boy needed something to occupy his time and his mind and offered to have him apprenticed to a solicitor or a physician. But Charlotte Brown would have none of it. She meant for her son to be a gentleman, and a gentleman, by her definition, was someone who didn’t have to work for a living—a notion that appealed strongly to Creighton.
Unfortunately, a gentleman was expected to have a classical education, and that meant a good deal of study, which definitely did not appeal to Creighton. Most of his troubles at school, though, came about not because he hated studying, but because he hated authority of any sort, especially when it was unjust. Though most of the other students admired his defiant attitude, the authorities of course despised it, and it had managed to get him booted out of two prestigious academies—so far.
At the first, one of the masters had tried to punish him for breaking some minor rule; Creighton had broken the man’s cane. At the second, Creighton had stood up for a classmate, a rather pitiful fellow with one withered arm, who was being tormented by a bully. Creighton had given the lout a bloody nose. Unfortunately the bully’s father proved to be an earl who had contributed large sums of money to the school, and he demanded that Creighton be dismissed.
His current school was not as exclusive as the first two. The parents of his new classmates tended to have less money and fewer titles. Some of the fathers were not even gentlemen, but mere merchants. Though the tobacco trade was the source of his own family’s wealth, Creighton looked down upon these working-class boys—and, in fact, on most of the students. They all seemed so dull, so childish, compared with the dashing young men who met in the taverns nightly to squander their share of the family fortune on drinks and gaming. Creighton liked their elegant manners, their bawdy wit, their carefree outlook on life—an outlook whose basic premise seemed to be that the world had been created expressly for their pleasure.
There was a time when the person he most admired was his own father—and with good reason. Major Brown was everything an officer and gentleman should be, but seldom is: intelligent, capable, compassionate, honorable, courageous. But his father was dead now, killed in a skirmish with rebels in a place called Carolina. The one quality Harry Brown had lacked was luck.
In this respect, Creighton took after his father—at least where games of chance were concerned. He had once thought himself clever at cards. He had played whist regularly with his mother and her friends, and he and his partner invariably won. Now he suspected that he had been allowed to win—that his mother had, as usual, been catering to his whims, afraid that if he lost, it would put him in a bad temper.
His tavern companions did not play whist; their game of choice was single-stake brag, and their bets were reckoned in pounds not pence. Unlike his mother, they did not cater to him or commiserate with him, no matter how badly he lost. They seemed utterly unconcerned about money, so it was all one to them whether they won or lost.
Creighton tried to be as nonchalant as they were. As he watched the last of his month’s allowance being raked from the table, he gave what he hoped was a careless laugh and took a long draught of ale to ease the tightness in his throat. “Well, gentlemen, that’s all the cash I have on me, I’m afraid. But I feel my fortunes are about to take a turn for the better. I presume you’ll accept a chit from me?”
The other three players glanced at one another. Gilbert Burke, his broad face flushed with drink, shrugged good-naturedly. “If the lad wants to lose his breeches as well as his purse, I say let him.”
Roger Davy nodded in agreement. “I’ve no doubt he’s good for it. If nothing else, he can pay us in kind, with sot-weed from his grandfather’s warehouse, eh?”
Only Thomas Kern, Creighton’s closest companion among the men, and the nearest to him in age, seemed doubtful. He drew Creighton aside. “Are you certain you can afford to lose any more, Cray?”
Creighton smiled thinly. “I don’t intend to lose.”
“No one ever does. Pardon me for pointing this out, but you’re not exactly known for your shrewdness at betting.”
“It’s a matter of luck, that’s all,” Creighton replied indignantly, “and mine is bound to change eventually. In any case, it’s only money, isn’t it? And my family has plenty of that.”
This was not quite true. In fact, their financial situation was shaky at best. For reasons known only to the army, his mother had not yet received any of her husband’s pension. They could not depend on Harry’s father for much help, either. When the troubles with the Colonies began, Sir Robert’s profits had dwindled drastically, partly because the tobacco trade was suspended and partly because several ships full of other cargo were seized by American privateers.
Creighton suspected that, in order to maintain the style of life her place in society demanded, his mother was accepting loans from gentleman admirers, such as Sir Edward Lyndon, who called upon her almost daily. Creighton considered these visits and loans improper, especially since his father had been dead for little more than a year.
Though his friend Thomas no doubt knew all this, he didn’t press the issue; it was considered bad form for gentlemen to quibble over money matters. But Thomas did add softly, “They’ll expect you to make good your debts, you know. It’s not that they care about the money. It’s a question of honor, and though this lot may seem easygoing, when honor is involved it’s no longer a game; it’s serious business.”
“I can handle myself,” Creighton replied, but the boast had a hollow sound.
“I hope so,” muttered Thomas as they returned to the table.
To Creighton’s relief, his luck did seem to take a turn for the better. He was dealt an ace of hearts and a nine of diamonds, which was a “bragger,” or wild card—the equivalent of a pair of aces. Gilbert led off the betting with a marker for half a crown. The others put in an equal amount. Confident that he held a winning hand, Creighton raised the bet; he wrote five shillings on a scrap of paper, initialed it, and tossed it into the center of the table. The others saw his raise; then it was Creighton’s turn again.
This time he put in a chit for a pound. Gilbert glanced up at him in surprise. Though he knew he shouldn’t let his face betray him, Creighton couldn’t help smiling a bit smugly. Gilbert smiled, too, and tossed markers worth thirty shillings into the pot. Roger matched it; so did Thomas.
Creighton raised his bet to two pounds. Gilbert followed suit. Roger folded his cards and tossed them aside. “I know when I’m outgunned.” He rose from the table. “Can I fetch anyone another pint?”
“Give me a moment,” Creighton said, “and I’ll have the money for it.”
Roger laughed. “We’ll see.”
After another round of betting, Thomas dropped out. “You may want to give it up now, lad,” Gilbert warned good-naturedly, “before you go so far out on a limb that you hang yourself.”
Creighton was sure the man was bluffing. Though his palms were perspiring so that he could scarcely hold the cards, he managed a credible smile. “I’m not at the end of my rope just yet.” Shakily he scribbled another chit, for three pounds this time. He heard Thomas groan, but he didn’t take his eyes off Gilbert’s cards, as though staring at them would reveal their worth, or perhaps cause them to fold.
But instead of folding, Gilbert tossed three one-guinea markers on the pile. “No point in prolonging the agony. I’ll call.” He spread his cards face up on the table. “Two royal ladies, natural. I hope for your sake you can better that.”
Anger welled up in Creighton, and before he could stop himself, he had flung his hand down petulantly. The others stared at him in astonishment, as though he’d done something unforgivably gauche. Embarrassed and ashamed, Creighton murmured, “No. I can’t better it.”
“Pity.” Gilbert raked the pile of coins and paper into his hat. “I’ll buy the next round, gentlemen.”
Creighton took a deep, trembling breath and got unsteadily to his feet. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t accept. I have classes in a few hours, and should allow myself a little sleep first.” He bowed slightly to Gilbert. “May I have a day or two to make good my debt, sir?”
Gilbert waved a hand indulgently. “By all means. You won’t expect to play again, I know, before the matter is settled.”
“Naturally not.” Creighton donned his cloak and fastened it. “Good night, gentlemen.” There was no reply. The three men were already engaged in some conversation that did not include him.
Outside the tavern Creighton drew his cloak close around him. The air was chilly for April, and a mist hung in the air, forming halos around the gas lamps on the street corners. Creighton made his way home through the narrow alleys, away from the glow of the lamps. It was long past curfew, and he didn’t care to run afoul of the city’s watchmen. He had troubles enough.
By the time he reached his home, he had worked out how he would repay the six pounds five he owed. His mother’s stock of jewelry was so extensive, she wouldn’t miss a particular necklace or brooch, at least not for several weeks. That would give him plenty of time to raise more money so he could redeem the items from the pawnbroker. And if he didn’t . . . well, he could disavow any knowledge of the jewelry’s fate, and very likely his mother would believe him. It had worked before.
But she had grown more suspicious lately, and less tolerant of his transgressions. When she had discovered that he was slipping out of the house at night, she had instructed the maid to lock him in his room. Creighton had simply climbed out the window. Next she had tried locking all the doors and windows while he was out, to teach him a lesson. Furious, Creighton had gained entry by smashing a windowpane and unfastening the lock.
He hoped she would try no such nonsense tonight, for he was bone weary and didn’t want the bother of breaking in. The house was dark. She wasn’t waiting up, then, and there would be no lectures about how disappointed she was in him, or about how he was dishonoring his father’s memory.
Creighton plodded up the steps to the front door and fished about in his pocket for the iron key. As he softly inserted the key into the lock, he heard the boards of the porch creak behind him, and he half turned, puzzled by the sound.
A pair of hands seized his arms, pinning them behind his back, and a stout arm clamped around his neck, forcing his head back. He opened his mouth to cry out, but a crumpled cloth was crammed between his teeth, then another cloth was pulled tight over it and tied in place. Before he could get a glimpse of his assailants, a third band of fabric was put over his eyes.
Squirming frantically, he lashed out with his legs at the attackers. There was a muttered curse as one of the kicks connected. Something solid struck him hard on the right knee and he doubled over in pain, with a gasp that drew the ball of cloth into his throat, gagging him. As a final indignity, his wrists were bound together, like a condemned man’s, with rough cord. Then he was half carried, half dragged from the porch and off into the night.