1757. Britain was at war. George II was on the throne. Thomas Pelham was Prime Minister. William Pitt, later Lord Chatham, was the King’s reluctant choice for Secretary of State with the task of conducting the war. That winter, the outlook for the state of the nation was as bleak as the Northumbrian countryside which the stagecoach trundled through. The French and their allies were being fought on five different fronts: in America, the prize was the Middle West and Canada; the Caribbean had the acquisition of bountiful sugar islands as bait; skirmishes along the African coast were determining who would be the dominant colonial force; the British and French East India Companies were battling for the enormous trading riches offered by the sub-continent; while in Europe, regularly changing alliances were to see Britain join forces with Frederick II of Prussia against the combined might of Louis XV’s France and Maria Theresa’s Austria.
News from the far-flung theatres of war had been disheartening so far that year. The British fleet in Canada had been destroyed in a storm. In Europe, Frederick II was roundly beaten at the Battle of Kolin. George II’s son, the Duke of Cumberland, was defeated a month later by the French at Hastenbeck. The final blow of the year was the complete failure of an expensive expeditionary force sent to Rochefort on the French coast.
More worrying still was that Louis XV’s alliance with Austria meant the French had access to the ports of the Austrian Netherlands, which provided them with another jumping-off point for the invasion of Britain. The country was on constant alert and diligent eyes kept a wary lookout for invading troops along England’s southern and eastern coasts.
National security was the last thing on Jack Flyford’s mind as the wheels of the stagecoach splashed through a large rut in the road, sending a muddy spray into the nearby hedge. The four inside passengers hardly noticed the lurch – they had been rocked unmercifully ever since they had left Edinburgh the previous dawn.
For Mr Robert Gorrie, a prosperous merchant of that city, there was the prospect of a further five or six days of uncomfortable travel before he finally reached the Bull & Mouth, St Martins-Le-Grand in London. His fellow passengers had not so far to go.
Young George Laidlaw was making for York to take up the King’s Shilling. George’s father was a staunch Hanoverian and felt his son should join the King’s colours to reassure the authorities that he was one Edinburgh citizen who was loyal to the throne. Memories of the ’45 Rising were still fresh: Bonnie Prince Charlie – “King over the water” – was still being toasted behind many a closed door.
Miss Charlotte Bellingham was returning to Durham after visiting her brother, who was a captain in the garrison of Edinburgh Castle. No longer in the first flush of youth, travel was a disquieting experience for a lady of her acute sensibilities. At least her servant, perched precariously on the roof of the coach with her mistress’s trunk, could look after her creature comforts at each stopping place.
Jack had discovered the identities and the purposes for the journeys of his fellow travellers when they had rested the previous night at Wooler. Yet when they asked him his business, he had been most reticent. How could he explain his reason for being on the coach? Fortunately, none of his companions had been at the New Concert Hall in the Cannongate two nights before.
The audience had not been as large as West Digges had hoped for. In fact, the season had not got off to a good start and Digges’ creditors were growing impatient. But the performance of the Beggar’s Opera was receiving much raucous approval from those who had turned up. The scene was the tavern in Newgate. Digges was giving one of his richest interpretations of MacHeath and he, Jack, was enjoying his role as one of MacHeath’s gang, Jemmy Twitcher. A minor part it has to be said – only two short speeches to be exact – but for a young man of twenty with little experience of the boards, it was being tackled with bravado. Then, above the din of the audience, a voice was raised that suppressed even the fine, clear delivery of Digges. ‘That man there is the devil himself!’ Digges tried to continue. ‘The Lord will strike thee down foul lecher, defiler,’ cried the voice, now closer to the stage.
The gentry and the well-to-do, who were sitting on the stage itself as was the custom, began murmuring at this unwarranted interruption. Digges could not compete. Jack turned in annoyance to see who was causing the fracas. To his horror, he realised the man, recognisable as a minister of the Kirk by his austere garb, was pointing and shouting at him. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood to frightened attention when he recognised the mad, piercing eyes and the furious, distorted features of his detractor, who was now screaming like an inmate of Bedlam.
By now, the madman had forced his way through the throng and into the midst of the orchestra, who were about to launch into MacHeath’s next song. Strings twanged, followed by the breaking of wood. A cry of anguish went up from the distraught viola player. The violinist came to his aid by smashing his own instrument over the deranged cleric’s head. However, this manoeuvre failed to stop him gaining the stage. His shouts were now being drowned out by the general uproar. Scuffles were breaking out among the more excited and inebriated sections of the audience. Three of the actors rushed forward to restrain the intruder, but he broke free and lunged at the paralysed Jack. For a moment, the lunatic’s hands were about his throat. It was at this point that West Digges grabbed Jack from the man’s manic clutches and deftly spirited him from the stage, out of the theatre and into the street.
The clergyman was called Knoxland Dodds. He was an outspoken critic of the theatre. Officially, the Kirk did all it could to close down any form of entertainment within Edinburgh’s city boundaries. Unofficially, some members of the clergy had been known to surreptitiously enjoy the pleasures of the New Concert Hall. Not Dodds. To him, such diversions were an abomination. He saw the theatre as a Roman Catholic plot to corrupt the minds of his Calvinist flock. But why had Dodds singled out Jack Flyford? Somehow, he had found out, Jack reflected uncomfortably. She must have broken down and confessed.
Well, what did the sanctimonious old goat expect? Marrying a girl half his age – arranged by her parents no doubt. Mollie was attractive in her way, with an ample pair of breasts that were just asking to be squeezed as they pressed firmly against her dowdy black dress. With a husband who constantly preached against the horrors of fornication and who did not believe in indulging in the practice himself, even in the name of procreation, poor, bosomy Mollie had no outlet for her basic urges. Enter Jack, whose aim is to bring a little pleasure into people’s drab lives, and Mollie’s urges were given free reign. Jack could not see why Dodds was so upset. Mollie had prayed for it, and he had answered those prayers on several enjoyable occasions. And anyway, she liked it best when on bended knees; the position should be familiar to Dodds, even if the activity was not. The silly hussy. Why spoil everything by telling her wretched husband? But even if she had, Jack felt Dodds’ reaction was rather excessive – and his timing appalling.
What would become of the theatre? Would the Kirk put pressure on the authorities to close it down? Where would that leave Digges? Jack hoped that Digges would not suffer. He had been so good to Jack throughout that awful night and had not for one moment blamed him for the riot. That was typical of Digges. From the moment Jack had joined his band of players, the great actor-manager had taken him under his wing. He had looked after the young man who had run away from his theological studies at Lincoln College, Oxford to take up the life of an actor. Jack’s father, a canon at Worcester Cathedral, had immediately denounced his son as a heathen, and decreed that Jack’s name never be uttered in his presence again. Maybe he should introduce his father to Dodds some time; they would have more in common than they might imagine – Jack appeared able to offend both high and low denominations. His father’s bishop had had a nice country living lined up for Jack when he became ordained. Suddenly, one day, Jack realised that he didn’t want to do exactly what was expected of him. A lifetime of being suffocated by high-church hypocrisy filled him with dread. A few days later, he had walked out of the college gates and into a totally different life. Jack no longer cared a fig what his intolerant father thought, though he missed the company of his sister Rachel, who had run their father’s household since their mother had died when Jack was only five years old. After his mother’s death, Rachel had been the only source of genuine love in the lonely, cloistered years that followed.
Digges had taken the innocent student of life and shown him the ways of the world, particularly the pleasures of the flesh. Jack had proved an enthusiastic pupil and Digges had introduced him to numerous young ladies – and older ones – who were most willing to further his education. When he was not chasing after a trollop or two, Digges tried to impart the skills needed to impress a theatre-going public; the graceful flow of the hands, the strutting stances, the clear diction, and the eye-rolling looks to the audience to show them that you were letting them in on a secret. Once the audience was on your side, you were safe. Bore them or upset them and you had better leave the stage tout de suite before they started to throw the nearest object that came to hand. In his short career, Jack had been on the receiving end of fruit (various), ale jugs (mostly empty) and, during one of his less noteworthy performances, a large bench (wooden). Yet none of these experiences had deflected him from his new calling.
Though he had a long way to go before he was hailed as the next David Garrick, or even West Digges, Jack had picked up much of the latter’s charm and had also learned how to economise with the truth – two qualities essential for survival in a hostile world.
The wheels rattled over the cobbles, and with a ‘Whoa’ from the driver, the stagecoach came to a gradual halt. ‘The Queen’s Head, Newcastle,’ called out the coachman. ‘We depart at six of the clock on the morrow.’
Ostlers quickly appeared and the weary horses were unharnessed and led away to the stables. A fresh four would take the coach as far as Durham the next morning. Miss Bellingham’s servant was helping her mistress down and into the warmth of the inn. Mr Gorrie had already disappeared inside and was most probably bringing the circulation back to his posterior in front of a roaring fire. George Laidlaw, who had taken a liking to Jack, tried to persuade him to come in and sup with them before seeking lodgings for the night. Jack was sorely tempted. The fourteen miles since their halt in Morpeth had taken them several hours. In Morpeth, the genial proprietor of the Black Bull, Mr Sunderland, had provided beef steaks, cold ham, tarts, potted trout and gooseberry pie, washed down with strong ale. Though Jack’s hunger had returned, he wanted to use his letter of introduction and call on his contact before the hour became too late and a visit unwelcome. Besides, it might save having to pay out for lodgings that night. Once counted, the money Digges had pressed into his hand the morning before had not been as much as he thought.