'My tongue, is it?' wheezed the old man. 'What yet gonna do abaht it, ay?'
'For a start, me of mucker,' growled Penniforth, 'I'll pick you up by the collar of that two-'undred-year-old coat o' yours, an' by the seat of them scabby-lookin' pants, an' I'll throw you out o' this 'ouse right into the gutter, make no mistake!'
'Oh yet will, will yet!'
'Yes I blinkin' well will!'
The oldster let loose a bark of laughter and suddenly grew much taller and a lot wider.
'There'll be no need for that, my good fellow!' came Sir Richard Francis Burton's voice.
Montague Penniforth staggered backward. 'My sainted aunt!' he cried. 'It's that African)u-)u!'
'No, Monty, it's a white wig, powder in my beard, a little stage makeup to cover the scars, some old clothes, and a spot of playacting!' said the old man, who suddenly didn't seem so old.
'Lord Almighty! You had me proper fooled! You're a blinkin' artist, guv'nor!'
'So you think I'll pass muster in the Cauldron?'
'Cor blimey, yes-no one will look at you twice!'
'Jolly good! Then it just remains for us to arm ourselves and we'll be off, if you're agreeable?'
'Right ho, sir; right ho!'
Burton crossed to the bureau that stood against the wall between the two windows and, opening a drawer, pulled from it a brace of modern pistols. He handed one of the six-shooters to the giant cabbie.
'It's loaded, so be careful. And Monty, this is only to be used in the very last resort, is that understood?'
'Yes, sir.'
'If you have to draw it, be careful where you point it and only pull the trigger if there's no other option.'
'Right you are, guv'nor.'
'Good. Let's be off, then. I'm afraid we'll have to pay one of your competitors to take us there.'
'Don't worry about that,' said Penniforth. 'We cabbies have an under- standin' between ourselves. An' whatever chap takes us, I'll 'ave 'im arrange for me steam-horse to be towed away from outside your 'ouse, too.'
They pushed their pistols into their belts, buttoned up their coats, and left the house.
THE CAULDRON
For night on five hours, Sir Richard Burton and Montague Penniforth had been trudging around the crowded streets, courts, alleys, and cul-de-sacs of Whitechapel with the fog churning around them and the unspeakable filth sticking to their boots.
The honeycomb of narrow, uneven passages, bordered by the most decrepit and crowded tenements in the city, was flowing with raw sewage and rubbish of every description, including occasional corpses. The stench was overpowering and both men had vomited more than once.
They passed tall houses-'rookeries'-mostly of wood, which slumped upon their own foundations as if tired of standing; houses whose gaping windows were devoid of glass and patched, instead, with paper or cloth or broken pieces of wood; windows from which slops and cracked chamber pots were emptied; from which defeated eyes gazed blankly.
Lines of rope stretched across the alleys, decorated with flea-ridden rags; clothes put out to be washed by the polluted rain, later to dry in the rancid air, but currently marinating in the toxic vapour.
Time and again the two men were approached by girls barely out of childhood, who materialised out of the fog with matted hair and bare feet, smeared with excrement up to their knees, covered only by a rough coat or a thin, torn dress or a man's shirt which hung loosely over their bones; who offered themselves for a few coppers; who lowered the price when refused; who begged and wheedled and finally cursed viciously when the men pushed past.
Time and again they were approached by boys and men in every variety of torn and filthy apparel, who demanded and bullied and threatened and finally, when the pistols appeared, spat and swore and sidled away.
Time and again they passed skeletal women sitting hunched in dark corners clutching tiny bundles to their breasts; poverty and starvation gnawing at them; too weak and hopeless even to raise their heads as the two men walked quietly by.
Burton, the author, the man who'd described in minute detail the character and practices of cultures far removed from his own, felt that he could never find the words to depict the utter squalor of the Cauldron. The dirt and decay, the putrescence and rot and garbage, the viciousness and violence, the despair and emptiness; it was far beyond anything he'd witnessed in the darkest depths of Africa, amid the so-called primitives.
Thus far tonight, the two men had drunk sour-tasting beer in four malodorous public houses. It was the fifth that delivered what they were looking for.
They were approaching Stepney when Burton mumbled, 'There's another public house ahead. I have to get this foul taste out of my mouth. We'll take a gin or rum or something; anything, so long as it's not that pisswater they call ale.'
The cabbie nodded wordlessly and stumbled on, his big feet squelching through the slime.
The pub-the White Lion-halfway down a short and crooked lane, bulged out over the mud as if about to collapse into it. The orange light from its windows oozed into the fog and was smeared across the uneven road surface and opposite wall. Shouts, screams, snatches of song, and the wheeze of an accordion came from within the premises.
Burton pushed open the door and they entered, Penniforth bending to avoid knocking his head on the low ceiling.
'Buy us a drink, Dad?' asked a man of Burton before he'd taken two paces toward the bar.
'Buy yer own fuckin' drink,' he replied, in character.
'Watch yet mouth, you old git!' came the reply.
'Watch yours!' warned Penniforth, his massive fist pushing up under the man's chin.
'Steady, mate, no 'arm done,' whined the individual, turning away.
They shouldered through the crowd to the counter and ordered gins.
The barman asked to see their money first.
Leaning on the scarred wood, they gulped down the spirit and immediately ordered another round.
'Thirsty, aint'cha?' commented the man beside Penniforth.
'Yus,' grunted the cabbie.
'Me too. I always gets a thirst on after fightin' with the missus.'
'Been givin' you earache, 'as she?'
'Not 'alf, the bleedin' cow. I ain't seen you in 'ere before.'
'I ain't been 'ere afore.'
'That your old fella?' The man nodded toward Burton.
'Yus,' answered Penniforth, gruffly. 'Nosey, ain'tcha?'
'Just bein' neighbourly, that's all. If yet don't wanna talk, it ain't no skin off my nose!'
'Yer, well, fair enough. I thought I'd get 'im out o' Mile End for an 'oliday!'
The other man laughed. 'An 'oliday in Stepney! That's rich!'
'At least you don't 'ave bleedin' monsters runnin' around at night!' exclaimed the cabbie.
Burton smiled appreciatively into his glass. Good chap, Monty! Quick work! He ordered more drinks and included a beer for their new acquaintance.
'`Ere yer go, mate-get that down yer neck,' he rasped, sliding the pint over.
'Ta, Dad, much appreciated. The name's Fred, by the way. Fred Spooner.'
'I'm Frank Baker,' offered Burton. 'This is me son, Monty.'
They drank to each other's health.
Over in the corner, the man with the accordion began to squeeze out another tune and the crowd roared its bawdy lyrics, which, as far as Burton could make out, told of the various places visited by a pair of bloomers belonging to Old Ma Tucker.
