slip out of the house. He had no fears for himself but family responsibilities weighed upon him. His wife, Hail- Mary, was ill and unable to attend the Quaker meeting that night. She needed him to look after her. It was a bad time for him to be apprehended so he was obliged to exercise discretion for once.
There was another reason why he had to avoid arrest. Concealed under his coat were the remaining copies of a pamphlet which he had written and printed for distribution to the Friends. His views On
Since she was upset that she had missed the meeting, he decided to console her by reading his pamphlet to her once again. It would be a form of medicine.
It was late as he wended his way home. Part of his journey took him along the riverbank and he could hear the Thames lapping greedily at the wharves. Many warehouses had now been rebuilt and commercial activity restored to an area blighted by the fire. Thorpe walked swiftly, glad that there were so few people about at that hour. He was leaving Queenhithe Ward when the three men lurched out ahead of him. Instinctively he stepped into a doorway, his black garb merging with the darkness to make him virtually invisible. He tightened his hold on the pamphlets beneath his coat.
Evidently, the men had not long come from a tavern. One of them paused to relieve himself against a wall and broke wind loudly at the same time. The others walked on a few paces then stopped. They were close enough to him for Thorpe to smell the ale on their breath and to hear their low whispers.
'Let us go back,' urged one. 'The nightwatchman is alone again.'
'It is too dangerous,' said another.
'Not if the old man is asleep.'
'We may not be so lucky this time.'
'Then we make our own luck,' insisted the first man, fingering the cudgel under his belt. 'We put him to sleep. One blow will be enough. We could steal every stone from Baynard's Castle before he woke up again.'
'No, I am against it.'
'Are you turning coward?'
'You know me better than that.'
'Then why hold back?'
'If we harm the old man, a hue and cry will be raised.'
'Hours later - when we are well away. I say we do it.'
'Do what?' asked the third man, lumbering over to them.
'Go back again. One more time.'
'Yes,' agreed the newcomer. 'Take all we can and fill the boat. We have never had such easy pickings. The bricks and timber are there for the taking. The house even has its own jetty. What could be better?'
They rehearsed their plans for a few minutes then linked arms before moving off. Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was in a quandary. Wanting to challenge them and denounce them for their sinfulness, he was realistic enough to see the folly of such an action. They would respond with violence. His wife wanted her husband at her side, not lying in a pool of blood in a dark street. Yet Thorpe was impelled to take some action. Everything about the three men offended his sensibilities. A feeling of outrage coursed through him. He watched them go then stepped out of his hiding place. Keeping to the shadows, he trailed them carefully as they made their way towards the ruins of Baynard's Castle.
The nightwatchman was hopelessly confused. When the theft was first discovered, he was all but accused by Samuel Littlejohn of being a party to the crime yet twelve hours later, as he came on duty again, the old man was given a handsome apology by the builder and a large flagon of beer by the architect. It made him resolve to discharge his office with more care that night.
Good intentions were not enough. Loneliness soon began to peck away at his resolution and fatigue slowly set in. He tried to stave off the latter by walking around the site and checking that all was well but his legs quickly tired and his lids began to droop. The flagon of beer was inevitably pressed into service. The first few swigs revived him for a while and he was confident that he could, after all, remain awake at his post all night. He allowed himself one more long drink. It was fatal.
Watching him from the bottom of the garden, the three thieves were growing restless. They had been there for well over an hour now. It was a starlit night and they had a good view of the whole site. They could see the night- watchman in dark profile, lifting the flagon to his lips.
The man with the cudgel took it out in readiness.
'The old fool will never go to sleep!' he grumbled.
'We cannot wait much longer,' said a second man.
'We'll not wait at all. I'll knock him out.'
'Hold!' advised the third man. 'I think he is going to lie down.'
The nightwatchman could no longer maintain the pretence of being diligent. It was good beer and its seductive taste could not be resisted. He emptied the whole flagon. By the time he discarded it, he was barely able to sit upright on his bench. A short nap was urgently required. Summoning up the last of his strength, he hauled himself off the bench and staggered across to a pile of soft earth, dug from the ground to create space for the cellars. It made an inviting bed. No sooner had he stretched himself on its gentle gradient than he fell asleep. Gentle snores rose up into the night air.
After waiting a short while, the man with the cudgel crept furtively up the garden to investigate. Weapon raised, he stood menacingly over the nightwatchman but he was not called upon to strike. The old man was fast asleep and unlikely to be roused by any sounds. After beckoning his companions, the thief made his way across to the tarpaulin which covered the building materials and which had been protection enough until the pilfering began. Stakes had been hammered into the ground so that the tarpaulin could be tied to them and thus rendered safe against high winds. Since it would be their last visit to the site, there was no point in untying the ropes, then later retying them to their stakes, as they had done on previous occasions when trying to conceal their theft. A knife was used to cut through the ropes then two of the men held a corner each of the tarpaulin and drew it back to expose their target.
Expecting to see nothing more than piles of bricks and stacks of timber, they were taken completely unawares when two figures suddenly sprang out at them. Christopher Redmayne unleashed his pent-up rage by flinging himself at one of the thieves and knocking him to the ground. Samuel Littlejohn, sweating profusely from his close confinement beneath the tarpaulin, grappled with another man and showed no mercy. It was not simply a case of apprehending the thieves. Architect and builder alike wanted revenge. They were possessive about their house. It had been defiled by intruders. It made the pair of them rain hard, unforgiving blows on their respective quarries.
Still free, the man with the cudgel did not know whether to save himself or help his fellows. In the event, self- interest won his vote. After a few ineffective swings at Littlejohn with his cudgel, he took to his heels and raced towards the boat which was moored at the jetty. He did not get far. Lurking in the shadows was a bulky figure who stepped out to block his way. The cudgel swung again but the blow was easily parried by a staff. Before the thief could defend himself, the end of the staff jabbed deep into his stomach to take the wind out of him then it clipped him hard on the side of the head. He dropped his cudgel and fell.
Jonathan Bale caught him before he hit the ground.
'Come, sir,' he said. 'Let us get you back to your fellows.'
The constable gave a call and three watchmen came out of their hiding place to take charge of the thief. When they had deprived him of a dagger, they dragged him up the garden of the house.
Surprise had been decisive in catching the other men. Swiftly overpowered, they now lay groaning on the ground. Christopher stood over them with a sword in his hand while Littlejohn used an arm to wipe the perspiration from his brow. Blood dripped from the builder's cheek but it was not his own. It belonged to the man whose lip he had opened with his angry knuckles. Littlejohn was now panting heavily but delighted with his night's work.
