She placed the tray upon her husband’s desk and busied herself pouring tea.
I realized that I now had my opportunity to leave. ”None for me, thank you.”
“Oh? And what would you prefer, young sir?” asked Mr. Sarton. ”Milk perhaps?”
“No, nothing at all. I’ve a matter to attend to on Sir John’s behalf. It should not take more than an hour.”
“Well then, be on your way. Quick to depart, quick to return.”
“I’ll show you out,” said Mrs. Sarton. ”But before I do, I would like to say to you, Sir John, and to you, young sir, that I have often heard that story told before by Albert-the one that he was telling just before I came in. But there is part of it that he always neglects to include at the end of it.”
“And what is that, Mrs. Sarton?” asked Sir John, clearly curious at what she might reveal.
“What Berty, that is, Albert, never tells is that he was badly wounded in the arm by a pistol ball. It shattered the bone, and it looked for a time that he might lose the use of that left arm altogether. I’ve asked him again and again to promise that he will take part no more in such battles, but so far I’ve yet to squeeze such a promise out of him.”
“Please, Molly,” said he, ”I can make no such promise. I’m sure Sir John understands that.”
“Well, whether he does or don’t, I intend to keep working until I get it from you, Berty.” Then, turning her attention to me: ”Come along, Mr. Proctor, if that’s your name. Oh, and at least take with you a cake or two. I made them myself, and so I know they’re good.”
I took her at her word, grabbed a scone, and was then ushered out of the room and to the street door. I asked her the way to the George in High Street, and as she gave directions, which were quite simple enough, I noted that her eyes glistened as though she might weep. Nonetheless, she managed to get the locks off and push me out the door before tears fell.
The scone was quite the best I had ever eaten.
I found Mr. Perkins in the taproom of the inn, where ale and beer flowed freely. The bar was crowded with raw and boisterous men of every description who seemed to have little in common but their loud speech and their thirst for malt. They stood cheek-by-jowl, howling and shouting each at the other. I could scarce believe it was no more than midday and could not but wonder what the place might be like at midnight. No, he was not at the bar. I wandered round in search of him at one of the tables placed along the wall and found him at that which was farthest. All was as expected. What I had not foreseen, however, was that Mr. Perkins would be sitting in the company of another. I thought at first glance he might wish me to stay away; but no, he pointed me out to the man with whom he shared the table, and then waved me over.
I was not in a good position to see the face of the stranger until he turned to look at me. He was a man of about the same age as Mr. Perkins, tall and lean (somehow that was obvious, even though he maintained his sitting posture), with what appeared to be a saber scar across his left cheek. As I drew closer, I saw that he was smiling at me, though only with the right side of his mouth.
“Jeremy, meet an old friend of mine from bygone days, name of Dick Dickens.”
Dickens reached across the. table, offering his hand as I sat down. Mr. Perkins passed on to me a broad and most obvious wink. I gave a manly squeeze to the hand and a proper nod to the constable, signaling my understanding: I would follow his lead.
“What say you, Jeremy,” said the constable, ”have they kept you hopping to their tune?”
I shook my head in the negative. ”Nah, ‘tan’t so,” said I to him, effecting the manner of speech of a Covent Garden lay-about. ”It’s mostly just waitin’ for when we’re needed.”
“It was Jeremy got me the ride down here,” said he to Dickens.
“In a gentleman’s coach? That an’t half bad.”
“No, it was
“No, but I thank you all the same,” said Dickens with a chuckle.
At last did I remember whence I knew that name, Dickens. It was Dick Dickens who figured so prominent in Mr. Perkins’s tale of his life in the owling trade. He had enlisted him all those years ago. By luck or by cleverness, Constable Perkins had made direct contact with the smugglers.
“Which gentleman is it has the coach?” asked Dickens.
The question seemed to be directed at me, yet I was unsure how I should answer. Thus was I relieved when Mr. Perkins came forth with the information-false information as it happened.
”It belongs to John Fielding, a knight by the pleasure of King George.”
“Sir John Fielding, is it?” said Dickens. ”An’t he the blind magistrate there in Covent Garden?”
“That’s the one.”
“You work for him? Don’t tell me you’re a constable!”
“Do I look like a constable?” said Mr. Perkins. ”You ever see one with just one arm?”
“No, I don’t guess I ever did.”
“I’m his dogsbody.”
“What’s that?”
“I do whatever I’m told to. Fetch what needs to be fetched, carry messages back and forth, just an errand boy, really.”
“And what about you, lad? What do you do for the blind magistrate of Bow Street?”
“Just a footman,” said I.
“Ah well,” said Dickens. ”We all got to start somewhere, don’t we?” He then rose and said something that struck me as strange: ”I must get back to the castle.” He shook hands once again and bade us goodbye, leaving near a full half-pint of ale at his place at the table.
Once he was out of earshot, I turned to Constable Perkins and in a voice so quiet it may as well have been a whisper, I said to him, ”That was the Dick Dickens you told us about, wasn’t it? The one who got you into the smuggling trade?”
“That’s who it was, Jeremy, and I was quite amazed when he walked into this place not long before you came along. I recognized him right away-he’s not changed all that much-but he more than recognized me.”
That seemed odd. ”What do you mean?”
“Well, he came up to me right away, like he knew that I was here-and maybe he did.”
Again, he had done naught but confuse me.
”What do you suppose he’s up to now? Guess, Jeremy, just try.”
“Why, I’ve no idea, really,” said I. ”Still in smuggling, I suppose.”
“Oh no, not like that at all. But this is unfair. You’ll never guess.” He took a deep breath and uttered as softly as ever he could: ”He’s a customs man.”
I heard what he said, though I did not quite trust my ears. ”He’s
Perhaps I spoke too loudly-or perhaps it was Mr. Perkins’s obvious wish not to be overheard which attracted attention-but glancing about, I noticed that a number of faces at the tables near ours had turned in our direction. Mr. Perkins noticed, as well. He jumped to his feet.
“Come along,” said he. ”Let’s go to the bar. The crowd there is so loud, they’ll pay no attention to us.”
And thus it transpired that we concluded our conversation standing at the bar where he called for another ale, and I ordered coffee. We were two of that roaring crowd who roared along with the rest. Yet I daresay none of our near neighbors paid us the slightest heed. Mr. Perkins shouted his news to me loud as the town crier might have done in days gone by. None but me did hear him, though. Of that I’m sure.
As Mr. Perkins told it, he had been sitting at that most distant table, sipping an ale and awaiting my arrival when Dickens came into sight and walked straight over to him. Recognition was immediate. They greeted each the other like long-separated friends and immediately fell to talking about all that had happened during the years that had passed since last they met. Dickens’s first concern was for Mr. Perkins’s missing left forearm. He asked the usual questions: How had it been lost? Did it pain him? Was he able to do without it? Et cetera. These and other such questions Mr. Perkins answered quickly and directly, for he had prepared an elaborate story which concerned a wound given him in the battle for Fort Duquesne.
“I took a proper chop at the elbow from a tomahawk,” he had told Dickens. ”That, for your information, is a sort of Injun hatchet.”
