Smuggler's Moon

His face sagged. He looked quite exhausted. I wondered how much-or how little-he had slept. Yet I had not time to think long upon it, for well I knew that if I were to miss the coach to London, it would extend my absence for another full day.

Out in the hall, at the front door, I found Clarissa waiting for me. To my surprise, she held my valise in her hand.

“I packed your bag for you-two clean shirts and two pair of hose and two books.”

“Two books?”

“Gulliver’s Travels and a Latin grammar. That’s what you were reading, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but how did you know that?”

She shrugged. ”I noticed-simple as that. But you must be on your way, Jeremy.”

Then, throwing open the door, she handed me my valise, leaned forward, and quite unexpectedly kissed me upon my cheek. More of her girlish nonsense it was, but in truth, I liked it well enough that I gave her a grin as I planted my hat upon my head and ran out the door.

I was halfway to Market Street when I heard my name called, turned round, and saw Clarissa in the middle of the street.

“Jeremy!” she shouted loud enough for all the neighbors to hear. ”Do not forget to wear a clean shirt and clean hose when you visit the Lord Chief Justice!”

I nodded and waved my assent. Then did I turn round and run fast as I could to Broad Street.

Of the journey by coach to London, there is little to say. During the short distances in which the horses were walked, and whilst at the rest stops along the way, I was able to read a little from Gulliver’s Travels. For the most part, however, the rocking and bouncing of the coach made it quite impossible. The interior compartment was quite crowded, as seemed in those days always to be the case. Yet I had me a seat by a window and thus was able to study the countryside as it reeled by at galloping speed. This held my attention far better than I would have supposed, for a different route to London had been chosen, one which during its final stages followed along the south bank of the Thames. Thus, after many hours and a bit of fitful dozing, I arrived in London early in the morning.

Taking my valise in hand, I hurried from the Coach House to Number 4 Bow Street. I made the trip, it seemed, in a short time, for the streets were not yet crowded with the hordes on the march to their day’s employment. In truth, I had taken to heart Clarissa’s caution against wearing my soiled shirt and hose to visit Lord Mansfield. I entered by the door which led to the strong room and the Bow Street Runners’ province-the area which Sir John referred to as Bow Street’s backstage. Mr. Baker, gaoler and armorer, caught sight of me as I was about to ascend the stairs to our living quarters.

“Hi, Jeremy,” he called to me, ”is Sir John returned?”

“Uh, no, Mr. Baker,” said I. ”He sent me back on an errand.”

“Going back to Kent, then?”

“Oh yes.”

“Nice country, that.” He hesitated. Then, with a wave: ”Well, on your way, lad.”

Waving back, I started up the stairs two at a time, but a thought held me, and I descended to call out to him: ”Has Constable Bailey come in yet?”

“No, not yet, but he should be by soon.”

“I’ve something to tell him. Would you ask him to wait for me? I shouldn’t be long.”

“As you will, Jeremy.”

I thanked him, made my way up the stairs, and began my preparations for my meeting with the Lord Chief Justice. Indeed it did not take me long, though I washed and dressed more carefully than was my usual. When I had done brushing my coat and buffing my shoes, I went to Sir John’s bedroom and studied my image in Lady Fielding’s tall looking glass. Most satisfied was I at what I saw. Clarissa was right: a clean shirt and hose did indeed make all the difference.

As I descended the stairs, I heard the voices of constables Baker and Bailey raised in high hilarity. Mr. Bailey, it seemed, was giving forth with the voice and manner of a drunk in Bedford Street who had that night sought to prove himself sober by reciting the first chapter of the Book of Genesis. ”He were never able to get to the end of it,” said Mr. Bailey, ”but I sent the poor fellow on his way since he made such a considerable effort.”

Mr. Baker caught sight of me and pointed, and Mr. Bailey, still chuckling, did turn to me and nod.

“You’ve something for me?” he asked.

”Nothing much, but something,” said I. ”I thought to give you notice, though it cannot be done officially until Lord Mansfield gives unto Sir John certain powers.”

“Well then, give it me unofficially.”

And that I did, explaining that Sir John sought temporarily to serve as magistrate of Deal, taking over the duties of the late magistrate of the town.

“Late magistrate? How did he die?”

“Murdered.”

“Murdered, is it? Well, if Sir John’s in that sort of danger, then I’ll be there, never mind what Lord Mansfield says-and you can count on that.”

“And bring Will Patley with you?”

“If Sir John wants Patley, then he wants some proper shooting done. You want Patley to bring that rifled musket of his along?”

“That will all be in the letter, I suppose, but I must handle this as Sir John said and wait for Lord Mansfield’s authorization. But I did want to give you some notice.”

“You did right, Jeremy. It will take a bit of changing about to make this work proper. And I’ll have to appoint someone to take my place-Baker probably.”

Just as I had thought.

I took my leave of Mr. Bailey, went out into the street, and headed in the direction of Bloomsbury Square, where dwelt William Murray, Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice. There had I a long acrimonious history with Lord Mansfield’s butler. ”Acrimonious” might be too strong a term for our relationship. Nevertheless, there was no love lost between us-and precious little good feeling. I quite disliked everything about the man. His cold, aloof manner, and his secretive ways, were such that I never relaxed in his presence. Yet most of all I disliked his studied attitude of superiority. It was as if he were looking down at me from some great height and saw only the ragged boy who had first come to London, orphaned and alone, dirty-faced and desperate. I was no longer that boy. It was not just that I was four years older. I had in that time learned much of life. I was reading the law with Sir John Fielding, the Magistrate of the Bow Street Court. There was naught could be said against me, so far as I knew. Oh, not that I was perfect. (At this point, reader, I was reminded of that embarrassing matter of the coachman, Henry Curtin.) I had my faults, as I was most painfully aware. Nevertheless (I protested within) they were not such that I should be looked down upon by a butler-not even the butler to the household of the Lord Chief Justice.

Somehow I took courage in this lengthy conversation with myself-one no doubt much lengthier than what I have remembered here. In any case, whether because of it or because of the intrinsic importance of my mission to Bloomsbury Square, I felt a considerable surge of power as I knocked upon the door of Lord Mansfield’s residence. This time, I swore, I would not be shamed, not even bested, by the butler. The door opened. That familiar cadaverous face appeared, distant and unamused, near a foot above me. (He was indeed a tall man.)

The face spoke: ”Ah, it is you. What will you today, boy?”

“What I always will,” said I, ”an audience with your master.”

“Ah, my master? Well, this day, as so often happens, you have come too late.”

“But it is early,” I protested. ”It could not yet be eight o’clock.”

“Nevertheless, Lord Mansfield has left for the day. I take it you have a letter from the blind fellow. You may either leave it with me or come back at the end of the day. I’ll not have you hanging about the door all through the day like some beggar. So-what is it? Which will you?”

“Neither.”

He stepped back. I could see that he was about to shut the door. I tried vainly to jam my shoe in that I might block it, keep it from closing.