was surely a blessing in disguise. I was caught in a raid on the beach carried out by the excisemen together with the Deal constables. Just why I, or Dick Dickens, or any of them, thought this sort of thing on the beach could go on without getting the notice of the excisemen and the magistrate I’ll never know. Or maybe Dickens and those shadowy men behind him thought their bribes had purchased a free hand to operate indefinitely. Or maybe, as Dickens told me on a jail visit, it was all just a misunderstanding. Anyway, this raid looked specially bad, for an exciseman was shot and killed by one of the wagon drivers, an evil old ne’er-do-well named Rufus Tucker. When I heard the sound of that shot, I took off running-and went right into the arms of a constable. Others were better than I was at getting away. In fact, most were, but because a man had been killed, there could be no question of getting off with a fine and jail time. The five of us who went before the magistrate-Rufus Tucker was one-could all have been sent on to Old Bailey, judged guilty, and hanged on the next hanging day. But as it happened, only one was executed, and that was Tucker. The remaining four, not one of us over twenty-five, were given the opportunity to enlist in the Army, and given the chance, we took the King’s shilling. The year was 1758, you see, and replacements were needed for those lost in the American colonies in the war against the French. Well, you see the result: Here I am, a veteran of campaigns in the Ohio Valley and Canada, alive and healthy, though missing an arm. Yet that-as you, Sir John, and you, Jeremy, well know-was lost later in the Grub Street campaign.”
Sir John, who had been squirming a bit during the last sentence or two of Mr. Perkins’s tale, banged upon the ceiling of the coach with his stick, signaling thus to the driver for a stop.
“A good story, well told,” said Sir John to the constable. ”But I fear I must interrupt now and make for the bushes. Pray God this will be the last such stop on this journey.”
The coach came at last to a complete halt. He jumped down to the road below, and I followed with the latest issue of the
“Do you see a likely place, Jeremy?”
“Over this way, sir,” said I, taking him by the arm. (Only in emergencies did he permit this.) I led him off the road to a copse of trees with sufficient undergrowth to provide a blind.
“Paper?”
I put the magazine in his hand.
“You may leave me now, Jeremy. I shall call you when I need you.”
And so leave him I did. There was no arguing with him at such times as these. Insofar as he was able, he maintained his privacy in spite of his blindness.
Returning to the coach, I found Clarissa and Mr. Perkins had taken this opportunity to loosen the knots in their limbs. As I approached, I saw that their attention was wholly taken by something down the road and just out of my sight. The driver and coachman seemed also to be staring off into the near distance. Once I reached them, I saw that the object of their interest was a kind of large cage suspended over the road from the strongest limb of a stout old oak tree. Inside that cage was a skeleton which, as if in some grotesque All-Hallow’s-Eve masquerade, was dressed in a tattered, dusty, and faded suit of clothes. I had heard of such before, though never before had I seen one.
“They call it a gibbet,” said Mr. Perkins, thus informing Clarissa. ” ‘Twas thought a terrible disgrace amongst condemned men to know their bodies would be put on display in such a way.”
“As indeed it should have been,” said the coachman. ”Dead or no, who would want the corbies peckin’ out his eyes or pullin’ off his nose?”
“Gibbets used to be common as flies on a carcass,” said the driver. ”Seemed there was one decorating every cross-road from one end of England to another. Don’t see them so much anymore.”
Clarissa, quite unruffled by the gruesome sight, stared thoughtfully at the gibbet and its contents. ”Who do you suppose it was?” She asked it most indifferently, as if she were merely wondering aloud.
Yet Mr. Perkins took her idle query most seriously. ”Why, I don’t know,” said he, pondering, rubbing his chin. But then did his eyes come alight of a sudden. ”Or perhaps I do,” said he to her. Then did he call up to the driver of the coach: ”How far are we from Deal?”
“Not far at all,” said the driver. ”I should not doubt we will see it take shape when the road next climbs a hill.”
“In that case, I would give a good wager that yonder hangs all that is left of Rufus Tucker.”
“The one you were talking about? The one who killed the exciseman?” I had not seen Clarissa so animated since her first meeting with Samuel Johnson.
“The very same, miss, for I know very well that there was no such body on display before I left here. And I now remember running into a lad from Deal whilst I was in Aldershot waiting transfer to another regiment. He told me old Rufus’s body had been shipped back to Deal for display purposes. The idea was that he was to hang there to warn all against shooting excisemen.”
“Imagine!” sighed Clarissa. ”That could be Rufus Tucker.”
That was Sir John’s bellow from across the road. Quite unmistakable it was, though not near so fierce as I may make it seem, writ so in capital letters. It was loud enough, nevertheless, to suggest to me that he might be in distress. Adding to that, he was not where I had left him. I looked uneasily about but he was nowhere to be seen.
Another bellow, somewhat more impatient, rose from a spot a bit behind me. I hastened to the place and found Sir John lying disheveled and somewhat disappointed with himself at the dusty bottom of the deep ditch which ran along that side of the road.
“Is that you, Jeremy?”
“It is, Sir John. Are you hurt?”
“No, no, though my pride is a bit bruised. I fear I must ask you for a hand up.”
That I gladly offered him. I tugged hard, and up he came. Yet though on his feet, he still required help in scrambling up the crumbling wall of the ditch to the road. I pushed-though that did no good at all. But then, as I bent low from the road level to grasp one of Sir John’s hands, I found a helper beside me-none other than Mr. Perkins. The constable gave his only hand to the magistrate, and we two hauled him up.
“Who is that helping poor Jeremy? Is it you, Constable Perkins?”
“It is, Sir John.”
“Ah well, I should have called earlier for Jeremy to lead me back but I heard your voices, and I thought I could simply walk to the sound of them. But I misstepped, lost my balance, and fell to the bottom of that … what would you call it? A ditch?”
“It was a ditch, yes sir.”
“Sometimes I fear that I attempt too much. Perhaps I should accept the limitations my blindness has put upon me.”
“Ah, do not say that, sir. If you was to give in to your fate, there’s a certain one-armed constable might be forced to give in to his.”
Sir John chuckled. ”Well, I would not wish to encourage that-no, certainly not.”
Sir John had accepted my help in seeing him back to the coach. Yet without notice, he stopped of a sudden and said to me, ”Jeremy, I have something to discuss with Mr.
Perkins. Would you then go to the coach and tell all that we shall be with them in just a few moments’ time?”
Having no choice in the matter, I agreed, though I saw little need for such secrecy. Ultimately, their conversation lasted many more moments than a few and became at one point quite heated before it was done. When at last they returned to the coach, Sir John called up to the driver and asked that he stop when the town of Deal came into view. Only then did he ascend to the coach’s interior, bang upon the ceiling, and set us into motion once again.
“Jeremy,” said he, ”you serve as treasurer on this expedition. Give Mr. Perkins a few pounds. How much would you be needing, constable?”
“Oh, a pound or two. Two pounds should be more than enough.”
“Then give him three.”
I counted out the amount and handed it over.
