Death And The Running Patterer Part 1

Death and the running patterer.

by Robin Adair.

For Julie

'Tis wonderful what fable will not do! 'Tis said it makes reality more bearable; But what's reality? Who has its clue?

-Lord Byron, Don Juan (1819-24)

CHAPTER ONE.

Ours [our army] is composed of the sc.u.m of the earth-the mere sc.u.m of the earth.

-Duke of Wellington (1831), quoted in P. H. Stanhope, Notes of Conversations with the Duke of Wellington

ASCARLET-COATED SOLDIER, A PRIVATE OF HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY KING George IVs 57th Regiment of Foot, was dreaming, drunk and disorderly, as he leaned against the bar with his head on his arms. He dreamed he was home in his West Middles.e.x village, safe and sweaty in the arms of his common-law wife. He hadn't seen her for years, didn't know if he ever would again.

When the regiment had marched out of its depot, bound for Sydney town, six wives were allowed to accompany each company of 120-odd men. At dusk the night before they marched, the Color Sergeant had drawn from his military cap a piece of paper for every camp follower. For the lucky ones these read "to go." Hers had read "not to go." Ah, well, luck's a fortune. Any old how, there were plenty of women here and now. Some men were still allowed to live out in the mean streets near the barracks, in miserable dwellings with their wives, old or new. For others there were harlots for hire, chances to seduce town girls who had an eye for a man in uniform-it was called "scarlet fever"-even blacks, who could be bought for a drink, a threepenny n.o.bbler of rum. There were plenty of boys, too, for those who leaned that way.

Hed first taken the king's shilling to escape grinding poverty or a life of crime, or both-and, b.u.g.g.e.r me gently, here he was now, in the year of Our Lord 1828, in the world's biggest and most remote prison (as a guard, mind) on Sydney Cove, 15,900 miles from home.

Not that it wasn't an easier billet than some he'd had to endure in the past. G.o.d knows hed fought in Spain at Corunna (he'd seen them bury the general, Sir John Moore) in '09 and then at Waterloo, where they'd pushed back the Frogs, screaming, "Avenge Moore!"

There had always been an answer to his soldier's prayer, "G.o.d save me from the surgeons"; he'd beaten battle wounds, his c.o.c.k hadnt fallen off-not for want of trying-and yellow fever had never turned his flesh to custard.

Now he spent most of his off time in the pub. And most of his money, even the extra he made from weaving cabbage-tree hats during the dull hours in barracks and selling them to traders in the town. Tom Killett's Crispin Arms was good sport, but a bit close to the barracks. He liked the Cat and Fiddle and the Brown Bear, which stood together in the rough-and-ready Rocks. But so did too many sailors for comfort.

Once, he seemed to recall, he'd gone to the World Turned Upside Down and seen a giant Otaheitean pimp beat a man halfway to heaven for refusing to pay for a prost.i.tute. And some publicans were reputed to sell drunks to crewless captains.

No, on a dry day he'd settle for the Labor in Vain. Its sign outside always made him smile. A crude artist had depicted a black in a tub of water, with a sailor trying to scrub him white. The rum they served there was good Bengal spirit, not, like some you got elsewhere, too heavily cut with water, brown sugar, black Brazil tobacco and a dash of vitriol. And there were dudeens to be had, short clay pipes at a penny each, and you got your own gla.s.s and didn't have to share what was called the circling gla.s.s, a common cup pa.s.sed around.

At two shillings for a pint of rum and one and six a gallon for colonial beer, a man could drink his pockets dry in a hard session. Thank G.o.d soldiers were on the stores. The weekly ration was five pounds of beef, two pounds of mutton, seven pounds of wheat (not maize) bread and two pints of rum-not nearly enough for a thirsty man.

The taproom was clean and lit with oil lamps, not tallow dips like some, but as the soldier roused from his slumber he felt suddenly dizzy. Dimly he listened to a fat old tart tell him she was just out of the Female Factory. "I got a five-bob fine or the stocks for an hour for being drunk," she said. "So I called the charley a c.u.n.t- c.u.n.t-stable and they gave me a month in the aviary!"

Then she broke into song: I've to the Factory been, my Jack, I've to the Factory been, my Jack, and lost a lot of fat.

And wouldn't mind going there again, for I'm none the worse for that.

Not to be outdone, the soldier roused himself and bellowed back at her, and to anyone else who would listen: I don't want a bayonet up my b.u.mhole, I don't want a bayonet up my b.u.mhole, I don't want my b.o.l.l.o.c.ks shot by ball.

For, if I have to lose them, Far better I can choose them To cop a pox from any wh.o.r.e at all.

He suddenly felt his belly rebel, and staggered to the door; if he puked inside, he knew he'd be barred. In an alley nearby, shadowed by buildings that leaned so precariously toward each other they almost kissed, he retched and fumbled with his b.a.l.l.s to p.i.s.s. A sound made him turn around and squint. "h.e.l.lo, mate. Come to shake the snake, too?" Then he frowned as the fog of rum cleared briefly. "But your lot shouldn't be here."

He didn't get a bayonet up his b.u.mhole, but a keen blade slashed at his throat, then across his stomach and finally across both ankles. Then a hand showered a cascade of small grains across his face and into his silently screaming, dying mouth.

CHAPTER TWO.

Whence are we, and why are we? Of what scene The actors or spectators?

-Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley, Adonais (1821)

IN A PRIVATE ROOM DEEP IN THE HEART OF THE GEORGE STREET Military Barracks, the largest overseas garrison in the British Empire, three men sat over pipes and claret. Two wore the distinctive red coats that earned their wearers the name lobster lobster or, from the French, or, from the French, rosbif rosbif (roast beef). In turn, of course, the British called their enemy "Frogs" or (roast beef). In turn, of course, the British called their enemy "Frogs" or c.r.a.pauds c.r.a.pauds (toads). (toads).

The soldierly pair were Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Shadforth, commanding officer of the 57th Regiment, and Captain Crotty, his aide, an officer of the 39th. The third man, a civilian though he retained the courtesy t.i.tle of his one-time British Army rank, was Captain Francis de Rossi. He had long ceased getting upset when the English fell into the habit of dropping the "de."

The soldiers were uncomfortable with the presence of Rossi, and not just because he was swarthy, spoke heavily accented, excitable English and had a Mauritian wife. After all, he was still an outsider, a Corsican. Not like Bonaparte, of course-indeed Rossi had fought against Revolutionary France and served the British Empire for thirty years. But he was a mystery man.

How had Rossi become, Shadforth wondered, in the few short years since 1825, superintendent of police at 600 pounds a year and collector of customs at 1,000 pounds? When, mind, a servant could be had for no more than 20 pounds with keep? As if that weren't enough, he had also been appointed chief magistrate and thus was the chief of police.

The delicious gossip, of course, was that Rossi had been rewarded for his role as an agent during King George IVs separation from his queen, Caroline, which ended in her exclusion from his coronation. The royal scandal had thrilled Britain and Europe, and the distant colony, even Shadforth himself, loved the idea of having one of its plotters in its bosom. There was also a whisper that Rossi had been a Secret Service spy, even a slave-trader in the colony of Mauritius.

As if to divert his own attention from any unseemly thoughts about his royal master, Shadforth turned to his subordinate. "The Linnets were d.a.m.ned slow on that exercise, Crotty," he said. "Perhaps you need another dose of Sankey?"

Crotty flushed.

"Linnets? ... Birds? ... What is this?" Rossi frowned.

"It's just the colonel's joke-and an old one," said Crotty, tapping the green facings on his uniform's collar and cuffs. "The 39th is commonly known as the 'Green Linnets.' And also as 'Sankey's Horse.' During a Spanish battle, regimental tradition tells that Colonel Sankey mounted his men on mules to speed them to the fighting."

Shadforth nodded, adding, "Just as we in the 57th, sir, are called the 'Die Hards.' On the Peninsula, at Albuera in '11, our regiment suffered three-quarters casualties. Colonel Inglis, sorely wounded, cried: 'Die hard, my men, die hard.'"

"Ah," said Rossi. "Of course. I knew of the 'Buffs,' the gallant 3rd Regiment who have been here, with their buff facings."

"Quite," said Crotty. "And they are also the 'Nutcrackers.' During another Peninsula battle the men heard the enemy loudly boasting that they would break the Buffs' necks. They heard the words nuque nuque-neck-and croquer croquer-to crunch-and voila-nutcrackers! They got it wrong in much the same way as sailors call HMS Bellerophon, Billy Ruffian Bellerophon, Billy Ruffian. And Casa Alta becomes 'the Case is Altered.'"

Shadforth jumped then scowled as a voice from a far corner said softly, "Here endeth the lesson."

If the military gentlemen were uncomfortable with Monsieur de Rossi, they were utterly frosty toward this fourth person in the room, a man who shared neither wine nor tobacco.

Younger than his companions-he seemed to be about thirty-he was tall and lean, with reddish-brown hair, startlingly blue eyes and a strong nose. He wore a loose jacket of cotton twill over trousers of fustian, a stout fabric woven from cotton and flax. No socks showed above his shoes, which were a poor man's "straights"-pointed shoes that fitted either foot, after a fashion. His footwear and clothing were the work of convict tradesmen from Hyde Park Barracks, across the town. While his appearance did not necessarily mean he was a convict, he was clearly a cla.s.s below the other men.

Rossi had earlier introduced the young man to the officers as Nicodemus Dunne, a colporteur. But, they wondered, why was he here?

"What the devil is a colporteur anyway?" Crotty now asked irritably.

Dunne answered. "M. de Rossi ... "-Rossi nodded appreciatively-"... is close, gentlemen, but I'm not a colporteur. A colporteur is a peddler of books and pamphlets, usually religious matter. Neither am I a crier, nor a bellman. I am, in fact, a running patterer."

The officers nodded. They knew that the role of a patterer was to act as a walking newspaper, reciting stories and advertis.e.m.e.nts. It was a service particularly useful for illiterates, as, indeed, most of their soldiers were. In return, the patterer received small gratuities from listeners and even more money from publishers if he drummed up any business for advertis.e.m.e.nts or subscriptions. But that still didn't explain why Rossi had brought him here today. Or indeed, more to the point, why they had all been summoned.

Their nagging puzzlement was relieved only when the door opened to admit a middle-aged, balding man who walked with military stiffness. He carried a tall gray hat and wore an elegantly tailored coat of dark blue woolen broadcloth cut away to tails to reveal an oyster-gray vest above charcoal-gray trousers. These were fitted with suspenders and highlighted boots with a mirrorlike shine to match his well-manicured fingernails. An ivory silk scarf on a high stiff collar supported a slightly petulant face.

The four men stood instantly. "Sir," murmured the soldiers and the magistrate.

But the patterer smiled broadly and said cheerfully, "h.e.l.lo, darling!"

His Excellency, Lieutenant-General Ralph Darling, Governor of Britain's farthest-flung flyspeck, was not amused.

CHAPTER THREE.

The angel of death has been abroad throughout the land; you may almost hear the beating of his wings.

-John Bright, speech to the British House of Commons (1855)

THE OFFICERS WERE VISIBLY SHOCKED BY THIS BRAZEN FAMILIARITY with the governor. Were Dunne a free man-an immigrant or an Emancipist-the governor could punish his disrespect by cutting him dead socially and making sure he received little or no government support. Were he a soldier, he could be flogged. Even as a ticket-of-leave man, a good-behavior convict excused from government labor to pursue his own work-as Dunne was-his parole could be revoked.

But, as only Rossi knew, and had earlier hinted to Dunne, Darling needed something, and badly enough to overlook insolence. So the governor simply glowered, grunted and sat down, motioning to the others to follow suit.

"Gentlemen," Darling began, "no doubt you are wondering why I have called you together. So listen very carefully, I will say this only once. There is a mysterious and ominous development in the matter of the death of that soldier outside the public house."

"Sir," said Shadforth, "distasteful as it was-and I regret to say he was one of my men-surely it was just a murder for robbery or a drunken brawl? And he was only an officer. Why does it concern Your Excellency?"

"Because," said Darling, "of this. It came addressed to me by mail today."

He handed over an opened letter, bypa.s.sing Rossi, who seemed to know its contents. It was neatly written, with one corner folded down to contain a small copper, an English halfpenny.

The three men in turn studied the message: The man I tore, There will be more.

This is a clew: First find a Jew.

Take care to choose him Who knows the zuzim. zuzim.

As several started to speak at once, the governor held up a hand. "In the interests of brevity, gentlemen, I can antic.i.p.ate at least two obvious questions. No, I have no earthly notion what a zuzim zuzim is. And yes, this is about our murdered military man." He held up a small bra.s.s b.u.t.ton. "This bears the emblem of the 57th. It was contained in the flap with the coin." is. And yes, this is about our murdered military man." He held up a small bra.s.s b.u.t.ton. "This bears the emblem of the 57th. It was contained in the flap with the coin."

The governor turned to Dunne. "I have, I must say after much deliberation and with some misgivings, involved you in this because Captain Rossi is convinced you can help, as, he says, you have in the past. I'm persuaded that there is little chance of the conventional law officers or the armed forces solving the problem on their own. Someone is needed who can use more, shall we say, unconventional means." Darling then seemed to change tack. "Why were you transported?"

So, thought Dunne, the governor didn't know all about him. Or was it a trick? No one would expect him to remember the background of every one of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men and women he had seen paroled, but the life of every rogue was on record. And Rossi must have briefed him. Perhaps the wily old bird was using the lawyer's ploy of never asking a question unless he already knew the answer. Let's see where this goes, Dunne thought.

"I was sentenced in London to eight years for a.s.sault, although there was no serious injury, save to a gentleman's pride."

"Jove, that sounds a bit stiff!" interjected Crotty.

Very well, decided Dunne, I might as well have my say. "Stiff? Not really. In Britain's fair lands, as well as transportation there are floggings, pillories, stocks, ear-nicking, branding with hot irons." He ignored the rising color in Darling's cheeks and the warning shake of the head from Rossi. "There are still a hundred offenses punishable by hanging. At Newgate, a boy of ten was hanged for shoplifting. Two sisters-eight and eleven-were hanged for stealing a spoon. Dear Lord, a spoon!

"My heinous crime was to strike a Life Guards officer. It was during Queen Caroline's funeral. The mob only wanted to show they loved her, but the king's men called in the army. I merely protected a child who was being thrashed with the officer's sword."

"Even so," said Crotty, "eight years ..."

"Tell us what your job was at the time," coaxed Rossi.

"Ah, there was the rub," replied Dunne. "They said I had betrayed their trust in me and that if I were a soldier they would have shot me. I was a Bow Street Runner."

The governor nodded coldly. "A policeman, yes. I will not attempt to conceal my disapproval of your actions ... But, well, the past is past. Now we seem to need you to fight a common enemy. Your law-officer's skills as well as the fact that your new calling here, such as it is, allows you to keep ahead of news and abreast of gossip. And it permits you to see people and go places that are out of bounds to, and beyond the ken of, the captain's constables. Nevertheless, Captain Rossi will still direct his wardsmen, conductors and patrolmen to pay particular attention to the matter."

The governor rose abruptly. "I fear we may have a madman at large. Keep your eyes on your men, Colonel. Rossi will coordinate the campaign. I rely on you, Dunne, to solve the riddle of the letter. The government will doubtless smile on the continuance of your parole if you succeed. No fuss, mind. Not a word to anyone, especially not the d.a.m.ned press." He stalked out, trailing a "Good day."

"What about the dead soldier as a start?" Dunne asked Rossi.

"He's not going to tell you much. The hospital surgeon took only a cursory look and now our soldier's at attention in the ground. The leech did not note much, except that the victim's throat was slashed, as were his belly and, strangely, his ankles. The slashes were even and suggest that the weapon was a long, sharp knife. Now, let's be about our business."

As he separated from Dunne, Rossi paused and snapped his fingers. "There was one other odd thing. His mouth had been filled with fine grains. It was sugar."

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TWO THINGS WERE nagging at Nicodemus Dunne as the meeting broke up. Why, for instance, had the governor tolerated his insolence? He could think of no good reason. He had instantly regretted his rudeness; it was an undeserved slight. Still, it was done and could not be undone, so he shrugged and put the matter aside.

His main interest was in something that had not not happened at the meeting. happened at the meeting.

In the corridor, he b.u.t.tonholed Thomas Shadforth, a kindly man in his late fifties whose life was devoted to the 57th. He had soldiered there for twenty-six years, and two sons had followed him into the regiment. During the meeting, he had modestly left himself out of the mention of the b.l.o.o.d.y battle at Albuera, even though he was one of those badly wounded original Die Hards.

"Are you familiar with the 5th Regiment, Colonel?" asked the patterer.

"Certainly. d.a.m.n fine men. Fusiliers. Attached to Wellington." He barked a laugh. "And he was attached to them!"