Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

“Now, Jeremy, I have a man-sized job for you. I would not ask you to perform the task, but as you can tell, we are at this moment a bit shorthanded.”

“Whatever it be,” said I.

“I want you to convey the rabbi back to the synagogue. But use good sense. When you come into Maiden Lane, be sure there is no disturbance there before proceeding.” He hesitated. “Reluctantly, I think it perhaps best that you wear a brace of pistols. They should be loaded, but think of them only for purposes of display. If you discharge one of them, you had “better have good reason — and let it be into the air. Now go, fetch the rabbi and get properly outfitted by Mr. Baker.”

We must have looked a queer sight as we made our way down Tavistock Street — Rabbi Gershon in his flowing black robes and dark beard; and I a mere stripling, a raw youth wearing two great pistols, pretending to manhood. We did not hurry but went watchfully at first, listening as well for sounds of disturbance. Yet none who passed seemed notably hostile; if they stared a bit, it was in the spirit of curiosity, or perhaps mild amusement.

Still and all, we talked, for the man quite fascinated me, and whenever I had him to myself (which was not often) I had questions for him. On this occasion, they had to do with matters close at hand. I recall asking him if he had had difficulty in finding the fellow Yossel.

“Oh no,” said he. “I knew where to look.”

“And where was that, sir? — if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Jeremiah,” said he — for that was what he called me — “I shall tell you something about Jews. When one of them gets in trouble — let us say he has turned his back on his people and on HaShem, let us suppose he is a miscreant, a terrible villain — nevertheless, when such a one gets into trouble, he goes straight to his people, begging to be taken in, asking forgiveness. And his family takes him in — for who could tum his back on one of his own blood?”

“And so that was where you found him?”

“Yes, with his family, who are good, pious people, all of them together praying for Yossel’s deliverance. But — ” He halted, frowning with concentration. “Listen! What is that?”

It was the raucous noise of shouting voices — nor was it indeed so distant. But then I noted that just ahead of us was Shakespeare’s Head, a place for eating and drinking which attracted a rather rough crowd.

“There,” said I, pointing just ahead at Shakespeare’s Head. “It comes from there, I think.”

“Then let us hurry past,” said he.

And that we did, spurting forward at a sudden brisk pace. It was not until we were a good distance beyond that he resumed his speech to me.

“Where was I? Ah yes, now I recall. I had but entered their home and found them at prayer, Yossel with the rest. I told them that perhaps I had come with the deliverance they sought for Yossel. I also told them of Sir John and praised him as a just man. They listened unconvinced, Yossel most skeptical of all. And then his brother came forward and pushed into my hand that terrible sheet with all the old lies about the people of Israel, and he said, ‘Here, read, there will be a pogrom — not just Yossel, all of us will be murdered!’ So I argued with them. Yossel denied that he himself had murdered any — threatened murder maybe, threatened to cut off a nose or an ear. I said to him, ‘See what your threats brought to your family. Just think what they could do to all the Jews in London!’ Oh, I soon had him crying, begging our forgiveness, and finally he agreed to go with me. We thought it wise, though, to wait until after dark. And so we waited an hour, and you know, Jeremiah, what happened then. We were halfway to Bow Street when one of the women on the street, one he had threatened with that knife of his. she sees him, and she shouts. There’s Yossel. That’s him! There he goes!’ And then he did something foolish — he started to run. That brought forth a great multitude. If he had not run straight into the arms of two of your constables. I believe we would both have been torn apart by the mob. Oh, they were good, those two men of Sir John’s — they faced them, they drove them back, they — ”

“Uh. Rabbi Gershon?”

“Yes, Jeremiah?”

“We’re here, sir.”

So consumed was he by the telling of his story that somewhere between Tavistock and Maiden Lane he had quite lost the sense of his surroundings. The synagogue lay just ahead on the quiet street. The red-waistcoated Runners hung about the place, arguing over the new routes handed out them by Mr. Bailey (thus does the human animal abhor changes to his set routine). The rabbi looked around him and. greatly reassured by this concentration of constables at his front door, he turned to me with a hesitant smile.

“So many?” he asked.

“I believe there will be but two through the night,” said I. “The others must now go off on their rounds.”

“Well, two is a great number. I shall always remember how we were saved by two from our pursuers.” He threw me a wave at the door. “Goodnight to you then, Jeremiah.”

I called a goodbye and gave him a wave as he hopped up the two steps to his door. Mr. Bailey snapped a salute in his direction. The rabbi produced a large key, which he used to enter. There were squeals of children, the voice of a wife, as the door shut; he was home and safe.

Walking over to Mr. Bailey, I presented myself to him in hopes of some further assignment. His men were leaving now, going off singly and in pairs.

“Well, look at you, young Jeremy — a brace of pistols by your side and ready for a fight, you are. All you lack is a red waistcoat, or you’d be one of us.”

Was he serious? My hope that he might be, rekindled my fanciful desire to become a Bow Street Runner at age fifteen.

“You accompanied the Jewish priest home, did you?”

“I did, Mr. Bailey. It was Sir John’s idea that I wear the pistols. He quite surprised me in that.”

”Are they loaded?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No sense carrying a gun about if it ain’t loaded. Have any trouble on the way over?”

“No, none, just a few curious looks.”

“People will stare, won’t they? But listen, Jeremy, my lad, if there’s no great demands upon your time, I wonder would you care to take a stroll with me round Covent Garden just to be sure they ain’t no great mob of them skulking about, biding their time, looking for their chance. That is sometimes the way with mobs — they go off and hide for a bit.”

I eagerly agreed to his proposal. He took but a moment to give final instructions to constables Langford and Cowley, who would stand the first watch before the synagogue, then beckoned me to follow as he started off in the direction of Bedford Street.

Going at an easy pace, we turned right as we reached it, and at that same easy pace we came upon Henrietta Street, one of those that entered direct into Covent Garden. We were at that point not at all far from the alley off Bedford where Constable Brede had found the mutilated body of Priscilla Tarkin against the churchyard fence. But here at the comer of Henrietta Street, Mr. Bailey paused to listen. What could he hear more than the rowdy noise issuing from the stews and dives on Bedford? They were not yet as noisy as they would later be, nor were the streets yet as crowded. The day-people had by then left the Garden; the vast night population had not yet come out in full force.

Mr. Bailey nodded in the direction of Henrietta Street, and we started off at that same easy pace. Since he had been listening so keenly but a moment before. I was a bit surprised when he spoke up in jaunty style once we were underway.

“You and me, Jeremy,” said he, “we make quite an army between us — you with your pistols and me with this great sword in its scabbard.”