Bruce Alexander - Watery Grave

“We will, Sir John?” said I, quite amazed.

“Indeed we will,” said he.” I had neglected to mention it to you, I fear. But you are willing to come?”

“Certainly, sir — oh, most certainly.”

Not long afterward, whilst their talk continued I made to clear the table, knowing that if I did not attend to it soon, I should be unable to keep my promise to Lady Fielding. The little wine I had drunk had gone to my head, and while it had not made me drunk, it had made me powerful drowsy.

I shuffled the dishes out, as well as the near-consumed roast, leaving only the wineglasses before Tom and Sir John. As I made my last trip from the table, the young seaman was uncorking one of the bottles of claret held in reserve as he narrated the taking of a privateer along the dangerous coast of Coromandel. He told the tale with the same keen spirit he had shown in telling of the battle with the grabs.

Somehow I managed to do the washing up, or most of it, for I left some for the morning. And as I dragged past the dining room, I heard them talking still, Sir John joining his voice with Tom’s to question him on some matter of armament, or other such. These were stories Sir John was eager to hear. I had never known him to be so completely in the thrall of another as listener.

At this distance in time, near thirty years it is as I write this, it seems strange to consider that a matter which caused greater controversy and contention than any of Sir John Fielding’s inquiries should have begun thus, with domestic matters and family considerations — a dinner in celebration and welcome. But it is so that we can none of us tell when or how the great events in our lives will begin, nor if, once they have transpired, they will affect us for good or ill. There can be no doubt but that Sir John himself was deeply touched by the series of happenings that began that day so modestly. He spoke of them ever afterward with great bitterness. Yet in my view, if he lost something, he gained much, as well, for we must always count it a gain when we are given the chance to look upon our lives, take stock, and consider what of our past we should put aside.

I know not the time Tom Durham retired, yet when I woke next morning, I found him my bedmate. Having no need to waken him, I sHpped quietly from beneath the quih, dressed hurriedly, and silently left the room, leaving the door ajar behind me. In all probability I need not have been so careful, for my bed companion slept as sound as any man slept this side the grave.

Yet I continued quiet down the stairs, shoes in hand, making my way on tiptoe. Most days I was the first up and about. It was my regular duty to set the oven fire for Mrs. Gredge. Due to her sudden incapacity, which was confirmed by the sounds of labored breathing that issued from her room, I had decided that morning to cook breakfast for the household in her stead. Yet who should I find in command of the kitchen but Lady Fielding? She scurried about most efficient, doing all that needed be done in the cause of breakfast. From her progress, it seemed to me she must have been at work near an hour.

“Am I so tardy rising?” I asked, as I stood before her, rubbing my eyes.” What is the hour?”

“No, no,” said she, “nothing of the kind. I was early awake and thought to make myself useful, merely — as you did last night.”

“Ma’am?”

“The washing up, I mean.”

“Oh, well, that,” said I, with a shrug.” I do that always for Mrs. Gredge.”

“I, for one, was most grateful to find the job done. ‘ Then she clapped her hands in her manner of command: “But sit, Jeremy. Eat your porridge. Have a cup of tea. Then, if you will, you may take a tray to our ailing cook.”

So sit I did and ate my fill, as well. She Fed me bread and porridge, with a dollop of butter for each. And when she put a cup of tea before me, she poured another for herself and sat down at the table to watch me eat. It seemed a curious thing to do. Though it caused me some slight embarrassment, it clearly gave her pleasure.

“This porridge is ever so good,” said I, thinking to flatter her labors.

“Oh, come now, Jeremy. Porridge is but porridge. You may butter it and salt it, both of which I have done — but there is little more that can be done to lend it savor.” Yet then she added, relenting, “But I vow it is a pleasure to see you eat it with such relish. It was just so that my young Tom used to do not so long ago.” She sighed.” He is not my young Tom now.”

“Is he so much changed?”

She bobbed her head most decisively.” Indeed he is,” said she.” Not so much for the worse or better — simply altered so that I scarce know him. I believe that Jack understands him now better than I — and I, after all, am Tom’s mother. You, Jeremy!”

She gestured broadly at me — pointing.

What did she mean? What had I done? “Yes, ma’am?”

“You probably also understand him.”

“In vhat way?”

“Well, ” said she, “you must tell me. Can you understand why he is so eager to return to that … that vessel?”

“The H.M.S. Ai’entarer

“Call it what you like. Why does he wish to go back?”

“If I have it aright from what he said, ” I began, “it is not so much the ship that attracts him, nor those aboard, it is rather the life upon the sea that moves him so.”

“But ii’/py?”

“Well, ma’am, the physical rigors, the dangers, the chance to prove himself a man.”

“As a man!” She gave a most joyless laugh at that.” He is but a boy. I do not comprehend, nor have I ever, this pell-mell rush to manhood, this love of danger. It may be,” said she, musing upon the matter, “that Tom nor any other has much control upon it; that at some appointed hour in each boy there is an alarum that sends him off in pursuit of who knows what folly whose achievement marks manhood, be it martial, intellectual, or car — ” She broke off, as if just having come to a realization of some sort.” Jeremy?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I wonder would you do me a special service?”

“Gladly.”

“I have a great jumble of clothes that I have so far collected for the Magdalene Home. Perhaps you can help me load them in a hackney carriage. The ladies will unload them swift enough, I’m quite sure. I had intended to ask Tom to do this and accompany me so he would have some notion of what it is has involved me this past year. Yet why not let him sleep, eh? I take it he was deep in the arms of Morpheus when you left him?”

“Oh, indeed yes. He was like unto a dead man.”

“Very good,” said she.” Well then, after you have brought the tray to Mrs. Gredge, I should like you to go out to Bow Street and flag down a hackney carriage. Bring it round, and we shall load it up together. No need even to mention Magdalene to Tom.”

The Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes had been the better part of a year a-birthing, midwifed into existence jointly by Sir John and Lady Fielding. Her idea it was, and his the energy and practical planning that brought it forth to substantial reality. Even I had made a modest contribution, for who but me had carried Sir John’s begging letters about town?

Thus was the plan circulated and thus was the money collected. If those first donors did not perhaps shower guineas down upon Sir John and Lady Katherine, they were at least sufficiently generous so that a sturdy house could be bought and rebuilt within as she would have it done, a small staff could be hired, and the doors thrown open at last. The truth was that many were curious what would be made of the place before they were willing to give freely for its support. Most, ladies as well as gentlemen, seemed to question the very existence of penitent prostitutes — thus, it was said, the place would go empty. On the same principle, the blades averred the opposite, declaring that the Magdalene Home would no doubt become London’s most crowded brothel.