Bruce Alexander - Smuggler's Moon

“No need for that,” said I to him, ”though it might be best if he were to be given the letter before he leaves for the day.”

Having said that, I danced down the stairs and set off along Bloomsbury Square to continue on my way. I had a number of other errands to run. Though they were of no real consequence, they took up the rest of the morning. As a result, I did not return to Number 4 Bow Street until after the noon hour. At such time, of course, on nearly any day of the week, Sir John Fielding holds his magistrate’s court. For more than a week, however, he had been absent. This day’s session was the first he had held in quite some time, and when word went out that he was back, a great crowd turned out to greet him. It was composed of friends and relations of the prisoners and disputants before the court, as well as those who came from the district round Covent Garden. Now, those who live and work thereabouts are not all of them greengrocers. For a district of modest size, it has more than its fair share of pickpockets, sneak thieves, burglars, prostitutes, procurers, drunks, et cetera, and so a good many of these turn out at noon each day to attend Sir John’s session of his magistrate’s court. Add a few of the aged and infirm, those too poor to afford any other form of entertainment, and you have a sense of the sort of people who might be in attendance on any given day of the week.

There were so many present on that day that when I entered, it seemed I might not find a place to seat myself. But far to the front I saw space enough for me upon a bench just opposite the prisoners’ section. There was nothing more that I could see, and so I blustered down to it, claimed it, and sat myself down.

I looked over at the three prisoners. I meant only to glance, but one of them held my eye. He was an ordinary-appearing fellow, a little stronger than most from the look of his chest and shoulders, but not the sort that one would otherwise notice. I had seen him before, had I not? Ah well, probably in or about Covent Garden. I saw so many in my daily rounds. Then he looked my way and obviously recognized me. His eyes brightened, and he smiled at me. It was clear that he was glad to find me present. Yes, I had seen him before-and more than that, we had conversed. I was in some sense acquainted with the man.

Sir John had been conferring in whispers with Mr. Marsden, his clerk. But then he turned toward the court and bellowed out: ”Call the next case, if you will, Mr. Marsden.”

“Henry Curtin, come forth!”

The man who looked so familiar-he who had smiled at me-then rose and took a place before the magistrate. He glanced back at me, as if looking for assurance. Why should he seek such from me?

Yet of a sudden I knew the answer to that. Henry Curtin was the coachman in whose care I had entrusted Lady Katherine Fielding. I had tipped him a shilling-a goodly amount-but thinking that somehow insufficient, I had gone on to ask his name and to hint broadly to him that I would pass it on to Sir John, and if ever Mr. Curtin came before the magistrate of the Bow Street Court, then he would receive special consideration. A sense of horror swept over me. I had been trapped by my foolish desire to seem important. It was necessary for me to fight to keep my place on the bench, for I felt a nearly overwhelming desire to bolt from the courtroom.

“What is the charge against this man, Mr. Marsden?”

“Public drunkenness.”

“What have you to say for yourself, sir?” asked Sir John.

“Well …” The prisoner cleared his throat. ”My name is Henry Curtin …” There he paused.

“I understand who you are. Get on with your story, man.”

“Uh, yes, yes sir. Well, Henry Curtin is my name, and I work as a coachman on the run to York and back, and I come by a bit of money just yesterday.”

“Let me stop you there and ask you how you came by this ‘bit of money’?”

“It was won on a wager, sir.”

“What sort of wager?”

“‘Twas a contest of fisticuffing. ‘Twas held in a field just north of Clerkenwell. I bet on the black fella and Charlie Tobin bet on the white one.”

“Hmmm,” Sir John mused, ”and I assume the black pugilist was the winner?”

“Weren’t he though!”

“Very well, you came away from the contest five shillings richer.”

“That’s right, and I then and there decided I would take that money and drink my way home on it.”

“Drink your way home? What a novel idea.”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

“I did not say it was a good idea. I simply said it was a novel one. Now get on with it.”

“Yes sir. What I was going to do was drink a drink of something-gin or rum or brandy-every place I took a notion from Clerkenwell to home.”

“And where is home?”

”Just round the corner in Tavistock Street. I made it as far as Drury Lane, then I fear I ran out.”

“Ran out of money?”

“No, ran out of sense, just completely lost out, like I’d been hit hard by the black fella.”

Sir John turned to Mr. Marsden and asked if there were any comments by the constable who made the arrest. ”Who was that, by the bye?”

“It was Constable Langford,” said Mr. Marsden. ”He said he found this man, Curtin, asleep in the gutter.”

“Did Mr. Curtin resist arrest? Give him any trouble at all?”

“No sir, not according to the arrest report. Just keeping him upright was the hardest part.”

“All right, thank you, Mr. Marsden.” Sir John turned back to the prisoner and addressed him directly: ”Henry Curtin, I know who you are. I am aware that you expect special treatment in my court and-”

“Oh, no sir,” Curtin said, interrupting, ”I wouldn’t dare to-”

“Don’t interrupt! I do the interrupting hereabouts. Now, as I understand it, what was said to you was something less than a promise of leniency, yet it was enough to allow you to suppose you would receive easy treatment from me. I am not bound by what was said. In fact, I should like to burden you with the severest penalty that the law allows just to teach the individual involved to make no more promises in my name.”

At that, Curtin threw at me a look expressing great misery.

“But it would not be fair to you to make you suffer in order to teach another a lesson.” Sir John paused at that point, then asked, ”Tell me, Mr. Curtin, have you money enough to pay a fine?”

“No sir,” said he. ”All I got is a little at home to eat on till next I get paid. The five shillings was drunk up or stolen from me whilst I lay in the gutter.”

“Well, I wouldn’t see you starve whilst waiting to be paid, nor would I wish to see you lose your job as coachman because you were serving a term in jail. But let us fix a fine of five shillings, for that is the sum you foolishly threw away on drink. Let it be payable to the Bow Street Court when next you are paid. You may work out the date, et cetera, with Mr. Marsden here. But I warn you, you must pay the fine, or we shall come after you, and next time I shall not be so accommodating. Are we done, then, Mr. Marsden?”

“We are, sir.”

“Then the Bow Street Court is adjourned until noon tomorrow.” Sir John beat upon the table with his gavel, then laid it aside and made a hasty exit through the door behind him, which led directly to his chambers.

Because Mr. Curtin had been charged to settle matters with Mr. Marsden, I was able to evade him. I managed to slip out through the door which led back to the strong room and, by a longer route, to Sir John’s chambers; it was to him I went, as one to receive just punishment.

“Is that you, Jeremy?”

He had barely settled in his chair and taken up the bottle of beer from the desk when I entered.