Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

When we reached the river a crowd of watermen all dressed in doublets of red or green clamoured for our business at the Worcester stairs shouting ‘oars! oars!’ and ‘scullers!’, their boats knocking hard against each other as they fought to claim us. Jakes pointed to one dressed in green with the Lord Mayor’s arms picked out in silver. He rowed towards us while the rest jeered and cursed his good luck. When he reached the steps he glanced up at my chains. ‘The Borough?’

‘Aye,’ Jakes nodded. ‘Tooley steps. But threepence, no more.’

‘It’s double past the bridge, Mr Jakes,’ the boatman called up, then grinned. The Tooley stairs were only a few feet beyond the bridge.

‘I’ll take you for three, sir!’ another man cried from his sculler.

Our waterman rounded on him. ‘Selling yourself cheap, Ned – you learn that from your mother?’ He turned back to us. ‘Fourpence.’

‘Three,’ Jakes replied, stubbornly. He gestured to the fifteen or so other boats we could choose. Our man sighed and waved us aboard, muttering in an unconvincing fashion about his poor starving wife and children.

Jakes nudged me aboard then settled his impressive bulk at the other end of the sculler, facing the south bank. His thick knees pressed hard against the sides of the boat, but he seemed content enough, tilting his head to catch the sun. The waterman, sitting between us with his oars raised, looked anxious as the boat rocked under our combined weight – but my chains balanced out Jakes’ muscles and we settled soon enough. As we pushed off into the river, I watched the city drift slowly away from me like an inconstant lover, already forgetting me, turning its attentions on some new, sweeter diversion.

Jakes leaned forward and the boat began to rock back and forth again, water slopping up and over the side. ‘Do you have much coin, sir?’ he called over the boatman’s shoulder.

I held up my manacled wrists by way of answer.

He traced a scar that cut through his left brow, considering this unfortunate situation. ‘Well, you’d better find some pretty sharp, Mr Hawkins. D’you not have friends? Family?’

I shook my head. Jakes and the boatman exchanged a look. No friends. No family. No money. I might as well tip myself overboard and save everyone the trouble. Well, damn them both – I might not have much, but I did have my wits about me, and I was not as innocent as I seemed.

We passed Somerset House, almost derelict, its golden days of masquerades and court intrigue long past. I caught the high, pungent scent of manure on the air; the Horse Guards had sequestered the old stables a few years back. These were the days we lived in since the South Sea Bubble burst: houses abandoned half-built or half-falling down; money flowing in and out of people’s lives, harder to keep hold of than quicksilver.

The boatman rowed on, whistling quietly to himself, oars cutting smoothly through the water. Jakes reached past him and tapped my knee, making me jump. ‘I might look the other way, when we reach Southwark,’ he said in a low voice, rubbing his thumb against his fingers in an unmistakeable gesture. ‘Not something I do as a rule.’

The bridge loomed up ahead, the windows of the houses upon it glinting in the mid-morning sun. A queue of boats waited to ride the churning waters below. ‘Why would you help me, Mr Jakes?’

A sad, distant look came into his heavy-lidded, sea-green eyes. ‘You remind me of my old captain.’

The river was flowing faster now as we reached the narrow arches of the bridge. I had to shout above the roar. ‘You were in the army?’ I should have realised from his battered, weatherbeaten face.

‘Nine years,’ he called back. He paused, lost in memories, then shook his head. ‘Captain Roberts was just like you. A rake and a gambler. And a drunk.’

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again.

‘You look the spit of him, too. Odd, that. You could almost be brothers.’

‘Indeed?’ The closest I had to a brother was Edmund, my stepmother’s son – and we were both delighted to be nothing like each other.

‘John was not what you’d call respectable,’ Jakes said, frowning at the memory. ‘Not always square. But he was a good friend to me. Saved my life once.’

I could tell by the way he was talking that Roberts was dead. ‘What happened to him?’

He looked away, down into the swirling waters. ‘The Marshalsea killed him.’

The boatman steered towards the arch closest to shore, holding tight to the oars. It was crowded with traffic, boats slamming against one another, shouts and curses filling the air. And above it all, the rush of the Thames, surging hard beneath the bridge. The river could be dangerous here, forced between the narrow arches; the waterman had to use all his strength to hold the little scull steady. One slip and it would be smashed to pieces. I didn’t fancy my luck in the water – not with twenty pounds of iron chains wrapped about me.

‘Coroner called it suicide,’ Jakes continued, oblivious to the drama unfolding behind his back. ‘But it was murder, no doubt of it. I’ve seen better corpses on a battlefield. There’s a rumour in the Borough that his spirit haunts the gaol, begging for justice.’ The boat pitched and turned against the swirling waters as we reached the arch. ‘Fat chance,’ he snorted, then leaned closer. ‘D’you know, there’s some that say the devil lives in the Marshalsea. And – forgive me, sir. I’m not sure you’re ready to meet him.’

I wanted to ask him what he meant but at that moment the boatman steered us into the rush of water and we plunged full force beneath the arch, shooting through as though fired from a pistol. Jakes gripped the sides of the scull while I clung hard to my seat. The roar of the river echoed against the stone, white water frothing about us, spraying our faces. And then we were through, riding out into slower currents.

I drew back, heart thudding against my chest, grinning with relief. Now we were through and safe, I had a fancy to go again, as I always did – but the boatman drew up hard against the Tooley stairs. As I left the boat and clambered up the green, slippery steps, it struck me that perhaps Jakes told this story of his old captain to all his charges, in the hope of being paid off. Ghosts and devils, indeed.

We left the river behind and headed for the Borough’s High Street. Back among the throng, I grew conscious of my chains again, clinking together with every laboured step. Only a week before I had come to Southwark Fair with a group of friends and walked down this street a free man. Now the fair, and my friends, were gone. We passed St Saviour’s and the long line of taverns stretching out of town, laughter and shouts from every window, every doorway. The scent of cooked meat and beer cut through the noisome stench of the street. As we passed the White Hart a man staggered out from the alley and spewed a thick gush of vomit across the pavement then collapsed into it. A young boy raced across the road, scavenged the drunkard’s purse then scampered away, back into the shadows.

‘Here we are.’ Jakes gripped my arm and guided me between two boarded-up shop fronts.

We turned into the narrow, sunless alley. The clamour and life of the High Street bled away into a chill silence. Ahead of us, at the end of the alley, stood a high stone lodge – the entrance to the gaol. It looked like an old castle keep, flanked by twin turrets looming forty feet into the sky. I half-expected men in armour to appear at the top and throw burning oil on our heads.

The Lodge gate comprised two large doors studded with iron, wide enough for a carriage to pass through when both were flung open. A hand-written sign had been nailed into the wood, paper curling at the edges: