Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

He hesitated, then nodded, as I knew he would. He thought of himself as a good Christian, after all.

‘Our Father, who art in heaven…’ How many times had I said those words? They poured from my fevered lips, little more than a whisper. Jakes bowed his head, murmuring the words to himself. As his gaze slid from mine I gathered the last of my strength and pulled myself from the grave, heaving myself over the lip and dragging myself free. I staggered to my feet and ran blindly towards the trees ahead.

Jakes cursed and chased after me, boots pounding the earth. I stumbled into the small copse, heart racing. He was only a few paces behind, I could hear him crashing through the bushes. I ducked behind a broad ash tree and held still, chest heaving.

‘You can’t hide for ever,’ he called. ‘I will find you!’

If I ran, he would hear me. If I stayed, he would find me. The bark was sharp against my sweat-soaked back, the air fresh and sweet. Perhaps this was not such a bad place to die after all. Better than rotting in gaol. I pushed away from the tree and started to run.

A gunshot rang out – loud and hard as a thunderclap.

I stopped, and turned, dizzy with fear and exhaustion. Lantern light glinted through the trees. I fumbled desperately towards it, branches tearing at my skin, calling for help – and ran straight into Joseph Cross. He held the lantern up to my face.

‘Hawkins. Bloody hell. You look like Death.’

‘It was Jakes,’ I panted, clutching his coat. ‘He murdered them all.’

Cross snorted. ‘He won’t be doing that no more.’ He gestured towards the small clearing up ahead. I let go of his jacket and dragged myself forward, grabbing at branches to keep myself from falling.

The clearing was like a stage, lit silver by the rising moon. Jakes lay in the middle on his back, groaning in agony. His hands clutched feebly at a gaping wound in his stomach, blood streaming through his fingers. And standing over him…

The breath caught in my throat.

Standing over him was Kitty, Fleet’s pistol in her hand.

Our eyes met briefly across the clearing. Then she looked away, pouring a fresh measure of powder down the barrel with a steady hand. I stumbled a few more paces towards her, Cross following, the lantern casting its soft light upon the bloody scene. Kitty finished reloading in silence then turned back to Jakes.

‘No,’ Jakes whispered hoarsely. ‘I’m not ready. I beg you… Send for a priest…’

She raised the pistol, aimed it at his head. Cocked the hammer. ‘Give my regards to the devil, Mr Jakes.’

Fired.

A haze of gunsmoke drifted slowly up into the sky.

‘Fucking hell,’ Cross muttered.

She dropped the pistol and strode towards me. ‘Tom. You’re safe.’

I held out my hand to stop her. ‘Keep away. I’m sick. Gaol fever.’ But then, I had kissed her, only a few hours before, up in Belle Isle. Lips pressed hard against mine.

The fever had taken over. I could feel myself falling. Dying, perhaps. It felt like dying. I slid to my knees, then to the ground. Darkness rushed towards me like the roaring waters of the Thames and I was lost.

I woke in a small, cramped cell.

I was lying on my back on a narrow bed, the cloth mattress damp and reeking with sweat. The shutters were closed but a candle stub flickered and sputtered on the table beside me. A wooden cross hung on the wall. I rubbed my face and scalp, long bristles rasping against my fingers. I must have been here for days.

Memories slipped in and out of reach. The fever had been the worst of it, burning through my body, heat like the furnaces of hell. A sharp, heavy pain in my head as if my skull were back in the iron cap. Delirium. Days melting into each other. Anxious voices, faces covered with scented cloths hovering over mine. Prayers chanted in another room. A soft, cool hand holding mine.

Stay, Thomas. Please stay with me.

I had been a whisper away from death. I could feel it in my bones.

Peeling myself from the sheets I sat up slowly, head spinning. The air smelled faintly of piss and vomit, mingled with lavender. Someone had tied a fresh sprig to the bed. I crushed the leaves between my fingers and breathed in the thick, warm scent.

I swung my legs to the floor, shuffling over to the window like an old dog. The room faced out on to a busy street – I could hear the clop of horses, the whisk of carriage wheels, shouts and laughter. I pulled back the shutters and sunlight poured into the room, half-blinding me. With a few hard shoves I opened the old casement window and peered down into the bustling high street. Tradesmen rattled carts along the cobbles to market; a farmer guided a small, skittering flock of sheep towards the bridge. Across the road, two girls of the town lay stretched out on the brothel steps, wiggling their toes and basking in the autumn sunlight.

Dawn in the Borough and I was alive. My heart lifted.

On the pavement below my window, Charles and Trim were arguing with one another. Charles gestured to a hackney carriage waiting nearby. Trim shook his head, hands planted firmly on his hips.

‘Charles.’ My voice was hoarse, broken. I cleared my throat and tried again.

He looked up, then grinned and ran into the house, thumping up the stairs. A moment later he bounded into the room, Trim following close behind. I almost wept upon his shoulder, I was so grateful to be alive. But the simple act of walking to the window had left me dizzy. I swayed upon my feet and would have fallen if Trim had not seized hold of me.

‘Settle him down,’ he said to Charles, before heading to the door to call for a jug of small beer.

Charles ushered me slowly back to the bed. As we sat together, side by side, he explained that this was a sponging house owned by one of Acton’s cronies. If the Marshalsea was hell, then this was purgatory – where debtors with just enough capital to stay out of prison were kept under the watchful eye of the bailiffs. Some marshalled enough money to return home, the rest were squeezed of their last pennies then thrown into prison. A place of lost causes and low odds.

‘What do you remember?’ he asked.

I tried to think back but the fever had left me weak and confused and I had not eaten in many days. It was only later that I remembered it all: the chase through the trees, Kitty in the clearing with a gun in her hands and Jakes, clutching the gaping wound in his stomach. Perhaps my mind was trying to spare me from the memories, until I was well enough to endure them. ‘Jakes…’ I whispered, through cracked lips. ‘It was Jakes.’ I began to shake violently.

Charles put an arm about my shoulder. ‘You’re safe now, Tom.’

Trim returned and poured me a mug of beer. ‘Slowly,’ he warned, placing it between my trembling hands.

‘Who brought me here?’ I asked.

Charles explained that I had been carried from Snows Fields back to the Marshalsea. Acton had taken one look at the fever tearing through me and refused to take me in, for fear I would poison the Master’s Side and ruin his profits. ‘We’ll sling him over the Common Side if you like,’ he’d said. It had been Cross, strangely enough, who had reminded Acton of Sir Philip’s promise of freedom. Acton’s compromise had been to send me here, where I could sweat the fever out or die from it – and I could guess which outcome he would have preferred.

I could not understand then why Cross had spoken for me. He gave me his reasons later, the last time I saw him – said he didn’t want me poisoning the Common Side with my sickness. It was Cross, after all, who had to pull the bodies out each morning, not Acton. Some days I think there was more to it than that – a moment’s charity, perhaps. On other days I think he just wanted me gone from the prison.