Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

MARSHALSEA GAOL

and COURT PALACE

Southwark

Under the Charge of His Majesty the Knight’s Marshal: Sir Philip Meadows

Head Keeper: William Acton

Underneath the keeper’s name, someone had scrawled BUTCHER in fresh ink.

Jakes pounded upon the door with his club, the sound ringing back down the passageway. After a long moment there was a harsh scraping sound and an iron grate opened in the door. A pair of mean, bloodshot eyes glared at me contemptuously through the bars.

‘Who’s this son of a whore?’ a rough voice called through the gate.

Jakes leaned down and whispered urgently in my ear. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing, Mr Hawkins? Nothing you can pawn?’

And all of a sudden I remembered that there was, indeed, something: my mother’s gold cross, set with a small diamond at its heart. I had worn it about my neck for so long that I had almost forgotten it. It was the only thing I had left of her and I’d vowed to wear it always. But I had been a boy then, and boys make all sorts of foolish plans before they learn better. Shuffling beneath the chains I touched my fingers to my throat. By some miracle it was still there, unrobbed. I loosened my collar. ‘Will this do?’

Jakes unclasped the fine gold chain and held it up to the light. ‘There should be some capital in it. Enough to keep you from the Common Side for a few nights, at least.’

The turnkey slid back the bolts and flung open the door. He looked me up and down, taking in the mean cloth of my borrowed clothes and the low slump of my shoulders. He snorted, and shook his head at Jakes. ‘He’ll last a week if he’s lucky,’ he said, then laughed nastily and pushed me through the door. ‘Welcome to the Marshalsea, sir .’

Jakes abandoned me at the Lodge gate with a promise to return that afternoon. I watched him stride away towards the freedom of the High Street, my mother’s chain tucked in his pocket. Should I trust him? The truth was, I had no choice.

The turnkey slammed the door shut, the sound echoing down the corridor ahead. My heart sank. No chance of escape now. The corridor walls seemed to press closer and closer while the chains tightened about my chest, making it hard to breathe. I gasped for air, my head spinning.

The turnkey’s face loomed in front of mine. ‘Feeling a little sick, are we, sir?’ he asked gleefully.

I fought back my fear and stood taller. ‘I’m perfectly well,’ I lied. It would not do to show weakness in here. At the end of the corridor lay another set of double doors to match the Lodge gate. One had been propped open with a barrel of ale – I could just make out the entrance to the prison yard beyond. Without thinking I began to shuffle towards the light and open air, but the guard grabbed me roughly by the arm and shoved me back towards a small, overheated room next to the Lodge gate. This was where the turnkey on gate duty would sit, waiting for the next poor devil to come along. I saw now why this one was in such a foul temper – I’d interrupted an early dinner; a bottle of sack and a bowl of greasy mutton broth balanced precariously on a stack of papers. He tipped the last of the wine down his throat, examining my arrest warrant with a sour expression. Then he slammed open a black ledger filled with names and debts and scratched a fresh line on to the page.

Thomas Hawkins, Greek St. Thurs. 21st September, 1727. 20 l. 10 s. 6 d . Gent.

‘Soho,’ he grunted, narrowing his eyes as he wrote the address.

‘You know it well?’ I guessed.

‘ Joseph Cross Wardour Street Tuesday 6th February 1725 ten pounds seven shillings Bricklayer. ’

All said in one breath, as if it were his full name.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Cross.’

‘Oh. Pleased are you,’ he snorted. ‘Well, fuck me.’

Joseph Cross. I had never met a man more well-named; he was like the cauldron hanging over the fire at Moll’s, bubbling and roiling in a constant fury. He had the red, bloated face of a seasoned drinker and his thick brows met across the bridge of his nose, as if years of aggressive scowling had knitted them together.

‘So you’re a debtor too?’

‘Trusty,’ he corrected. ‘I work for the governor.’

‘I see.’ But you’re still a debtor, aren’t you? ‘Did you know someone’s written “butcher” under the governor’s name on the gate?’

Cross shrugged. ‘They wrote “cunt” yesterday. Well, Thomas Hawkins, Gent . What are we going to do with you, eh?’

I gazed longingly at the low chair by the fire. My chains felt so heavy now I was struggling to stand. ‘Perhaps I could wait in here until Mr Jakes returns?’

‘Oh, of course!’ Cross trilled, clapping his hands. ‘And perhaps sir would like a sugar cake and a pot of tea while he’s waiting…?’ He dragged me back out of the room. ‘No money and no warning,’ he grumbled as he led me down the corridor. ‘Mr Acton won’t like this. He won’t like you ,’ he added, with obvious relish.

We headed towards the yard doors, sunlight glinting up ahead. Deep grooves ran down towards the yard where the carriages had rattled through, bringing in food and drink. And taking out the bodies. The ancient stone floor had been worn smooth by centuries of debtors trudging wearily through the gate. And now here I was to join them – just one in an endless line of wretched souls stretching on and on for ever, to the end of days, all pressed and pushed and prodded by men like Cross.

Before we reached the yard he opened a door to the right and pointed up a set of dank stairs that smelled violently of piss and beerish vomit. I could hear laughter coming from the floor above, and music. ‘Tap Room,’ Cross said. He leaned down beneath the stairs and pulled open what looked like a cellar door, revealing a narrow coffin-shaped space below. A foul, rotten smell wafted up, even worse than the stairs. Cross grimaced and put an arm across his face. ‘The Hole. Punishment room. I’ve seen a man last three days in there. Couldn’t remember his own name when we pulled him out.’ He watched my face fall with a satisfied air.

At the end of the corridor he unlocked a door to the left and pushed me into a small cell. ‘The Pound. You can wait here until the governor gets back.’

The Pound was not as bad as the Hole – that much I was grateful for. But it was not much better. The air felt suffocatingly close and damp and the walls and floor were filthy, with just one tiny, barred window too high to look through. A line of chains and manacles of different weights hung from the ceiling, clinking softly in the breeze from the door.

Cross gestured to a ghoulish collection of torture implements fixed to the far wall: thumbscrews, iron collars and whips. ‘D’you like our display, Mr Hawkins? The governor put those up himself.’ He turned to me with a straight face. ‘Mr Acton takes a keen interest in the history of the gaol.’

I stared at them in horror. ‘They’re not used on the prisoners?’

‘Of course not.’ Cross pulled down an iron skull cap and gave it an affectionate pat, as if it were a child’s head. ‘That would be against the law, wouldn’t it?’ He scraped his thumbnail slowly against a thick crust of blood that had dried along the rim. ‘Well, then. Shall I remove your chains before I go, sir?’

At last. Jakes had promised they would come off once I was inside. ‘If you would,’ I said, holding out my hands.

Cross took a key from the ring at his belt and slotted it into the lock at my chest. Then he pushed his face up close to mine, his breath reeking of bad gums and worse liquor. ‘Oh. That’ll be sixpence, sir.’