Bruce Alexander - Blind Justice

I visited him once and only once in that state. I carefully wiped his face clean of ordure and mud with the tail of my coat. He looked up at me gratefully and declared his sorrow at being seen in such condition. His face, revealed, was a mass of bruises from the beating given him by the mob. There were also fresh cuts and welts from the stones that had been cast at him. Although barely to his senses, he earnestly charged me to leave. “There is nothing for you here, Jeremy,” said he to me. “Lock up the house. Board up the shop. Go to John Berkeley in Lichfield. I will meet you there.”

I nodded and whispered my promise to do as he bade, then departed, running away in tears as a pack of village lads approached. Some distance away, I stopped and looked back to see the jeering, noisome bunch pitching mud and stones at the poor figure bent double between the boards. This was my last glimpse of him alive. Word came ere I had finished with my preparations for the trip to Lichfield that my father was dead: pelted to death. The messenger was the fat deacon, one Kercheval by name. He informed me with a leer that I was now an orphan and that I was to be brought before the magistrate so that my future might be settled. I recall that the wild notion passed through my young head that I needs must take my father’s place in the stocks. Yet on leaving I had the foresight to take up my little bundle of belongings with the coins from our cashbox rolled up inside. Kercheval grabbed me roughly and made to march me forth. In opening the door, he unwisely relaxed his grip, and I shook loose from him and took to my heels. I ran tor the fields as though the devil himself were after me and not some lubbering, lumbering deacon going apoplectic in the chase. I distanced him in no time and made for a copse where I hoped I might hide. When I reached it, I had no thought of remaining, for from there I had a view of the crossroads at which stood the stocks, and I saw that what Kercheval had said was indeed true. My father’s body had been removed from them and laid out beside the fiendish contraption, his shirt pulled up over his head to cover his face. A group of townsfolk stood around him, talking amongst themselves and shaking their heads. Whether he had been done in by a sharp stone or had suffocated beneath a weight of mud or manure I cannot say. It was, however, clear that he was dead. And so I continued on, running, walking, hiding from passersby. I slept in a field that night. It was not until the next day that I learned that the road I had taken led not to Lichfield but to London.

Of how I came to the great metropolis I shall not recount much here, reader. Let it be said only that the journey took the lesser part of a week and that sometime along the way I passed my thirteenth birthday. I arrived in London nearly exhausted in body and spirit, with only a few shillings between myself and penury. What was I to do? I had some vague plan of seeking employment from a printer yet had no notion of how and where to go about it. Even if I had, surely the sight of such a great city with its multitudes teeming through the streets would have expunged it from my mind. My first day in London I spent wandering about, dodging through the throng, my bundle clutched tight in both hands. I remember that I asked one man politely how I might find my way to a printer’s and then was answered with such a torrent of abuse as I, in my young life, had never heard before. How had I offended the man, merely detaining him? Pondering that, I approached another and put the same question to him. He responded readily enough but in a manner of speech for which I had no understanding. The fellow was speaking plainest Whitechapel to me, yet my comprehension of it was so dim that he may as well have been speaking to me in another language-nay, French I would have indeed understood better! From him I got only the phrase “flight straight,” and I wondered how he supposed I might manage any sort of flight, straight or crooked. But perhaps he meant I should continue straight ahead.

You can imagine my relief when, as I stood perplexed on a corner of the street, I myself was approached by a man. He was a rather rough-looking sort, but seemed friendly enough, with a smile fixed on his face, “You’re a likely-looking lad,” he said to me.

“I hope so,” said I to him.

“How would you like to earn a shilling?”

Remembering that my supply of cash had dwindled to not much more than that, I answered enthusiastically, “Oh, indeed I would, sir.”

He explained that there was an errand to be run for a man of his acquaintance, one that required a pair of swift feet. “Can you run, boy?”

“Oh yes, sir,” said I, “like the wind.”

He laughed heartily at that and led me a short way down the street. I could not help but note the stout staff he carried in one hand, using it to strike sharply on the stones of the street with each step. I thought it strange, for he was surefooted and showed no signs of lameness. As we went, he explained that all I need do was carry a package at all speed to an address which I would be given. I informed him that I was a stranger in the city and knew not London well, yet I was told I would be provided with directions to the location.

“Will it take me near a printer, sir?” I asked. “I seek employment as an apprentice.”

“You’ve good fortune by you, boy, for there is one not two doors past.” And then he halted me suddenly and indicated a way down a dark lane. “There,” said he, “go to the end of this alley here, and you will find a man name of Slade awaiting outside the Cock and Bull. Just tell him you’re the lad what Bledsoe sent.”

I nodded. “You’ll accompany me no farther?”

“No, I’ve my own matters to look after.” And he turned and walked away in the direction we had come.

I stood, looking after him, thinking this a very queer business indeed. Yet I was new to London and eager to earn a shilling, so I turned down the lane and sought the Cock and Bull. It was as I had been told. Outside the grogshop a figure stood by the door, lounging indifferently. Was this the same Slade who was so keen for quick delivery he was willing to pay a shilling for foot post? His attitude did seem passing strange.

Yet as I approached him he roused himself and nodded with some show of interest as he listened to me repeat the formula given me by Bledsoe. From under his coat he produced a packet of goodly dimensions in a kind of woolen purse. Ihis he offered me, saying, “Here, lad. You must make straightaway with this to one William of Threadneedle Street, a broker. ‘1 is a mile from here, hard left at Shoreditch, whence you came. Can you run a mile?”

“I can, sir.”

“Then show me your heels and do it.”

I hesitated. “But the shilling, sir? Mr. Bledsoe said there would be a shilling for me.”

Slade laughed at that-a bit testily, I thought. “You’ll be paid at t’other end. Now, git hence with ye!”

Thinking myself stupid (for how else were they to ensure delivery?), I turned about and set out at full speed with the packet clasped firmly under my arm. Coming to the end of the lane, I turned left, as I had been told, and began making my way through the crowded street as fast as I was able, dodging a fishwife at one step and a ballad-seller at another, proceeding as quickly as the mob would allow. Then, of a sudden, my feet flew from under me, and I sprawled flat upon the dirt of the street. Coming to myself, I heard someone shouting, “Stop, thief, stop!” and wondered for whom the hue and cry had been raised. Looking about, I was aware of a group gathering around me that looked none too friendly, and in the forefront was none other than Mr. Bledsoe, who looked least friendly of all. At me, still on the ground, he brandished his staff, and the thought came to me then that he had used it to trip me up. But why should he do that? As I raised up to protest, he cocked the thing above his head and heaved it down hard upon me.