David Liss - A Spectacle Of Corruption

Once outside, I observed the redness of his face. “Truly, I am sorry, Mr. Weaver, but I hadn’t any inkling that he would take a dislike to you. When Mr. Dogmill takes a dislike to someone, it can be terrible ugly.”

“What with stomping on hands and such.”

“It’s no jest, I promise you. He did it once to a stockjobber who had pulled a trick upon him. That fellow can no more pick up a pen now than can a duck. And he does not always reserve his temper for those who do him deliberate harm. I observed once that he punched a whore in the face for meddling with his breeches when he announced he would be left alone. Punched her in the face; you saw those anvil hands of his. Poor little doxy. Died of it, you know.”

“I ought to count myself lucky, I suppose.”

He shook his head. “I wish you had told me you wanted to speak to him of a matter he would not like. I’d have advised you not to waste your time, or at the very least to conduct your business in someone else’s coffeehouse. Dogmill is monstrous brutal, but he pays his debts in a timely way, and he brings business with him.”

“I understand. I shall find some other time to speak with him, then.”

Moore held out the coin. “I cannot in good conscience keep this.”

I laughed. “You’ve earned it. I’ll not take your coin.”

“Certain, are ye?”

“Please, Moore. You did your best to serve me.”

He nodded and then, eyeing a foul puddle of mud and filth, approached, squatted down, and took a handful, with which he splashed himself repeatedly. He stood and turned to me with a grin, his clothes now wet with refuse, his face smeared black and filthy. “I don’t even know that he heard your name or looked upon your face, but presuming he did, I cannot very well expect him to believe that I vanquished Benjamin Weaver without looking the worse for it. Good day to you, sir.”

Idid not believe myself to be done with Dogmill, and indeed I was not, but I chose to pursue less obstinate methods for the nonce while I considered how I might reapply my efforts with the merchant. And so it was off to meet with John Littleton. Though I have ever been inclined to plain attire, I admit to a preference for superior materials and tailoring, but before we went in search of Greenbill Billy, Littleton suggested my usual clothing would generate too much notice down by the quays. I therefore dressed myself in worn trousers and a stained blouse with an old wool jacket. I pushed my hair under an old hat, wide in both brim and crown, and I even applied a bit of paint to further darken a complexion already somewhat dusky by pallid British standards. Examining myself in the mirror, I congratulated myself on looking almost unfamiliar- every bit the Wapping lascar.

I arranged to meet Littleton at his home, a decrepit room he rented on Bostwick Street, and from there we walked to the Goose and Wheel. I had only seen him before at Ufford’s table, so when he met me at the door I was surprised to find him taller than I had imagined, and broader at the shoulder than I before noticed. I had thought of him as a frail fellow moving hard into the final portion of his life, but now he looked to me more rugged, one of those tough men who cling tenaciously to the strength of their youth.

“I ain’t looking forward to this,” Littleton said as we walked, making our way past the beggars and the gin drinkers sitting out in the cold. A man pushed past us selling newly baked meat pies that steamed madly in the cold afternoon.

Littleton held his shoulders tight, bunching them up toward his ears as though in a perpetual shrug. “I know it was my maggot at the start, but the Goose and Wheel is Greenbill’s place, and if any of them blackguards recollect my face, they won’t think too much of my being there. The end result will be to my prejudice, it seems.”

“You needn’t go in,” I said. “You’ve proved as helpful as Mr. Ufford could have hoped. You’ve pointed me in the direction you think right, and I can proceed alone from here most assuredly.”

He looked like a petulant child. “I’ll go. I don’t want you to have to fend for yourself. But I’ve been giving this matter some thought. You asked for five pounds from the priest. That is a great deal of bread from the baker, and all for one man too. Now when you get to thinking about it, all you done for this rhino is to ask me some questions and have me lead you to where I know you ought to go. A shilling here and a shilling there is mighty generous, but as I’ve been your friend all throughout, don’t you think more like half of what you get is what’s called for?”

“I think you ought to be happy with what you’ve been given and what you’ve been promised.”

“And happy I am,” he said, and grinned so as to prove it. “It’s just that I’d be happier with what’s fair.”

“How can you say what is fair until the matter is resolved?”

“Well, if it goes smooth and all, I think I should get two and a half pounds. That’s all.”

“Let us say I speak to Greenbill and determine that he is our man. Then what shall we do? How will you earn your two and a half pounds then?”

Littleton let out a dismissive laugh- merely a method of disguising his confusion. “We shall see, I suppose.”

At that moment we passed an alleyway hidden in shadows. I turned toward it and grabbed Littleton, pushing him two or three feet inside. As he stumbled, I took from my pocket a pistol and held it to him, not two inches from his face. “I am paid for what I do because, if called to do so, I will not hesitate to discharge my lead into Greenbill’s body. I may have to strangle him or crush his feet or hold his hand in a fire. Will you do those things, Mr. Littleton?”

To my surprise, he appeared neither frightened nor horrified, only slightly bewildered. “I must say, Weaver, you know how to make yourself understood. I’ll take my odd shilling and be happy that I am asked to set no one ablaze.”

I returned my pistol to my pocket, and we resumed our walk. Littleton, in an instant, appeared to have entirely forgotten the whole exchange. He was like a dog who, a quarter hour after receiving a beating from its master, lies contentedly at the same man’s feet.

“Ufford brung all this on himself, if you want my opinion,” he said to me. “Him with his politics and suchlike.”

I felt myself grow tense. “How do his politics come into play?”

“You don’t think he’s taken a sudden interest in the poor for no reason, do you? With the election nigh upon us, he’s doing what he can for the Tories.”

Here was a new twist. I had thought this was but a matter of a wellborn priest pecking his beak into matters none of his concern. If Ufford’s troubles related to the election, however, I understood that things might be more complicated than I had at first realized.

“Tell me how these porters connect with the election,” I said. I knew little enough of these things, only that the Whigs were the party of new wealth, men without titles or history, men who did not want the Church or the crown to rule over them. The Tories were the party of old families and the traditionalists, those who wanted to see the Church restored to its former strength, who wanted to see the power of the crown strengthened and Parliament weakened. The Tories claimed to want to destroy the corruption of the new wealth, but many believed they only wanted the new wealth to disappear so their money could be returned to the old families. I was apt to confuse the parties until my friend Elias explained to me, with his cynical wit, that the Whigs were worms and the Tories were tyrants.

It nevertheless always surprised me how strong was the support for the Tories among the poor and disaffected. The Whigs might offer the laboring man the better dream for improvement. The Whigs had fought to remove restrictions to advancement by altering the oaths of loyalty men must swear to hold government or municipal positions. Now any Protestant, not just a Church of England man, could hold such offices. They weakened the power of the Church and Church courts so that religious men could no longer hold back those merchants who grew too big for their breeches- or their parish. But the Tories remained a bulwark of tradition to stand against the tide of change. They promoted the idea of a simpler and more benevolent time when men of power protected those of little wealth. They winked at old beliefs like magic and witchcraft and the power of the king’s touch to cure scrofula. The Whigs might make a man feel as though he could be more than he was, but the Tories made him feel pleased to be an Englishman.