Peter Ackroyd - Hawksmoor

It was a silent Night but that the Wind made a low Sound like a Woman sighing; I laid my self down upon the grass curled like an Embrio and was recalling Days far gone when I heard a Whistling borne to me by the Wind. I rais'd my self upon my Knees, crouch'd ready to Spring, and then I saw a young Fellow crossing the Pasture i towards me: he was as like to have walked straight to the Bloomsbury Church, in which Path I would assist him. I stood upright and went to ›r him with a Smile: How do you do my little Honey, says 1, How do you ^; do my Sweetheart?; \ At that he was much affrighted and said, For God's sake who are you?

I am your pretty Maid, your merry Wren. And will you show me the Church yonder so that we may hug in its Shaddowe?

I see no Church, says he. But these were desperate Words, for he was tied like a dead Bird to a Tree. And it was some time after when I returned to my Lodgings, singing old Songs in the silent Feelds.

On the fifth Day after I did see an Advertisment for that pritty young Fellow: Run away on Friday last from his Master, Mr Walsall, in Queen's Square, a Boy about 12 Years of Age, Thomas Robinson; he had on dark grey Cloaths all of a sort, the Sleeves of his Coat faced with Black, a brown Peruke, a red Mark on one of his Hands. Whosoever brings him to Mr Walsall's aforesaid, or at the Red Gates in Grape Court, shall have £5 Reward and no questions ask'd. This is well put; ask no Questions and you shall hear no Lies, Mr Walsall, and I shall tell you this also without a Recompense: your Boy has more Marks now.

And so I busied my self about the Churches of Bloomsbury and Greenwich with a lighter Heart, and this in spite of the Fact that Walter had not return'd to the Office and, it was said, had grown so heavy with Hypochondriacall Melancholie that he was like to sink into the Ground. It was some Days following that I made a Visit to him in his Lodgings in Crooked Lane, on the east -side of St Michael's Lane, where a nasty slut his Landlady whisper'd to me as I enter'd through the Door: He is sick of the Feaver and we despair of him, sir, (at this she clinched her Hands as if there were Silver in them) and he speaks mighty strange and is sometimes crying or roaring like a little Boy that has been whipped. What shall we do, sir?

Then she led me to his mean Chamber which stank of Sweat and Piss like the Hovel of a Car-man; when Walter saw me he tried to rise from his Bed but I put my Hands upon him: No, no, 7 whisper'd, stay, stay, Walter. Then he showed Signes of great Terrour which perplexed me: Do you know me? I asked him.

Know you? Yes, very well.

How do you do, then?

Very bad, master. I care not much indeed what becomes of me. Here he stopt and fetched a Sigh.

I tried to cheer him: And then, Walter, what then? You cannot Sigh for ever, and what will you do with your self then?

I don't know, not I; hang myself, I think. I don't know anything I can do better.

Tell me, Walter, what is the Matter? Is it such a Secret that you dare not tell it? I hope you have not committed Murther.

But he did not Laugh as I had hoped: I am not sure, he replied, and now it is no such great matter neither.

No great Matter, and yet you talk of hanging your self! I made a Stop here and, taking my Eyes from his Face which was wonderfully Pale, I saw fastened with Pins to the Wall divers Planns and Draughts of my London Churches; and this touch'd my Heart for the poor Boy, silent as he might be in the Office, showed his Devotion here. And now, as he lay Sick among my Images, he raised his Head from the Pillow: I thought, said he at last, that you might leave your Post and forget me.

Why so, Walter, when I can never cancell my Obligation to you for your Labours? You are my right Hand.

No, no, I wished you to leave: I wished to be free from your Service.

You are filled with disturbing Thoughts and melancholly Vapours, Walter. You must lie now and rest.

But then he raised his Head a little higher still: How far is the Pillar at Bloomsbury advanc'd, he said, let it not stand upon the cold Ground but lift it above the Tower! And have you finished the Moddell of Greenwich Church? At that he took Pen and Ink, and wrote down a great many things upon his Paper, and made Lines with a short brass Rule, but I understood nothing of them.

Let them alone, I said, you are too Sick, too Sick.

Then he glared at me: You saw the Lines I wrote before?

I saw some Musty Stuff in Anagram placed in the Box beneeth your Chair, I replied, but it was of no account.

Walter grew yet more agitated: I assure you, there was no Anagram.

I speak of the Letters I left for you.

This is not clear to me, Walter.

I wish'd to entice you to leave the Office for I was so much at your Mercy there, said he staring at me wildly, but I never wish'd to cause you such Agonie. I was in a Box and could not creep out of it: I wish'd to be free but instead I have bound my self.

Those letters were the work of the villain Hayes, I replied (without thinking of what I said), and they were not of your Doing.

But then he took from beneath his Pillow a seal'd Letter, conveyed it to me, and as our Eyes met he sank back affrighted. I will tell you a Mystery, says he, I followed you and then I lost you. That night I dream'd I killed Mr Hayes and then on the next Day I found his Corse.

Was there Truth in this Dreame? And what must I do?

The nasty Slut appear'd in the Room againe: He is always disturbed so, said she, since he discovered the Body. And his wild Talk is filled with you and Mr Hayes.

The Fever has grown so considerable, I told her, that you must tie him firmly to the Bed. We must make Time his Cure.

Walter lay groaning, and I contemplated his Face for the last time before I turned my Back on him and went on my own Way. This visit had given me News indeed, and as I climbed down the narrow Stairs I unsealed the Letter which he had left with me: at once I saw it to be one of those which had threatened me and which I had layed to Mr Hayes.

And so my own Assistant had watch'd me and plotted against me: it was he, he alone, who wished to be rid of me. It was he who laid deep Planns for me to be gone. And who knows what else he might now have committed to Paper in his Delirium? I was uncertain which way the next Winde might toss me, and as I walked back to my Lodgings I watched as those who travel in suspected Places.

I spoke nothing of my Visit to Walter when I came into the Office on the next morning, for I had too private a Sense and was too close in my Manner of speaking to give them a Rod (as they say) to beat me with.

But they suspected me of I know not what, and the absence of Walter was cried up as a Stroke against me: they whispered against me so as not to be over-heard, but I needed no Trumpet-tongued Devils to understand all their Plots and Intrigues. They avoided me as if my Breath were Contagious, or a Plague-sore running upon me. And then three days following this, Sir Christopher asked to see me: he did not tell me what the Purpose was and, tho' I imagined my self to be Undone, I did not ask Questions for fear of giving him Suspicion. I went into his Chamber trembling, but he did not so much as Hint at Walter but spoke of Mr Vannbrugghe his Projects in a most familiar Manner.

I was easy for a while but then the Purpose behind his Discourse became most plain when, in the next Week, I received a very flaming Injury which was so loaded with Aggravations that I cou'd scarce get over it. For I read this in the Gazette: His Majesty has been pleased to appoint Sir John Vannbrugghe to be Comptroller of His Majesty's Works in England. One remarkable Passage I had like to forgot: the new King had made Vannbrugghe a Knight, but that was as nothing beside this new Case. What are we coming to, and what is to be expected, when those like this Reptile Knight are advanc'd before me? Yet I am held in such Despight that I cannot over-reach him, and so I must burn. It is the same the World over: Persons that have nothing to recommend them but the Marks of Pride and a high Value for them-selves have gained Esteem; being supposed to have some Merit only for pretending it, the Cox-comb struts like a Crow in the Gutter while the others laugh at me behind their Hands. With the Queen dead, Sir Chris, shall lose all Favour with those now in Power and what Hope for me then?