Read The Unexpected Life of Oliver Cromwell Pitts Page 14


  “You must.”

  “Do we bring all that money to him?” I asked.

  Captain Hawkes laughed. “That’s the genius of the man. He never touches a penny. He’s only a thief-catcher.”

  “What thieves does he catch?”

  “Anyone he chooses to catch. He knows every criminal in Great Britain and Ireland. He can make and break them all.”

  A new and terrible thought came to me: I had become a thief. Did that mean that this Mr. Wild would break me?

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  In Which I Learn More about Mr. Jonathan Wild, Chief Thief-Taker of Great Britain and Ireland

  The captain closed the door to his room with his double locks, and once below we began to walk through narrow streets. These streets twisted and turned as if in a maze, although all the people around me seemed to know where they were going, and moved with ease. It seemed as if only I was befuddled.

  “Please, sir,” I asked as we went along, “why must I see this Mr. Wild?”

  “He will decide what to do with you.”

  “But . . . what might he decide?”

  “He has a genius for invention. I never try to predict him. Every thief in Great Britain is employed by him. Anything such thieves take—money or objects—is shared with Mr. Wild, and thereby gains his protection. Once a thing is stolen, Mr. Wild offers it back to the victim for a price. Or he sells it, in this country or France.

  “If Mr. Wild does not like what a thief does, if they do not obey his commands, or act without his permission, they—like Mr. Sandys—are turned over to the magistrates and judges, and Mr. Wild provides evidence against them. Such a one is doomed. Never forget that.”

  “Does everyone know he acts this way?” I asked. “Even the victims?”

  “If they don’t they are fools. You do not go against Mr. Wild. But don’t worry. He’ll find you a place soon enough.”

  I shuddered. The captain must have sensed my unease, for though he said no more, he kept his hand lightly on my shoulder. If he had meant to reassure me, it did the opposite.

  The sign that proclaimed the King’s Head Inn was a painted portrait of a glaring king—just his head—wearing a crown. His name, “Charles I,” was written under it. It caused me to recall the name Mr. Probert had given me—“Charles”—because Oliver Cromwell had—so the schoolmaster claimed—removed this king’s head. And here it was, an image of that head, swinging outside a tavern.

  The sign hung over a wide door, through which poured a great throng of people, mostly men. Inside, the inn proved to be a dimly lit and smoky place with candles in wall sconces, the air rank with the stench of gin and beer, tobacco smoke and sweat.

  The candlelight barely illuminated the scene. There was a serving bar against one wall and on the opposite wall, a fireplace, with smoky coals. There were tables and chairs aplenty, occupied by people constantly talking, which filled the room with chatter. While there was much drinking, too, many were reading newspapers or pamphlets. Others were playing cards or tossing dice. I even saw a table with a backgammon board, which put to mind my father’s gambling. For a moment I felt my life consisted of nothing but inns and outs.

  But as I looked around I was startled to see none other than Mr. Bartholomew in a far corner intent upon reading a paper.

  I plucked on the captain’s sleeve. “Sir, I think Mr.—”

  “We need to hurry,” he said, cutting me off.

  Captain Hawkes guided me forward, making his way through the crowded room, nodding to this one, now that one. I stole a look back. Mr. Bartholomew was no longer there. Had he seen me and fled? I wondered. What if he was reporting me to some magistrate, and charging me with being a highwayman?

  The captain was intent on moving toward the far back of the room, where there was a table near a partly open door as if for easy exit.

  Seated behind the table was a short, stocky man, with broad shoulders and a bulky black coat. His heavy, scowling, poorly shaved face bore thick lips, a large, beakish nose, and slightly bulging eyes beneath dark eyebrows. His hat had been pulled low over a short brown wig. His coat was partly open, and sticking out of it—as though meant to be seen—was the butt end of a pistol.

  As we approached him, a woman, who had been standing there talking to him, turned around. Tall and better dressed than the other women in the tavern, she had a long and narrow face and a double chin, and bore a look of disdain. Her black hair, tied behind her head, was topped by a cap from which two white ribbons dangled. Her skirt was full and she had a short apron. When she went by us, she did not deign to look to the left or the right, certainly not at us.

  The captain paid her no mind either, but as he and I went forward, I observed the man at the table working his way through a small book. He was turning the pages over, one by one, touching a finger to his pink tongue before moving on to a new leaf, the protruding tongue suggestive of a snake. Now and again he made a mark in the book with a quill pen.

  When we came up to the table, the captain halted and said, “Mr. Wild, sir. Captain Hawkes at your service.”

  I was standing before the man Mr. Sandys had called “the devil’s own serpent.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  In Which Mr. Jonathan Wild Decides What to Do with Me.

  Mr. Wild scowled, put down his book and pen, and folded his large stubby-fingered hands before him, then looked up at me. Though he said nothing, his look contained a combination of judgment, threat, and a frightful force that alarmed me much.

  “Mr. Sandys has been warned,” said the captain, as if delivering a report. “And Mr. Bartholomew has delivered.”

  “To what degree?”

  “One hundred and thirty pounds. And there was a stagecoach; fifteen pounds plus a gold snuffbox. A Mr. John Kolbert seems to have lost it.”

  Knowing exactly how the captain stole that snuffbox I wondered at the word “lost.”

  Mr. Wild made a brusque nod and said, “A notice will be posted. And who is this boy?” All along he had kept his malevolent gaze on me.

  “Isn’t he the perfect shoulder sham?” said the captain, with a tuck of his hand beneath my chin to draw my face up. “Have you ever seen more innocence?”

  Mr. Wild’s emotion while looking at me was no more expressive than a lump of ice. “It’s always better,” he said, “when they start young. But he’ll be better with smarter clothing.”

  “Easily done.”

  “Then you may do so,” said Mr. Wild. “What’s his name?”

  “Oliver Pitts.”

  Mr. Wild picked up his little book, dipped his quill into his pot of ink, and scratched in my name. The moment he did so I recalled Mr. Sandys’s words: “If he puts your name in his book, you belong to him.”

  Mr. Wild blew on the writing to dry the ink and glanced up again. “He will be under your charge, Captain. Use him well.” It was a dismissal.

  What reechoed in my mind was the word “use.”

  The captain put his hand on my shoulder, turned me about—I was so distressed I had lost the power of movement—and guided me back toward the entry door. Halfway there, he paused and said, “Come here.”

  He led me to a table around which sat four people, three men and a woman. “Gentlemen. My dear,” he said, giving a bow.

  They exchanged nods plus words of rough and vulgar greeting, after which the captain brought me forward. “My new shoulder sham.”

  All four studied me with what I took to be amusement. One of the men said, “Right out of the choir, isn’t he?”

  They all laughed.

  “I intend,” said the captain, “to try him tomorrow eve at Covent Garden. Shall we say seven o’clock sharp?”

  “All’s game with us,” said the woman.

  Though no more was said, they seemed to have a full understanding among themselves because the captain—without another word—led me out of the King’s Head. As we passed onto the street, I glanced up at the sign: the scowling head of the decapitated kin
g seemed the very image of Mr. Wild.

  I only wished it was.

  As the captain and I went along I said, “Please, sir, why did you refer to me as a shoulder sham?”

  “Do you like the thought of thieves?” he answered.

  “No, sir.”

  “Though you are one yourself.”

  “I didn’t mean to be,” I said meekly.

  “Well then, would you like to make the world safer from thieves?”

  “Yes, sir, I suppose I would.”

  “Excellent! Mr. Wild is giving you that opportunity. It’s all quite simple. Tomorrow you will be at Covent Garden. You will be dressed well, appearing as young, innocent, and rich. You will have a silk handkerchief poking out of your pocket. It being Covent Garden, you can be sure someone will try to pick that pocket.”

  Knowing who had picked my pocket, I glanced at him with suspicion. “The way I lost my money?”

  “Precisely. Except now you will be a lure. The pickpocket will spy your handkerchief. He will move with stealth behind your back so you won’t see him. When he tugs upon your handkerchief you will drop your hand, catch the thief by the wrist, hold him, and give the hue and cry: ‘Thief! Thief!’

  “Of course, I shall instruct you how to know when they try to take your handkerchief.

  “Now then, my four friends—you just met them—will be near. Upon hearing your cry they will lay hands on the thief and hold him. Directly, you shall carry him—with my friends—to a magistrate. The thief will be charged. Sent to gaol. Found guilty. You will be awarded forty pounds sterling for catching and convicting a thief. That money—most of it of course—goes to Mr. Wild.”

  “Please, sir,” I said after a moment, “what happens to the thief?”

  The captain laughed. “Depending on judge and jury, he will be whipped, branded, placed in a pillory, hanged, or transported to the colonies.”

  Shocked, I looked up at the captain. “Sir,” I said, “will I be in any danger?”

  “Not a speck.”

  “Where will you be when this happens?”

  “Looking on from a safe distance.”

  “Close?”

  “Close enough to make sure you do as you’re told. Now come along,” he said, “we must fit you with some better clothing to play the part.”

  Upon hearing such a plan—and my role—I felt embarrassment and dismay that I should be used in such a fashion. But as I reviewed what the captain proposed to do, I saw a clear opportunity. That is to say, I would do precisely what he told me to do. A thief would come and pull upon the handkerchief. I’d catch him. “Thief!” I’d call as instructed. Captain Hawkes’s four rogues would close in to secure the thief.

  At that moment—as the captain’s accomplices worked to hold the pickpocket, and surely the thief must struggle to get away—they would be intent on him, not me. That moment would be my best chance of escape. I need only to plunge into the nearest, thickest crowd, and become lost to their sight. I would be free. Where I might eventually go was a whole other question.

  Elated at my cleverness, I swore to myself I would absolutely do just that. For the first time in a goodly while my spirits soared.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  In Which I Work Toward My Escape.

  The captain took me to a tailor’s shop along some back street. There, an old, stooped man with small eyes and spidery fingers fitted me with a fine blue jacket with wide sleeves, silver-looking buttons, and huge pockets. The captain directed that a silk handkerchief be inserted into my right-side pocket and had the tailor sew that handkerchief tightly to the bottom of the pocket. In other words, the handkerchief could not be withdrawn. If any effort was made to remove it, it would pull and most assuredly I’d feel it. Sensing the tug, I would turn and thereby catch the thief.

  I took pains to admire the plan, the more so since I was convinced it would allow me to escape.

  The clothing once paid for, we returned to the captain’s room and for a good part of the remaining day we practiced how I would catch the shoulder sham. The captain had me stand in the middle of the room, facing now this way, now that. He would then sidle up to me and with light-fingered dexterity tease out the silk handkerchief. Because of the way it was secured, I always felt the tug. At that precise moment I’d bring my right hand down sharply, clutch the captain’s wrist, and hold it tight.

  “Excellent!” proclaimed the captain after some diligent hours of work. “You will make your fortune in catching thieves and winning rewards.” How pleased he was with his plan. But, oh, how delighted I was with the cleverness of my plan, altogether certain that he had no idea what I intended to do.

  That evening the captain locked me in his room and went out upon the town, I know not where. I did not ask. I was glad to be alone. Though I doubted the likelihood of success, I tried to open the locked door. Not possible. I attempted the window with equal failure. I could do nothing but remain.

  Instead, I returned to a study of my father’s letter. That Charity was about to be married, or already was married, continued to astound me. Who was the man? How had she met him? Would I like him? Would he like me? Would Charity and I still be the best of friends? Of course, I was aware that none of that mattered unless I could find her. And I would not be able to find her unless I first gained my freedom.

  Eventually, I fell asleep and did not wake till morning. When I arose, I found that the captain had returned and now it was he who slept. Bored, I went through the pages of Parker’s London Weekly, which he must have purchased the previous eve, finding it mildly entertaining with its London news and gossip. Then I came upon this advertisement:

  Stolen out of the hands of Mr. John Kolbert, esquire, along the Dorchester Road: a gold snuffbox. If any person concerned in the said robbery will discover his accomplices, so that they may be brought to justice, apply to Mr. Jonathan Wild at the King’s Head in the Old Bailey, and he shall have Ten Pounds reward.

  But right there on Captain Hawkes’s table was Mr. John Kolbert’s gold snuffbox. All this informed me precisely how Mr. Wild worked: Captain Hawkes, having stolen the snuffbox from Mr. Kolbert, was now holding it until Mr. Wild could sell it back to the victim. Mr. Kolbert, presumably, would see the advertisement and bring ten pounds to Wild, thereby buying back what was stolen from him. Wild was indeed a wicked man, as was Captain Hawkes.

  All of which is to say I was well aware I was standing on a precipice; if I failed to make my escape, I would not likely have another chance. Before the day was done I would either be free or forever locked into a life of crime.

  Or a prison.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The Momentous Chapter in Which a Shoulder Sham Picks My Pocket.

  It was late afternoon when the captain took me—dressed in my fine new blue jacket—to Covent Garden. I hardly knew what to expect of such a place, save that I assumed it must be a garden. It proved to be nothing of the sort. Rather, it was a large square surrounded by many buildings, including at least one church. In fact, it proved to be an extensive market for the selling of corn, vegetables, flowers, and herbs. Many dealers simply spread their goods upon the pavement. Others had stalls. Any number walked about and cried their goods. I saw one man with a tower of hats upon his head, which he offered for sale.

  Buyers were great in numbers, too, on foot, on horses, in carriages and sedan chairs. Many of the people were quite ordinary, but I saw the wealthy, too. Beyond all else, like so much of what I had seen of London, the market was a mass of people.

  “Now,” the captain said to me when we had reached the middle of the market surrounded by many, “all you need to do is wander about as if you’ve nothing to do than be idle. I promise you, someone will try to take the handkerchief.” He teased the silk handkerchief from my pocket so that it hung partly out. “Mind,” he said, giving me his best smile, “there will be eyes on you.”

  I recalled the fishermen of Melcombe, who tied bits of food to a string and threw it into the sea, in ho
pes a large fish would bite into it. If one did, the fisherman would pull the hapless creature to shore and in time devoured it. This was much the same case: I had been turned into bait. The big difference was that both I and the one I caught would be devoured. My sole hope was that my catch would put up a long struggle. To my shame, let it be admitted I cared little for his fate, being concerned only with mine.

  “What about your friends?” I asked.

  “I assure you,” said the captain, “they are here, and are prepared.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I am. We shall catch the thief and shall share the reward, including you. Now go, and remember all we have practiced.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I congratulate you. You are on your way to a wealthy and successful life.”

  As I looked up at him, and his smile, my heart suddenly misgave me. Had he some other plan in mind, something to do me harm? Some measure I had not considered? Should I run off now?

  All of which is to say, I was utterly agitated. For if his companions were watching me—and the captain said they were—I would be quickly recaptured, and I had no doubt things would go badly. I had seen what happened to Mr. Sandys.

  Before I could steady my mind, Captain Hawkes gave me a little shove, as if pushing a small boat upon the waters of the wide sea. Heart pounding, I went forward only to pause for a moment and glance back at the captain. He nodded, while offering his most engaging smile. Deciding it would be wisest to follow my original plan, I moved on and aimed for the thickest of crowds. Mind, I was short, so it felt as if all of humanity was towering in and about me.

  Anticipating I knew not what, I walked about slowly, waiting for something to happen. My stomach churned.

  Then, before I knew it, I felt a tug.

  Perfectly practiced, I dropped my right hand down, felt a narrow wrist, gripped it as tightly as I could, then spun about and looked up into the thief’s face.

  It was my sister, Charity.