Whether I was fatigued from my long journey or still reeling from all that had happened in London, I could hardly grasp my situation: that a well-known author, reportedly deceased, should be standing before me in excellent health.
"Daniel Defoe!" I could only echo his name.
Mr Defoe allowed himself a slight smile. "I see you've heard of me."
Quickly recollecting myself, I tried to salvage the idiotic impression I must have made. "I beg your pardon, sir --- I'm honoured to meet you! I never imagined you knew my family."
"Your uncle would not have jeopardised my incognito by speaking of it."
"No, of course not." My gaze wandered past him to the rooms my uncle had occupied.
Defoe cast a sympathetic eye over my bedraggled appearance. "I shall take my leave of you now, Mistress Bitter. You have travelled far, and courtesy dictates that I abstain from small talk until you are rested." He handed me the door key and stepped into the hallway. "My quarters are just above – please call upon me for any assistance that you need."
"Thank you, sir --- oh! Might I first borrow a bottle of ink and a quill? I must send a letter at once."
The abruptness of my request might have surprised Defoe, but Hector had been uppermost in my mind from the moment I set foot on the Whitehall Stairs.
He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "You're aware, are you not, that London is full of spies employed by various patrons? If you are connected with the court or government, they are sure to intercept your letters."
I recalled my uncle's wry jokes regarding letters that came from London. "You'd think spies could learn to open them without tearing everything to shreds," he would say.
But my letters would be particularly dangerous. They could disclose my relationship with a certain pirate and put us all at risk. "What do you suggest?"
Defoe cleared his throat. "My alias can be of use to you," he said. "No one opens Mr Singleton's letters --- he is a person of no importance. He can address your letters in his own hand, and send them by regular post, undetected." He laid a finger beside his long, thin nose for a moment, then added, "And Mr Singleton collects his correspondence from the Golden Lion, should anyone need to know."
I looked sharply at his face, but saw none of the clever, catlike dissembling that marked Lord Hervey's expressions. Defoe's words conveyed the sincere offer of an honest man. I smiled. "Thank you, sir. You have taken a great weight off my mind."
A short while later, I sat at my uncle's writing table. Hector and I had agreed on what could be allowed in our letters, and I tried to keep to our accord:
My dear friend,
At last I have arrived, but my employer must think lightly of the effort it cost me, since I am now constrained to wait – for how long I know not – until it pleases him to command me.
Your letters will reach me unmolested if you direct them to Mr Singleton at the Golden Lion, Goodman's Yard, The Little Minories.
There I paused, quill in hand. I contended with myself for a time, then quickly wrote:
All the wonders of London are nothing to me without you.
The sudden tightness in my throat made me swallow, and I stopped. One more sentence in this vein, and the floodgates of my emotions would surely burst. With a sigh, I reluctantly closed as Hector had directed:
Affectionately,
Your own friend.
After taking the letter upstairs, I returned to the cluttered rooms below. My tumultuous journey had ended at last, but it was solitude I sought, far more than rest.
I walked about my uncle's front room, where a folded campaign bed I did not know he owned was leaning against one wall. On the other side of the room, a long settle bore impressions from boot heels at one end; I pictured him taking a volume from the five crowded bookshelves above it before stretching out to read.
Naturally, there was no shortage of weapons: I discovered two pistols under the writing table, a small Turkish vein cutter in the curio cabinet, and a cutlass lying upon the mantel of the small fireplace.
The second chamber looked spare and impersonal - a trundle-bed, two small side tables, and an empty chest of drawers. The buffet de corps, on the other hand, was so characteristic of my uncle that it made me smile. It was stuffed with papers, maps, munitions, keys, and boxes. A sheaf of papers was even pinned to one wall with a small, sharp dagger. I sat on the settle and contemplated the rooms.
I hoped that shutting out the world would allow me the comforting pretense that my uncle was still alive and nearby. I stared at the front door, imagining his familiar step outside, and the way he would enter a room with a smile and a story to tell. And so I waited, like everything in these rooms, for a man who would never return.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I recalled his murder. If only I could go back in time to warn him before he set out on that fatal journey home. Don't ride out on Bodmin Moor where death awaits you. Don't make me miss you for the rest of my life. Don't. But he was gone forever. I opened my eyes and resumed my aimless wandering through the deserted rooms. Only the sound of my footsteps broke the silence.
Despite the fact that he was my uncle, in some sense I would always regard Harry Bitter as the wise and loving father who brought me up. Yet, here amongst the books he had read, the clothes he had worn and the mementos he had kept, I could also see him as his colleagues and superiors undoubtedly did. All the objects in these rooms were the possessions of a skilled and bold adventurer; a military man who could handle weapons, horses, and daring exploits equally well.
The idea that I could follow this dangerous profession was suddenly preposterous, but I had brought it all on myself.
King George had offered to help me defeat a deadly enemy, on condition that I join the King's Messenger service. Without thinking, I had agreed. Now, as Hector would say, I must lie in my bed the way I made it.
My eyes came to rest upon a large, empty duffel bag in a corner, and I made an effort to focus on practical matters, packing the items from my small rucksack into the sturdier, roomier bag. It swallowed up my pistols, scimitar, books, and badge. Lastly, I added the only proofs of my marriage – the poesy ring inscribed Guard well my heart and Teague's logbook.
I made a list of necessities such as candles, ink and other sundries, and extracted a small, twisted paper from my pocket. Inside were two of the little diamonds given me by the Countess of Yarmouth, to keep me from abject poverty, as she had said. But I already needed to sell them. Once they were gone and the proceeds spent, what would I do?
The night brought me but a few hours' sleep, and the next morning, I was roused by Mrs Hutson rapping at my door. "A post carriage brought this," she said, handing me a note.
When I opened it, it proved to be a scribbled order from the King: I was to present myself at once. I quickly washed, dressed, and then ran up the street to Goodman's Yard, where I found the post-chaise waiting to take me to Kensington Palace as though I were a proper Messenger.
Upon arriving, I was escorted through a maze of passages and up the backstairs – the entrance used for private meetings with His Majesty. As I reached the top, I could hear the King swearing in German accompanied by a sporadic series of thumping noises. The Page smiled to himself, and went in to announce me.
I entered to find King George wigless, red-faced, and out of breath. His wig lay on the floor in a disorderly state, and he gave it a last ill-tempered kick before sitting at his desk.
"One of my agents is on a mission in the Indies, under an alias," he grumbled. "But the imprudent fool has lost his ship and been captured by the Spaniards. They have him in some damned dunghill of a fortress. You are to exchange a Spanish prisoner for my agent. Here is a letter of instruction for you." He shoved a paper across his desk.
I accepted it and he sat back, one hand rubbing his chin as he stared at me.
"You will collect the Spaniard from Newgate with this warrant," he said, and threw another paper at me. "Escort him under guard to Cuba, and make the exchange. A simple enough task."
One word had alarmed me: Newgate. Why would a state prisoner be held in Newgate instead of the Tower?
"May I beg to know what the Spaniard was charged with, sire?" I hoped that my question would not cause him to kick me about the room like his wig.
"Theft," he replied, his scowl daring me to ask anything more. "You will make the exchange as soon as possible – before my agent's identity is discovered."
He paused for so long that it seemed my audience was at an end, but then he revealed the rest of my errand. "It is not in your instructions," he said, "but after the exchange, you are to help him re-take his ship and lend any and every assistance requested to ensure that he completes his mission."
Then he turned his attention back to his desk, and shooed me away with one hand.
I bowed and backed out of the room, turning only when I reached the door. As I started down the backstairs, I heard him call out, "And see Hervey about the money."
Outside the palace, the autumn sky was overcast, but I was in an exceedingly sweet humour as I walked towards the post-chaise. There was a new lightness in my step and a delicious glow warmed my heart: the King's errand required me to go at once to the Indies, where I could rejoin Hector. Everything around me was beautiful.
The post-chaise took me as far as St James' Palace, where Lord Hervey received me in his state apartments in a most ingratiating manner. Our meeting was brief, but not devoid of interest.
"If, despite your help, the King's agent cannot fulfil his mission," he told me, "I will settle your claim for expenses. However, if he succeeds . . ." Lord Hervey paused and leaned on one elbow, putting his hand to his lips. "I think you'll find your expenses will be more than covered by your profit from the gold."
"The gold?" I tried not to stare at his false teeth.
"I don't pretend to know the nature of the King's secret venture," he said with a feline smile, "But one hears things, and what I hear is gold. A great deal of it. Masses, in fact. You are to pay yourself out of the venture. And should you come into possession of any interesting facts in your travels, I trust you will remember who first told you of the gold."
"I shall remember," I promised. Then my curiosity got the better of me. "By the by, I thought all messengers were paid by the Paymaster–"
"Pelham, you mean," he cut me off. "His Majesty wishes to keep your service a secret; Pelham is the surest route to having it noised about the town."
His voice carried unmistakable signs of his animosity towards Pelham, though his face was calm and mask-like.
I was beginning to get a taste of the backstabbing world of the courtiers, and was glad to bid adieu to Lord Hervey. I had no doubt that he would betray anything I confided to him, the instant it could advance his interest.
Leaving Hervey's residence, I walked east, and shortly came to Panton Street, where a goldsmith called George Wickes was said to buy diamonds.
There was a small uproar in front of Mr Wickes' shop.
The goldsmith was arguing with a young man and threatening to have him taken in charge for selling stolen goods. The young man, dressed in a fashion similar to myself, had tried to sell a valuable stone without telling how he had acquired it. Mr Wickes, seeing he was dealing with a person of no great means, refused to buy the stone, and was looking for a thief-taker to seize the young man.
I realised that I could not sell the diamonds here - the clothes I wore would make it likely I should be thought a thief. I drew back from the fracas, but Mr Wickes rounded on me and said, "And you! What's your business here, lad?"
"I was told to meet my employer here." With no time to think, this was the first thing that came to me. "Lord Hervey."
There was silence. Then Mr Wickes looked me up and down, and said, "Lord Hervey, eh? What for?"
His hesitation encouraged me to invent more. "I have a report. If he is not here, I'd be obliged to you, sir, if you can direct me to him."
Mr Wickes clearly had no desire to involve himself in political conniving. "Just up the road there," he said, pointing. "Then turn right and keep walking."
I retraced my steps, and when I reached St James' Palace, I simply kept going until I was in Green Park. With no easy way to sell the diamonds, I walked through the park trying to clear my head. Surely I could arrange some way out of my difficulty.
As I walked along the lovely avenue, I gazed up at the bare branches of the trees, and then down at the dead leaves on the cold grass. I must have been walking for some time, head down and lost in thought, before I stopped short. I was staring at a pair of blue shoes worn by a passer-by that I had nearly walked into as they proceeded in the opposite direction. We both side-stepped in the same direction. Without lifting my head, I side-stepped the other way, but the blue shoes followed. Then the stranger began to laugh, and I finally looked up, startled. "You?"
"I'm afraid so," said Elizabeth Swann. "I shouldn't have, but I saw you walking along with your head down and I couldn't resist." Then she looked anxious. "Did my letter ever reach you?"
"Yes, it did." One could argue that the loneliness of London would have made me glad to see any familiar face at all, but whatever the cause, I no longer felt jealous or intimidated by her. I determined to try to mend fences. "At times, I'm a bit hot-headed. The things I said to you aboard the Pearl . . ."
"I have forgotten it already – it all seems like another life," she assured me.
All at once I noticed that her figure looked quite rounded, and I recalled something Jack had told me. "I've heard congratulations are in order."
"Thank you – yes, I am Mrs Turner now, and happy to leave 'King Swann' in the past." She smiled, but I thought she looked a bit wistful. Then she gestured towards the road where a very smart coach was waiting. "I'm staying at my cousin's house – perhaps you'll come back with me?"
It was only a short ride to Hanover Square, which had everything to recommend it except trees. New houses were set round a large grassy oval enclosed by iron railings, which evidently served as a private "park" for the square's residents.
Inside the house, there were few furnishings, and we had to uncover two chairs in order to settle ourselves for tea.
Elizabeth seemed eager that we should be friends, and made me most welcome. She had come to London to settle her father's estate, only to find everything held in Chancery. Like me, she was running short of money as the estate was ground up and picked over by the lawyers.
"I shall sell the coach next week," she remarked. "Beyond that, I have no idea how to pay my passage back to the Indies, or the expenses of my lying in."
I stole a look at her thickening waistline. "At least it looks to be some months away." Then I had an idea. "Perhaps Lord Hervey would help. I nearly asked him what to do about selling some diamonds." Swearing her to strictest confidence, I acquainted her with my own situation, and the reason I had been in Green Park.
"You mustn't trust Lord Hervey," Elizabeth said with alarm. "He's reptilian. And those jade teeth . . ." She shuddered. "Furthermore, he's Walpole's man. He detests the King, and you're the King's messenger, so . . ."
I could see from this that there was no avoiding the very thing I hated most about the court – the relentless self-interest of everyone attached to it. The sooner I was finished with the King's errand, the sooner I would be finished with the court.
Elizabeth had been frowning in thought, but she suddenly thrust out her hand.
"Look – why not let me sell the diamonds for you?" she said. "The Swanns have bought all sorts of things from Wickes – he won't think to ask where I got these. I'll give you a receipt, and you can tell me where to bring the proceeds." She laughed. "Then I can beg alms from you when I run out of money."
I gave her the diamonds and directions to my lodgings, cautioning her to avoid being followed.
"Of course," she said. Then she surveyed my clothes doubtfully. "You didn't wear a gown when you went to Kensington?"
I laughed. "I'm lucky to have boots and a warm cloak! I have no gowns. Don't tell me I'm expected to wear one?"
"I know they're torture," she said. "But at court, that sort of protective colouring might be to your advantage. The most incessant, vicious scheming goes on. It doesn't hurt to pass amongst them unremarked. I could find you something of my aunt's. She's in Italy – it won't incommode her in the least."
I shook my head. "I appreciate the gesture, but it isn't necessary. I don't plan to return once I reach the Indies."
"As you like," she replied. "But life can be uncertain." She was gazing at something behind me, but I did not turn to look. I knew what it was – a portrait of her father, Governor Swann.
At the end of my visit, she surprised me with one last question. "What do you hear from Jack?" she enquired, as though it had been on her mind all afternoon.
I gave a short laugh. "The last time I saw Jack, he had pocketed nearly all of my diamonds. I expect he's in the Caribbean by now, pillaging and plundering to his heart's content."
She nodded. "Well," she said, almost to herself, "I owe him a great deal. I've not forgotten."
The next day was Sunday. Defoe customarily attended a Dissenter's church for most of the day, and so it was evening when I called upon him. I told him that I might receive a visit from an old friend who was raising capital for me to replenish my dwindling resources.
"I never expected to be detained here," I said. "And in fact, Mrs Turner is in similar circumstances."
"If you have anything to invest, I might be able to propose a venture," Defoe replied with a sidelong look. "Although it is attended by some degree of risk."
My acquaintance with Mr Defoe was proving to be most fortunate. I sat forward. "Won't you tell me the details and let me decide for myself?"
"I know the captain of a certain ship," he said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "He is preparing to take on a cargo of tea. If you or Mrs Turner would care to invest in his venture, you would come in for a share of the profit."
Having spent my youth in Cornwall, I understood him at once. "And the tea is . . . uncustomed?"
"Yes," he admitted. "Paying the excise tax more than doubles the price. A great many people cannot afford tea unless it is smuggled in." He ceased drumming his fingers. "It is the same for many goods – salt, wine, coffee, even bread. If it weren't for the free traders, life would be hard indeed for poorer folk."
I nodded. And life would be hard for folk like me as well. "I shall write to Mrs Turner, but I think I can assure you that we will each invest in the venture."
"And I shall act as your banker," he replied. "The ship is the Lottery, and the captain's name is Quintus Lambert. I shall need your money within a week if possible."
I retired to bed in a state of perfect serenity. I would be able to supply my want of money, and the King's errand fitted perfectly with my desire for a quick return to the Indies and Hector. I slept soundly that night, untroubled by dreams of Orion and his dog.
I wrote to Elizabeth the next morning, explaining Defoe's proposal. Then I scraped together every last bit of money I could find, and spent several hours locating a ship and booking passage to the Indies for myself and my prisoner.
It was late afternoon when I returned to my rooms. I secured all of the weapons, unfolded the campaign cot, and retrieved a set of manacles from behind the settle. I opened the warrant and blinked as I read my prisoner's name. What was this?
Hermano Sombra, it read. My prisoner was evidently a Spanish friar.
I glanced at the name again, puzzled. 'Brother Ghost'? Sombra could mean shadow or ghost, but either would be a very odd name for a friar.
However, since Brother Sombra was being sent back to his native land, he should prove a docile prisoner and not seek to discommode me. I decided to collect him from Newgate that very evening, return to my rooms for my duffel bag, and then escort him to the ship that would take us to the Indies.
It would be a simple task, just as King George had said.
By eight o'clock that night, I was at the entrance to Newgate, warrant in hand. The prison's hellish, deafening din was audible from the street, but when I entered through the gates, the noise rose around me as though all the devils in hell were shouting out at once. I gagged at the overwhelming stink. Acrid fumes of urine and sweat made my eyes water.
I followed the keeper, my arms pinned at my sides to avoid touching the greasy, reeking passage walls. In the darkness, nothing of the floor could be seen, but its peculiar crunch under my boots unnerved me. Was I walking on gravel? Grains of rye?
We went quickly through the women's wards, to a chorus of insulting taunts. From there we passed the men's wards which echoed with whistles and rude threats. I startled, as a snarling dog ran past me.
"That one's a good ratter," observed the keeper. "Keeps the population down, don' it?"
If I ever found my way home from this particular circle of hell, my first act would be to burn my clothes.
On the far side of the men's ward, we stopped at a row of ten or twelve tiny cells. The keeper smirked. "For the condemned."
He opened a cell, and I looked in.
A tall, not unhandsome man with very black hair and beard was sleeping on a mat on the floor, attired in the black habit of an Augustinian friar. Our approach had not disturbed him – perhaps he had grown accustomed to the constant uproar of Newgate. Even in his habit, one could see that he was an active, able man.
The keeper struck the cell's wall with his cudgel and yelled, "Oi! You! Wake up, ye thievin' bastard!"
Brother Sombra opened his eyes, and the keeper unlocked his shackles. As I fastened my own pair of manacles on him, I explained in hurried Spanish that he would shortly be on his way back to his own country. To my surprise, this news seemed to disturb him.
Then the keeper looked towards the door, and I heard a familiar, boozy voice.
"Sorry – I appear to have made a wrong turn. Where can I find a Lazaro Bolivar Smith - or Smithy?"
I froze, then turned to see none other than Jack Sparrow, swaying unsteadily as he spoke to the keeper. As soon as he saw me, he brightened, flashing a golden grin.
"Hello, darling," he said. "How's married life, eh?"
My jaw dropped. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd gone to Tortuga!"
"I promised t' see off an old friend," he replied, "but he seems to have vanished." He looked at Brother Sombra, puzzled. "An' who might this be?"
Something else was afoot. I didn't think for one moment that Jack Sparrow would enter a prison merely to visit someone. I suspected an escape would soon be underway, and I wanted nothing to do with it. "I'm on the King's errand. I'm to take this man in charge. I have a warrant-"
"Ah! There 'e is!" Jack craned around me and waved at a man in the midst of the ward. Then, sinking his voice, he leaned close and muttered, "He's to be tried an' hanged tomorrow, savvy?"
As I drew back from Jack's rum-soaked breath, I began to notice an increasing number of people bustling through the ward and passages in all directions, pushing and shoving others out of their way. The atmosphere of the prison began to change, as if becoming charged with a violent energy.
I heard a woman shout, "They're bringin' in the Lambert gang!"
"Celebrities," said Jack with a dismissive shrug.
I stepped toward the public ward to get a closer look, and drew a sharp breath. Most of the prisoners I could see had either broken or unlocked their shackles, though they were holding their arms in a way that made this difficult to observe. The keepers were oblivious; either bribed or unfit, I could not say which. My muscles tensed and my heart pounded as understanding dawned.
This prison was about to be sacked by a mob.
I turned back to Jack and someone pushed me hard. I banged into the doorway as the noise in the ward became an uproar. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a horde of prisoners pouring in from somewhere, filling every inch of space, yelling, pushing, and fighting. I turned to face them and was instantly thrown back against the granite wall of the passage by the sheer weight of unwashed bodies as everyone pressed to get through the passages at once.
The back of my head hit the wall, and my arms were scraped raw as I struggled against the rough stone surface. I turned my eyes to the barreled ceiling, wondering if this would be the last sight I saw on earth. Sweat ran down my neck as I twisted, resisting the tide of people, trying to draw breath. For a moment, I had a glimpse of Jack nearby, but could not even reach out my hand; it was pinned to my side by the pressure of the crowd.
Then Brother Sombra quickly pushed his way past and disappeared into a pulsating wall of rioters.
I tried to push my way after Brother Sombra. Redoubling my struggles, I yelled and pushed roughly, returning the blows that fell upon me and jabbing people with my elbows. At last my hand closed about the grip of my pistol.
Jack appeared, pulling me to his side quickly. He pressed his hand over mine so I could not draw my weapon.
"You really don't want to be doin' that here, love." He spoke calmly in my ear. "I'll help you get him."
At that moment, another crushing wave of inmates forced us apart, and I lost sight of Jack. I fought back, clawing my way towards where I thought he might be, but the mob carried me along like a cork in a river. I could hardly fill my lungs amid the press of bodies.
If I fell or was pushed to the ground, it would be the end of me.
I would be trampled to death.