The Traitors' Gate

  Sary grinned. “Don’t you worry none. I’ll be there.”

  She started off.

  “Wait!” I called.

  She turned.

  “How did you know my father was in prison?”

  She grinned. “O’Doul told me ’e would most likely be.”

  As she went off, I was quite convinced she was the most unusual person I knew. That thought brought me against a harsh realization: Though I was trying to uncover the truth, my whole world—or so it seemed—was trying to keep it from me! But for all Sary the Sneak’s oddness, she appeared to be the one person willing to speak truth to me.

  CHAPTER 30

  I Visit Whitecross Street Prison

  It was about five o’clock that afternoon when my mother, my sister, Brigit, and I, as well as Mr. Tuckum and Mr. Farquatt, alighted from the hackney coach that the Frenchman had kindly provided for transportation. As we cantered across the City, no one had spoken. I kept stealing glances at Mr. Farquatt, wondering where exactly he was employed, wondering too how I might discover where he lived so I could tell Sary. Unfortunately, no opportunity presented itself. He was too busy paying courtly attentions to my sister and my mother. To my eyes, the effort was rather forced. As for Brigit, he positively snubbed her, as she did him. I kept wondering why.

  Once out of the carriage, Mr. Tuckum announced, “There she sits: Whitecross Debtors’ Prison.”

  The dread building—already gloomy in the afternoon’s dark—was a redbrick and gray stone structure four stories high with many a barred window. The central building had been expanded to the right and left. These wings sat behind high brick walls.

  The main building had extensions reaching out to the street. Between these arms, somewhat recessed, was the main entryway, set behind a high, spiked iron fence.

  A large arched window faced directly from the left arm of the prison building onto the sidewalk. Over this, window bars had been woven vertically and horizontally, with just enough space left between them so a man might reach out a begging hand. In the stone lintel, words had been chiseled:

  PRAY REMEMBER POOR DEBTORS HAVING NO ALLOWANCE

  Even as we approached the entryway, I observed a man behind these bars. Though I could not see his face clearly, he had reached through the grating with a small tin bucket in hand. He was trying to attract donations from passersby by rattling the bucket while endlessly repeating the phrase, “Remember poor debtors. Remember poor debtors.”

  Mr. Tuckum paid no heed but guided us toward the prison gate. “Built in 1815,” he proclaimed, as if giving a guided tour. “Successor to Newgate Prison. Has accommodations for four hundred and ninety prisoners—exclusively debtors. Equally divided: Male paupers, male gentry, female paupers, female gentry. It gives me pleasure to inform you that each section has been named to commemorate previously existing—old-fashioned—prisons: Horsemonger, Fleet, Marshalsea, and the Clink. Shall we enter, please.”

  There was a uniformed guard posted before the main gate. Upon seeing Mr. Tuckum, he saluted, then he and the bailiff exchanged a few friendly words. Once done, the guard used a large brass key attached to his belt to open the gate. We went forward, only to be confronted by an ironbound door and yet another guard. Mr. Tuckum and this man also chatted briefly. Finally, that door was unlocked and swung back on heavy hinges.

  We found ourselves in a poorly lit vestibule with yet another guard. He was seated next to a table upon which lay an open book, pen, and ink.

  “Mr. Tuckum,” the guard said in greeting. “Good afternoon, sir. Would you and your guests be so good as to sign in? Christian name, surname, please,” he added.

  “Of course,” said Mr. Tuckum, and he bent over the ledger and signed with a flourish. Then, in order, my mother, my sister, myself, Mr. Farquatt, and finally Brigit did the same. Only after we all had autographed the book did the guard unlock the door that enabled us to proceed into the prison itself.

  It was not what I expected. Here was a large, spacious courtyard in which perhaps seventy people—men, women, and children—were milling about in what appeared to be aimless fashion. It could have been a public London promenade. There were fair numbers of patently poor people, but there were others quite well dressed, including one or two gentlemen in top hats. People were sauntering alone or in groups, sitting, chatting, reading. At the far back wall—where there were no windows—a few men were even hitting a ball against the brick with small racquets. Among all these people—I presumed them to be prisoners—a number of guards mingled. One approached us. He recognized Mr. Tuckum and saluted. “May I help you, sir?”

  “You have a new prisoner. Just delivered this morning. Mr. Wesley Huffam. His family wishes to visit.”

  “’E’s a popular man,” said the guard. “Been ’ere just a few hours and been visited already. This way, please.”

  As I speculated as to who might have visited Father, the guard led us to one side of the court, then down along a hallway. I presumed it was into one of the wings of the building I had seen from the outside. Facing this hallway was an array of doors, many of them open, leading into small rooms. Over all was a smell of decay. Nothing was very clean, and I observed many a pile of garbage left to rot.

  I could see people inside the rooms. Some were alone, others in the company of two or three persons. In a few I saw what appeared to be whole families, including children.

  “Here you are, sir.”

  We crowded into an undersized room, which contained a barred window, a low bed, a tiny table, and a stool. There was barely enough space for us to squeeze in. Father lay full length upon the bed, but as soon as we entered, he sat up and looked upon us with the eyes of a drubbed dog.

  At first we just stood there, no one speaking, until Mother said: “Is there no food to be had here?”

  It was the guard who spoke out, and he did so in such a brisk, clipped fashion, it was clearly a practiced response: “Breakfast: Eight ounces of bread, plus one pint of oatmeal, alternately seasoned with salt and molasses. Dinner: Four days a week, three ounces cooked meat, eight ounces of bread; three days a week, soup with three ounces of meat, plus vegetables. Supper: The same as breakfast.”

  “But, of course,” interjected Mr. Tuckum, “that is the prison custom at four shillings a week. Considerably more may be purchased by arrangement with Mr. Makepeace.”

  Again there was silence. Father had yet to say a word. Clarissa went to him, sat by his side, and put an arm about his shoulders in a rare gesture of affection. “Pa,” she said, “as you can see, Mr. Farquatt has come with us. He has something particular to say to you. Something very good.”

  My father looked up. It was as if he had not noticed Mr. Farquatt. When he did, he frowned.

  The little man stepped forward. “Mr. Huffam, sir,” he said, making a brief bow. “I am so profoundly grieved to see you in such difficulties. But if I may speak to you—in private—perhaps I can return you to some joy.”

  My father gazed at him with little enthusiasm. “If you wish, sir,” he said.

  “And I, Mr. Huffam,” put in Mother, “must talk to you as well.”

  “And, Father,”! added, “I should like to speak to you too.”

  My father sighed. “Each in turn,” he said without any visible eagerness.

  “Oh, please,” Clarissa begged, “let Mr. Farquatt speak first.”

  “As you wish,” Father replied.

  At which point we left the room and shut the door so that the two men might confer in private. But Mother, Clarissa, and a tense Brigit hovered just outside the door—twittering, it seemed to me. Not wishing to take part, I strolled back down the hallway. Mr. Tuckum and the guard came along behind me.

  I returned to the courtyard, curious to observe more of the place. It was oddly calm, a world unto itself. And yet, as I looked further, there was barely a smile to be seen. Rather, a sullen gloom prevailed, an aimless mood that suggested not so much boredom as stagnation.

  Around three sides of th
is courtyard were ranged balconies, with any number of doors leading out upon them. I was just strolling about when a movement above caught my eye. When I looked up, I saw someone I knew: Chief Inspector Ratchet.

  Simultaneously, he must have seen me, for he immediately ducked into a room, making it clear—to me, at any rate—that he did not wish to be noticed.

  I spun about in search of Mr. Tuckum, but he, too, had gone. Not knowing where, but thinking he might have returned to my father, I hurried back down the hall, only to find my sister in tears, my mother consoling her, and Mr. Farquatt to one side, not looking like a man who was moving along the happy road to marriage. Brigit stood in shadows. I could not judge her emotions.

  “What has happened?” I asked.

  “Your foolish father,” said Mother, “wishes to consider before agreeing to Mr. Farquatt’s kind offers.”

  “You mean,” I blurted out, “he doesn’t approve of the marriage?”

  “Nor,” said my mother, “though it’s impossible to understand, Mr. Farquatt’s kindness in offering to pay his debt.”

  “But … why?” I asked.

  “You had best speak to him yourself.”

  “But what did he say?”

  “Master John,” called Brigit from the shadows, “he wishes more time to think about it.” It was as if she were defending Father.

  “What is there to think about?” I asked.

  “Master John,” said Mr. Farquatt with his inevitable little bow, “merci. Now, that is a completely reasonable question. It is all quite insulting.”

  “It’s awful,” wailed Clarissa. “But I will marry on my own!”

  “Now, now,” said Mr. Farquatt, “I do believe it is right and necessary to have your father’s blessing.”

  “I beg you,” Mother said to me, “go and talk some sense into your father. He’ll listen to you.”

  I hesitated, but since I did wish to speak to him, I went into the room.

  CHAPTER 31

  I Learn the Truth

  Father was sitting upon the bed, one hand covering his eyes in an attitude of much unhappiness.

  I shut the door and sat down on the chair opposite.

  He did not move.

  “Have you,” I finally said, “really withheld permission for Mr. Farquatt to marry Clarissa?”

  “Mr. Farquatt requested no such thing.”

  I stared at him. “I beg your pardon, sir. Did you say Mr. Farquatt did not request Clarissa’s hand in marriage?”

  “That is correct.”

  “But you just met with him.”

  “So I did.”

  “Then … what did he say?”

  “It is nothing I wish to speak to you about.”

  “Would you rather speak to Chief Inspector Ratchet?”

  He looked up at me then, eyes full of wretchedness. “What do you mean?”

  “Inspector Ratchet is in this prison. Now. He is, I believe, watching who comes to visit you. Have you had many visitors?”

  My father covered his eyes again.

  I summoned up my courage and said, “Father, it’s time for you to tell me what this affair is all about.”

  As if pondering my request, he remained silent.

  “The whole family is suffering,” I pressed.

  When he continued to say nothing, I determined to wait him out.

  At last Father got up and began to pace. I watched in silence. Then, as if it took great effort, he paused and faced me. “Very well, John, you shall know all.”

  “But it must be the truth, Father,”! said.

  He had the grace to blush, then went back to the bed, sat down, rubbed his hands together, and started to tell his tale.

  “You observed me gambling,” he began.

  “At the Red Lion,” I said.

  “That is but one such place I frequent,” he admitted without looking at me. “There are others. Here, there.” He sighed. “In truth, many places. But then, all London thrives upon gambling.

  “Be that as it may,” he continued, “it came to be that I owed money to a fairly large number of gentlemen. May I stress the word ‘gentlemen.’ But, John, I swear to you, in no case did my debt to any one man ever exceed ten pounds. And that includes Mr. O’Doul.”

  “But, Father—”

  He held up a hand. “If you desire the truth, you must be patient.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He continued. “In total, I will allow that the sum of my debts came to some three hundred pounds, but not—I repeat—to any one man. The law is clear: You cannot go to debtors’ prison if your debt to anyone is merely twenty pounds or less.

  “Therefore,” he went on, “knowing the total, knowing how large it was, I sought a means by which to reduce it. Very well, then, I am employed by the Naval Ordinance Office. Do you know what I do there?”

  I remembered what the clerk at the office had told me: “You copy ordinance specifications for the cannon manufacturers.”

  He glanced up at me. “I was not aware you knew. Yes, that’s what I do. Do you know how a musket ball or cannonball works?”

  Puzzled by his drift, I was nonetheless able to recall Sergeant Muldspoon’s endless lessons. “A musket ball or cannonball is pushed into a smooth gun muzzle. A charge—the gunpowder—is set off. The force of the explosion throws out that shot with great energy.”

  “I am surprised you know. But, John, if you take that round shot and change its shape—make it oblong—and if the inner barrel of that musket or cannon has spiraling lines engraved in it, do you know what will happen?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A round shot, without spiraling lines, might travel a hundred yards—and be inaccurate at that. But if those spiraling lines are in the musket or cannon barrel, an oblong shot will go four hundred yards and be accurate!

  “The spiraling is called ‘rifling.’ An extraordinary invention. It has been known for some time. But we British have perfected it,” he said with some pride. “Rifling will change warfare forever. Once introduced, the Royal Navy will gain an enormous advantage over our enemies. The same for our infantry. Think of it, John—no more close battles. Britain shall attack and defend from a safe distance, an untouchable distance. We shall be invincible. I assure you, such will be our superiority, all wars will cease. Peace—enforced by noble Britain—shall come to mankind.”

  “Father,” I said, for I was losing patience, “I’m very glad to know all this, but… but what has this to do with your debt?”

  “Everything. You see, it was I who copied out the specifications of our rifling invention. Memorization—be it the lines of a play or anything else—is easy for me. Which is to say, the complete specifications for rifling—for this amazing advance—are in my head.”

  “But still—”

  “John, listen! Now then, it occurred to me that there might be other nations interested in this invention. I thought: If I could provide the information, they would pay me enough money to wipe away our debts.”

  “But, Father,”! cried, “that would be treason!”

  He smiled weakly. “Not if I gave them false information. John, I am an actor. Unlike that asinine Nottingham, I am a good one. I assure you, I can play a part to perfection.”

  I looked at him, astonished.

  “Very well, then. In various gambling establishments I let word out that I had this information. That it might be purchased for … three hundred pounds. Unfortunately, as it happened, the Home Office got wind of this. Chief Inspector Ratchet—”

  “What about him?”

  “—came to me. He informed me the government had learned of my … game. I assume we have our own spies.”

  “Who, Father?”

  “I have no idea who told him. What difference does it make? In any case, Ratchet warned me that he knew what I was planning. Well, yes, the word ‘treason was mentioned … in passing. But I gave the inspector my word as a gentleman that no such thing was ever intended. In turn, though he is just the son o
f a Chelsea publican, he promised that the government would not press charges if …”

  “If what?” I managed to say through my dismay.

  “If I played a part for them. That is, by appearing to be a traitor, the government might discover what spies approached me. Those spies would be apprehended, and the secret of rifling would remain a British secret.”

  “What … what did you do?”

  “What choice did I have? Besides, John, I realized it would be my greatest acting role. So of course I agreed to work with them. But …”

  “But what?”

  “Now then, John, I did not owe any one person three hundred pounds. I told you, I could manage small amounts. Five pounds here, seven pounds there. But, suddenly, all my debts were gathered into one sum. Someone purchased them all”

  “Mr. O’Doul?”

  “Perhaps. But where O’Doul got such an enormous sum of money is quite the mystery. When I asked him where he got it, he refused to say. Still, there is no question he is after the secret.”

  “For whom?”

  “He’s an Irish rebel,” Father stated.

  After a moment he continued: “In short, I am being offered freedom from that debt in exchange for the rifling secret. Blackmail. Ratchet is waiting to see who comes to make me an offer. He believes there will be more than one. And he will arrest them all.”

  “Does this mean that as soon as Inspector Ratchet apprehends these spies, you will be freed?”

  “Alas, the inspector promises only that when—and if—they arrest the spies, I will not be charged with treason. I still have a debt to pay—to someone.”

  “Mr. O’Doul?”

  “Surely his name is on the writ. You said you saw me with him at the Red Lion. That’s when he made me an offer: If I give him the secret, he would release me from the debt. But if I did provide him with the secret, would he truly release me? Is he a man to be trusted?