The Traitors' Gate

  “That, young John,” he said, “is a most reasonable question.” He turned to the bailiff and touched him gently on his arm. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Tuckum,” he said, “but where will our possessions go?”

  “The holding pen, sir,” returned the bailiff. “On Pudding Lane. Hard by the docks. They’ll be kept for three days. As the law has it, if you don’t pay your debt, it all gets sold outright, the money going to your creditor.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” my father said. “And—if I may be so bold—one further little point. Might you be willing to inform me as to the name of the gentleman who has brought this writ against me?”

  Mr. Tuckum lowered his eyeglasses the better to examine the official text. “Yes, here it is. ‘Dated this twenty-third day of November 1849. For the debt owing by you as stated in the margin … To answer the demand of … Mr. Finnegan O’Doul.’”

  “O’Doul!” cried Father.

  To my eyes, his face—even reckoning for the hour’s darkness—turned quite ashen. “But … but …,” he stammered, “I don’t owe that man so much as a ha’penny!”

  “All I can say,” replied Mr. Tuckum, “is that here”—he rattled the document as if to shake away any words that might have alighted by accident—“it says you do. All proper and legal, I can assure you of that, sir.”

  “But—”

  “See here, Mr. Huffam,” the bailiff interrupted, “I am nothing if not old-fashioned. Without being old-fashioned, I’d be reduced to rubble—like one of those new railway cuttings that are tumbling London. But being old-fashioned, sir, I respect the Queen’s law for being the firm foundation upon which this great nation rests. If it’s revolution you desire, sir, dispatch posthaste to Paris, to Rome, or to Berlin. In London, sir, you’ll find sanity. Stability. No, sir: According to this writ—and this writ is naught if it is not legal in an old-fashioned way—it’s considerably more than a ha’penny you owe, sir. It’s …” He studied his paper anew: “Three hundred … hmm … pounds, four shillings, twopence.”

  “Three hundred pounds!” gasped my father.

  “Plus four shillings and twopence,” added the bailiff.

  “Mr. Huffam,” Mother cried, “have I heard correctly? That you owe three hundred pounds? God have mercy! You have positively destroyed us!”

  “I shall never marry now,” my sister sobbed. “Never.”

  “But I assure you, Mrs. Huffam,” said my father, “it’s not true. Not a bit. I owe that man nothing.”

  “Owe nothing,” interjected the bailiff, while vigorously nodding, “and you have nothing to worry about. By virtue of Her Majesty’s evenhanded law, pay your debt and the Insolvent Debtors’ Court shall set you as free as any English sparrow. But for the moment, sir, this writ being entirely legal, you must come to me.”

  “Where?” demanded Mother.

  “My house.”

  “Your house, sir?” said my father.

  “I assure you, sir, and you, too, madam,” said the bailiff, “it’s the way of our forefathers, so I cannot presume to know better. As laid out by parliamentary law, I keep a sponging house. Now then, Mr. Huffam,” he went on, “if you’ll come this way, please. As for you, madam, you and your progeny are more than welcome to join your spouse, if so inclined. Quite welcome. Indeed, I shall consider myself honored to gain your esteemed company.” That said, the bailiff, wielding his staff of authority like a baton, beckoned to the constables, who crowded round and eased us along the street with the skill of Yorkshire sheepherders.

  My father, head held high, offered condescending half bows to his neighbors as if they were his audience, an audience whose applause consisted of jeers: “Bankrupt, bankrupt!” But, as if he were hearing bravo instead, he strolled off—hands in pockets—after Mr. Tuckum.

  A moment’s hesitation and my mother followed, arm in arm with my head-bowed sister, who was supported in turn by Brigit.

  I came last, walking beside a constable. “Please, sir,” I said in an undertone as we passed down the street, “what’s … what’s a … sponging house?”

  “Where your father will have a brief residence. While there, ’e’s got a few days to wipe clean ’is debt—to sponge that debt away, if you get the meaning. If’e can’t, it’s to the Insolvent Debtors’ Court ’e’ll go. From there—though for your sake I ’ope not—to debtors’ prison. Now, now, no need to fret so. Being charged with debt, brought to court, and tossed into the clink is right common. And the prison ain’t’ alf bad. So be a good bloke—you seem right sensible—and step lively.”

  His words only increased my sense of mortification. But there being no choice, we had to go, and so we did.

  CHAPTER 5

  We Arrive at the Halfmoon Inn

  Mr. Tuckum, bearing his walking staff as though leading a band, marched our party into the maze of London streets, leaving Mills Court, down Sandys Row, down Widegate Street, across Bishopsgate, and then onto Halfmoon Street. Along the way we met with assorted cheers and jeers, for a procession such as ours—as the constable had informed me truthfully—was hardly unique.

  “Welcome,” cried Mr. Tuckum as we approached the deepest reach of Halfmoon Alley, which led off the street, “to an Englishman’s humble home, the Halfmoon Inn.” The bailiff, bobbing as agreeably as a tethered balloon in a gentle wind, gallantly gestured with his staff toward a structure. It was made of timber and horsehair plaster, with a wide, ill-thatched roof that ran the width of the court, much like a wall—a wall, no doubt, to keep persons, and time, from advancing any farther.

  The Halfmoon Inn had not so much as one straight line to it. The roof was crooked. The porch was crooked. The windows were crooked. The main doorway was crooked. Even the shadows that draped it were crooked. Dormer windows stuck out from the roof in three irregular places. This same roof hung, like an old horse’s neck, atop a long balcony—upon which doors faced—that stretched the inn’s full width. In sympathetic reversal, the balcony bore columns that held up the roof. This balcony was the width of the alley, thus protecting the inn’s crooked ground-floor doorway, as well as some small crooked windows.

  It was as if the entire ancient structure was on the verge of slipping off its foundation. Halfmoon, indeed—and still waning.

  The bailiff, however, was nothing if not waxing with life. He stood by the lopsided doorway, hand with hat extended through the irregular doorframe, the very image of a welcoming host. “Step lively, my friends,” he exclaimed. “Step lively! I intend to provide—in a gentleman’s moment of distress and duress—all the famous comforts of a … hmm … cozy English inn. Being old-fashioned, I can, and so I surely will!”

  Mother held back. “Are we expected to pay for lodging here?” she demanded in a tone of voice that indicated she knew the answer.

  “A fair question,” replied the bailiff, bowing, “from a fair lady. I assure you, madam, I charge no more than any London inn might charge. Cozy room. Delicious food. Impeccable service. At generally … hmm … competitive rates. True, it’s more than you will be charged in debtors’ prison—four pence a day—but far greater ease is to be found here than there. Of that, madam, you may trust me.”

  My mother, turning to my father, said, “Mr. Huffam, have we any money at all?”

  “Not a penny.”

  Mother, now turning to the bailiff, asked: “And if we have no money?”

  The bailiff bowed. “According to the law, and I respect the law beyond all else—and so should all good Englishmen—madam, you must still pay.”

  We each—even Brigit—looked to my father.

  “Well, yes, of course,” said he, holding himself very properly and displaying not the least emotion as he gazed upon the decrepit inn. “You are most obliging, sir. A true friend.”

  Then he turned to Mother. “Dear Mrs. Huffam,” he said, “what could be more refined or fitting for a gentleman such as me than such an old-fashioned inn? Our genial host is quite correct. It’s the way a gentleman should accommodate himself. S
o, dearest Mrs. Huffam, devoted children, loyal Brigit, be so good as to enter.”

  I took note that Father did not say how he would pay.

  Mother, in fishwife tones, snapped, “If only you were a gentleman, Mr. Huffam. You, who have neither land nor title—you merely play at it like the inept actor you are. Need I remind you, sir,” she added, as if this were the most grievous of sins, “you draw wages”

  “Dearest beloved,” my father returned, “you know perfectly well that I am a gentleman. I have the genealogy to prove it.”

  “What good is genealogy,” she countered, “if you don’t have pennies to emblazon it?”

  “As I have said many a time, most cherished wife,” my father said, “it’s all in the performance. I, for one, choose to act like the gentlemen my ancestors were.”

  “Well said, Mr. Huffam,” cried the bailiff. “Well said! And I beg to remind you: Just pay your debt, and the court will set you free.”

  “Piffle!” exclaimed Mother. “I ask you, sir, how is he going to pay off three hundred? He’s nothing but a clerk—a clerk at the Naval Ordinance Office at one hundred pounds a year.”

  “Be that as it may,” said the bailiff, who was beaming so, his Piccadilly weepers stood out like the rays of a benevolent sun in the dark, “I again welcome you to the Halfmoon Inn.” That said, he rapped his staff upon the ground and bowed the company in.

  I was last to enter. As I stepped forward, I saw the bailiff dismiss the constables with a wave. Then the little man waddled after us and shut the warped door with a resounding slam about which there was nothing wobbly.

  It was, I thought, as if we were already in prison.

  CHAPTER 6

  Mr. Tuckum Speaks to Me Privately

  The entryway of the Halfmoon Inn led into a large, drafty, and disheartening room. There were no gas lamps, but a few candles, which, once the bailiff lit them, provided at best insipid illumination that barely revealed wood-paneled walls, some askew panels; a low, sagging ceiling, streaked with black soot; gap-toothed wainscoting; a floor made of wide, cracked, and wavy planks, which, when stepped upon, squeaked like so many pigs brought to a Smithfield butcher. Scattered about in haphazard fashion were lumpish oak tables and mismatched chairs and benches, none of which offered any promise of holding much weight. To one side lay a large, open stone fireplace, and at its center were black encrusted logs embedded in white ash, like some offering to the god of decay.

  “Here we are,” exclaimed Mr. Tuckum. “All the good cheer of old England. The privy is out back. Let me assure you, Mrs. Huffam, that many other gentlemen of high repute—like your illustrious husband—have paused here to … hmm … restore themselves in their journey through life.”

  “What distinguishes my husband,” Mother retorted with a toss of her head, “is that he is a fool going nowhere.”

  “Dear Mrs. Huffam,” said Father, who was standing in the middle of the room rubbing his hands as if gently washing them, the look upon his face remarkably placid, “what could be more well bred than to be in such a noble London establishment?”

  I gazed at my father, marveling, as I often did, at his mildness, his calm. It was as if he were playing his favorite role: Sir Algernon Kindly in Markham’s romantic comedy Gentle Hearts Aflutter.

  “By which you mean,” returned my mother, “acting as if nothing was amiss.”

  My father turned to the bailiff. “Mr. Tuckum, my compliments. Be assured that I, at least, find all of this very gratifying. I am much in your debt.”

  “Well, yes and no,” agreed the bailiff. “Of course you may remain standing exactly where you are and not avail yourself of the … hmm … comforts of food, drink, and bed. But if you do wish to partake, there will be a fee for everything.”

  “Is it not absurd,” demanded Mother, who had not budged from the spot where she stood, “to agree to new debts when one is so undone by old ones?”

  “Madam,” said the bailiff, “I never argue with a lady.”

  “Dear Mrs. Huffam,” my father said, “surely we must have some comfort in our hour of discomfort.”

  My sister had been looking about in silent misery. Now she said, “It’s an awful place, Pa. It truly is. Perfectly hateful. All mean and low with nothing fashionable at all about it. I shall have no suitors here. Not even Mr. Farquatt.”

  “Oh, tut,” said Father. “My dear, Mr. Farquatt is below you.”

  “Dont say that, Pa!” cried my sister. “He is that near to offering marriage.”

  “You shall be married, Clarissa,” said my father. “Of course you will. A young lady with such wit and charm as you possess shall be courted agreeably and successfully. I give you my word.”

  “Mama,” sniffled my sister, her tears beginning to flow again, “tell Pa to stop saying such brainless things!”

  “I assure you, Miss Clarissa,” Mother said, “your father won’t listen to me.”

  “Now, now,” said the bailiff, smiling brightly and extending his short arms as if they could embrace us all. “Let’s not quarrel, pray, but be a loving English family. May I show you to some rooms and then to an excellent dinner?”

  “Splendid suggestion,” agreed my father. “Mr. Tuckum, if you would be so kind …”

  The bailiff, a lit tallow candle in each plump hand, and with many a kind and coaxing word, guided us from the ground floor up a narrow, twisting stairway to the first floor. There, upon reaching the outside balcony that ran the building’s width and onto which faced multiple doors, he turned to my father. “Sir, how do you wish to be accommodated?”

  “Perhaps,” my father said, “if at all possible, the women should stay together at that end. Whereas my son and heir shall stay with me in another room at this end. Your best room, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  I did wonder—considering the circumstances—that once again Father did not inquire about the cost, but that was never his fashion.

  The bailiff led my unhappy mother farther along the balcony and threw open a door. “Here you are, madam, a commodious room. Not, in any significant way, too drafty. Sufficient, I trust, for you, your daughter, and servant.”

  Mother, without a word, marched right in and was followed by the others.

  “Will it do?” called Mr. Tuckum from the safety of the balcony.

  The response was to have the door slammed in his face.

  “Well, well,” said the bailiff, “it merely proves that no one enjoys … hmm … change. Least of all, me. Surely old-fashioned ways are the best ways. I sympathize with Mrs. Huffam, sir, I truly do. Now, gentlemen, indulge me and I shall guide you to your room.”

  At the other end of the balcony the bailiff opened a second door. “If you would be so good, Mr. Huffam,” he said to my father, offering what had become the small stub of a candle.

  My father went into the room. I started to follow only to have Mr. Tuckum pluck on my sleeve to hold me back.

  “Master John,” he said, low voiced, “a momentary word with you.” He bowed to me as if I were an adult.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, taken by surprise but waiting upon him nonetheless.

  Mr. Tuckum partially shut the door so our conversation might be private. “Unless my eyes and ears deceive me,” he began, “it’s you, Master John—and you alone—who appears to be the sensible one in the Huffam establishment.”

  “Sir, I’m only fourteen—”

  “Apologies are not necessary. I simply wish you to know that in our brief acquaintance I’ve become mindful of your character. Your good character. Did not someone say, ‘Where there is silence, there is depth?’ And you have been very silent, Master John. It bespeaks a precocious wisdom. I shall … hmm … humor your parents, but it is to you I shall confide, Master John, Englishman to Englishman.”

  “Sir—”

  “The debt your father owes is a very great sum indeed. Three hundred pounds. Many a laborer or maid lives on twenty a year—often far, far less. Unless your father can find a way to
pay this Mr. O’Doul during these next few days, his prospects for the future are, shall we say, quite without … hmm … luster.

  “He spoke of you as his heir. Is there, perhaps, some extended family nearby? Some property? Some entailed wealth? Some reserve of worldly goods that might be secured? In short, some way—any way—to raise the … hmm … money?”

  “I really don’t know, sir.”

  “I feared as much!” said the bailiff, frowning.

  “But … what … will happen?” I stammered, taken aback by both the solemnity of the bailiff’s warning and the responsibility he had laid upon me.

  “As previously stated,” said Mr. Tuckum, “I fear that, for your father, it shall be debtors’ prison. Or the poorhouse. Perhaps the treadmill. Or”—his voice lowered—“worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Transportation to a penal colony in … Australia.”

  “Australia!”

  “I assure you,” said the bailiff in the most kindly fashion, “it’s England’s enlightened way.”

  “I suppose,” I admitted, though in truth, such a ghastly fate seemed unimaginable for a Huffam.

  “Good, lad,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “I thought you would appreciate my confidence. How delighted I am that there is somebody in your family with clear perception! I’ve no doubt in my mind but you shall manage everything splendidly. If I can be of any service, Master John, any, Toby Tuckum is at your beck and call. Now then, if you will excuse me, I will see to your dinner.”

  He bowed again and stepped away.

  I could only look after him, but as to which I felt more, astonishment or misery, I could hardly say.

  CHAPTER 7

  Father Makes a Request of Me

  The small room I entered—as revealed by that meager stump of a burning candle—was plain enough. It consisted of a large bed, four-posted, with a mattress as thin as a postage stamp plus one blanket. A single grimy window. A small, much-scarred table. A chest for storing clothing in which a family of mice had recently stored itself. A small and tattered rug upon a floor so stained, it seemed unwise to uncover what it considered worth concealing. On the wall a faded Hogarth print titled The Distressed Poet. Finally, an empty fireplace, offering nothing to modify the room’s damp, moldy, and chilly air.