Jackanapes- The Artful Dodger and the Hero of the Forlorn Hope

By T John Ward

An author’s note sets the period in which the events take place.
Thanks to the intervention of Oliver Twist, The Artful Dodger, Jack Dawkins, is saved from being transported to a penal colony, but he soon finds himself back on the wrong side of the law when he falls in with the Peninsular War veteran, turned smuggler, Abel Garnett. A sinister psychopath out of Abel’s past, a devastating flood and Napoleon’s escape from Elba, all serve to wreck their plan to recover a wagon load of smuggled goods and free some of Abel’s gang from the local jail. After escaping from a man-o’- war and eluding militia, they flee to France, leaving behind Abel’s wife, Yvonne, and his stepdaughter, Lysette, the first human being the Dodger has ever loved. Flashbacks reveal how Abel’s embittered character has been forged by his ordeals during the retreat to Corunna and throughout the Peninsular War, at the end of which he is badly wounded by the sadistic gambler, Captain Randall Swithin, when he finds him assaulting Lysette. The sadistic Swithin has already executed Abel’s roguish comrade, Johnny Rose, for stealing a chicken. Lysette’s widowed mother, Yvonne, saves Abel’s life and they eventually marry.
With Napoleon marching on Brussels, the two fugitives stumble across a plot to assassinate the Duke of Wellington. Having gambled away his fortune, Randall Swithin has been hired by wealthy Frenchmen to carry out the murder, but, after a race against time, Abel and Jack manage to save the duke's life. With Swithin dead, Abel and The Artful Dodger are granted a free pardon for their crimes and, re-united with Yvonne and Lysette, they take ship for a new life in America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T John Ward
• Release date: Jan 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301278572

T John Ward

Left home at age 15;lived and worked as general dogsbody in hotels. During army service, saw action in Aden and volunteered for service in the elite Trucial Oman Scouts. Awarded Order of Al Qasimi Tower by President of UAE. Married for 46 years. Written many short stories and poems. Won two 'Creative Writing' awards. Two of my novels have sold out in limited editions. Retired as Head of University Catering Services. Travelled widely.

Book preview

‘JACKANAPES’

‘The Artful Dodger

and the Hero of the Forlorn Hope’

By

T John Ward

T John Ward Copyright 2000

Smashwords edition 2013

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Author’s note:

The detrimental effects of the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834 and the conditions in which the under- classes were obliged to live – and die, helped inspire Charles Dickens, in 1838, to write ‘Oliver Twist’. In the novel’s opening paragraph, however, he indicates that the period in which the events he is about to describe take place, is unimportant; stating - ‘and in this Workhouse; on a day and date, which I need not trouble myself to (reveal), inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader –‘

And so, dear reader, I ask you to cast your mind back, beyond 1838, to the year of our Lord, Eighteen hundred and fifteen. Napoleon is incarcerated on Elba. Peace reigns, and all’s well with the world - for the fortunate few, that is. As for the rest – it’s a fight for survival

PROLOGUE

Fagin had not gone quietly to his death. On the hour of his execution he was hauled unceremoniously from his cell in Newgate Prison, screaming as loud as his parched throat would permit,

‘I don’t want to die! Please, it’s not time! Not time!’

The turnkeys dragging his emaciated form along the echoing, stone passage-way remained unmoved by his pleas. One of them, who had a high opinion of his own wit, remarked blithely,

‘Not time, Fagin? Nobody ‘ere knows what time it is; not since you stole all the clocks and watches in London, they don’t. Besides which, a minute or two either way don’t make no never mind; not in eternity it don’t.’

The second turnkey was his equal when it came to a lack of compassion. ‘Stole all the clocks and watches in London? That’s a good ‘un, Billy boy. You are a wag an’ no mistake!’

Weakened by the condemned mans diet of bread and water, Fagin never stopped weeping, cursing and praying all the way to the Press Yard, a grim space within the prison that sunlight rarely entered, surrounded as it was by towering walls. A brief struggle ensued here as his manacles were removed and his arms pinioned.

The sombre little procession continued on its way, with Fagin’s lamentations combining and competing with the intonations of the Ordinary. The worthy priest was praying aloud for Fagin’s soul and for those of the two other, rather more stoical men, also being escorted to the Debtors’ Door, beyond which stood the gallows. This functional, wooden contraption had the magnificent, classical façade of the prison as a backdrop. An ironic representation of both sides of mans’ nature; the sinister and the sublime. Although the splendid architecture successfully concealed the horrors that lay behind the prison walls, it did little to prevent the escape of an overpowering stench into the surrounding streets.

On that cold January morning, Fagin’s ragged figure was sandwiched between the wife murderer, John Fossett, and one, Hiram Lesky, who was paying the price for ambitiously attempting to establish his own Mint.

Fossett was a well set up, strong youth; rather too strong for his own good as it happened. Upon discovering that his bride had tricked him into marriage on the pretext that she was expecting his child, he had lashed out at her with fatal consequences. After sitting by her lifeless body for an hour or so, Joseph had given himself up to merciless authority.

Hiram Lesky was very dapper; standing five feet two inches in his stockinged feet. The forger had been arrested after arousing the suspicions of his tailor by paying a bill with a cascade of florins.

Fagin was the main attraction for the crowd pressing in on the scaffold. Gossip and the sale of an enormous number of hand bills providing lurid descriptions of his criminal activities, had built up his reputation. In the eyes of the general populace he’d become almost equal to the notorious Sweeney Todd. In fact, there were some in the crowd who, twelve years earlier, had witnessed that one’s sudden demise on this very same spot.

Top hats and mob caps all jostled together, trying to obtain the best vantage point. Retailers near to the site were earning a shilling or two by renting out their upper floor windows as viewing points. Dignity, decorum, and in some instances, décolletage, went out of the window as excited spectators taunted those who were about to die.

One or two pickpockets were working the crowd, taking full advantage of this golden opportunity; but even they were compelled to stop their activities as the condemned men came through the door in single file and mounted the steps to the perilous platform, built to execute a maximum of six persons at a time.

Seemingly deaf to the cacophony of noise emanating from all quarters, the hangman, John Langley, set about his grim task. One part of his mind was calculating how much he would make from selling snippets of Fagin’s beard.

Hiram Lesky took a last look to the east, where the risen winter sun was painting the sky with pink hues beyond the great dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. As young Fossett’s lips moved in quiet prayer, Fagin suddenly appeared to accept the inevitable and gained some self control. Baring his teeth, he glared defiantly at the baying mob; his fearsome visage causing some of the more sensitive among them to shudder.

The crowd fell silent when the nooses were placed carefully around the three necks. The ghoulish onlookers might not mind waiting fifteen minutes for a clumsily placed knot to kill a man, but Langley had his professional standing to think of.

With all eyes fastened on the doomed men, the onlookers held their collective breath, waiting for the dreadful moment.

The trap sprang open and the ropes snapped taut under the weight of human flesh. The crowd gaped and gasped, sucking in the life-giving air that was being denied to men in their death throes. While some of the females present, belatedly covered their children’s eyes and released pent-up emotions by bursting into floods of tears, everyone else let out a great roar of approval!

CHAPTER ONE

Jack Dawkins, who had once enjoyed swaggering about the streets of London under the soubriquet, ‘The Artful Dodger’, sat on his dank mattress in the gloom of Newgate. The gang of thieves in which he’d held such a prominent position was broken and scattered. Sikes and Nancy were dead and now Fagin had joined them, their downfall having been brought about by a puny young shaver known as Oliver Twist.

Wrapping his arms around himself for a little extra warmth, Jack, having narrowly escaped execution himself, had little to do but contemplate his past – and the bleak future that might lie in store for him on the other side of the world. He’d heard that many of those sentenced to transportation to Botany Bay did not survive the voyage. Some never made the journey at all, ending their days on a prison hulk on a windswept estuary, either way dying of the hardship.

Hardship? Jack almost laughed at the thought. He’d been born to it; having spent most of his life on the streets of London town, summer and winter.

Mother? He had a vague remembrance of arriving in London with a woman, when he had been, he supposed, about four or five years old. She may have been his mother and they may have come from Bedford, for that place name certainly meant something to him. Father? Well, he knew his surname was Dawkins, that was part of his very being, but he couldn’t recall meeting the gent he’d inherited it from. Brothers, sisters? Who knew, or cared, for that matter? What he did remember was being suddenly left alone in the world. That had been shortly before Nelson’s funeral. Jack could recall how he had crept among the crowds lining the river, watching the flotilla of ships escorting the barge carrying the ‘Saviour of England’s’ coffin to its resting place; while he deftly helped himself to whatever would prevent him from starving or freezing to death.

After years of running, hiding, thieving – surviving, he had eventually been recruited by Fagin. With many a wink and nod, the gang master had persuaded him to join his band of ‘Artful young ‘uns’ who know the secret of how to grow rich before they grow old, my dear.’

Jack had eaten well and dressed warm after that.

‘Artful’ was one of Fagin’s favourite words, and it wasn’t long before, in the presence of Sikes, Nancy and a gathering of juvenile delinquents, he’d declared that Jack be henceforth known as, ‘The Artful Dodger’. The miserly leader had quickly contrived the event in order to divert Jack’s attention from the fact that, after a particularly brilliant piece of work on his part that had produced forty guineas, he’d only been on the receiving end of one of them; the rest disappeared into Fagin’s coffers.

Despite his present predicament, Jack still retained some remnants of the cocky confidence that had helped keep him alive. He had no intention of boarding any transport ship or prison hulk. Crossing the Thames by wherry was as far as he was prepared to go on water. The day would come when he would be escorted from the prison to begin his journey. As he lay, face down, on his straw- filled mattress, with his chin in his hands, Jack conjured up a vivid and wildly optimistic mental picture of himself making a daring escape in the street. He was convinced that if he could get free of his pinions he would be able to outrun and outfox any fat, old watchman. He knew many cobwebby hidey-holes where he could sit tight until the hue and cry died down. They would never take old ‘Artful’ again!

Comforted by these fanciful imaginings he curled himself into a ball and closed his eyes. His nostrils had become immune to the prison stink and the shiv he’d fashioned out of a beef bone provided him with some protection against predatory inmates. He’d already had the opportunity to prove its effectiveness.

Fagin had been a great skinflint alright, but he’d developed Jack’s natural skills as a ‘dip’ and a ‘dodger’ until he was top of the heap. The devious old goat had even taught him to read and write a little, which also set him a cut above the rest of their merry little throng.

A year had passed since the day Fagin and he, together with a few young minions, had been taking their ease in a garret in Saffron Hill. Some of them had reclined on bedding, or cushions strewn carelessly on the floor, while others sat in a variety of worn out chairs, smoking their clays with their feet up a wall. The two seven year olds, who’d had their uses, had contented themselves by sucking on boiled sweets.

The dilapidated place had been one of several bolt holes Fagin had access to. That particular one hardly had a level surface to it. Everything slanted to some degree. The sole window was badly askew and thanks to the sloping floor, it had been impossible to stand a full mug of ale on the table without spillage.

While the others dozed or exchanged droll remarks, Fagin had brought up the subject of Jack’s ‘education’. Removing his pipe from his mouth, he’d stroked his beard and leant across in order to conduct a whispered conversation with him.

‘I want you to know I’ve got my little eye on a cottage up Goring way, Dodger, my boy. I intend to buy it for me old age. It’s right by the river, so I’ll be able to do some fishing.’

Jack emitted a cackling laugh at the thought of the avaricious mastermind sitting by the riverside, holding a fishing pole and doffing his hat to passing boatmen.

After feigned a hurt look, Fagin’s thin lips had parted in the semblance of a smile.

‘Now, don’t you go a-laughing at your benefactor’s little whims and fancies, Dodger. I like a bit o’ fresh fish for me tea. As I’ve told you before, you’re the pick o’ the bunch here, so I’m planning for you to take over my business enterprises when I retire in a year or two. I’ll only ask for a small, monthly percentage of your take when the time comes.’

Jack’s eyes had widened at this. ‘A monthly percentage, I thought you said you’d be retired?’

‘So I will be, my dear, so I will be; but I’ll still need a little something to help keep the wolf from the door, won’t I? Let’s call it my pension. That’s why its best you learn your sums, for there’ll always be those that’ll want to hoodwink you on a sale o’ goods. And if they cheat you, I’ll be short changed meself, geddit? As for reading and scribing; why, you’ll never know the value of a document that may fall, accidental-like, into your clever little hands, nor how to forge a man’s name, if you don’t practice at them skills, will you?’

‘P’raps not; but once I’m running things, what if I choose not to send a little something up to Goring every month? You won’t have done anything to earn it, will you?’

Fagin’s easy going tone had changed instantly into a menacing hiss. ‘If you don’t, you might get a knock on the door from somebody I know who lives up Bow Street way.’

Jack had been outraged at this threat of betrayal to the law. ‘You do that, Fagin, and you might get a knock on the ‘ead from somebody I know called, Mr William Sykes, Esquire!’

Having reached an impasse on the subject of the ‘pension’, it was not forgotten, merely set aside.

The very thought of taking over from Fagin, however, had been enough to make Jack an eager pupil. From then on he’d had jam on it, right up to the day he’d introduced himself to the forlorn figure of a runaway named Oliver Twist.

‘Twist’ was the right name for him, alright! He’d twisted Fagin and the rest of them into knots they’d been unable to escape from; the worst of them ending up under Fagin’s right ear! These were Jack’s last sour thoughts as, despite the noise created by the mass of humanity crowding the prison quadrangle, he fell into a troubled sleep.

He awoke with a start in the early hours, having been disturbed by a nightmare in which he’d been chained below decks on a sinking transport ship. With his own screams ringing in his ears, the water had closed over his head while a gigantic, bewigged figure of a High Court Judge laughed uproariously at his fate.

Totally alone and unrepresented, Jack has put on a defiant act when he’d appeared in court; uttering futile threats and making ridiculous accusations about various authority figures. It was only when the sentence had been passed on him that he’d lost his nerve and fallen silent. Transportation for fourteen years!

According to the Clerk of the Court, that was about the same period of time he’d already lived.

‘The accused goes by the name of Jack Dawkins, m'lud, and is estimated to be about fourteen years of age,’ that worthy had informed the judge in funereal tones.

Jack rather appreciated having his age officially recognized. Birthdays had never been prominent in his life.

Judge Darnley had looked around the court, smiling benignly at everyone except the accused.

‘Jack Dawkins, eh? Well, considering the way he’s been stealing shiny objects, the young rogue is most certainly kin to a jackdaw!’

There was a brief silence while those present worked out the joke; followed by a blast of raucous laughter.

After dipping his fingers into a leather water bucket and wetting his lips on its stale contents, Jack settled down on his one poor comfort; the mattress. Pulling his ragged coat collar up around his ears and keeping the shiv close to hand, he slept until morning.

The new day was heralded by a familiar dawn chorus. Not birdsong; just the coughing, hawking and spitting of the awakening inmates, most of whom had insufficient funds to purchase much more than a few, lifesaving, necessities.

Luckier than some of those, Jack consumed his breakfast of bread, milk and hot oatmeal, bought from a buxom cook, who, for a ‘consideration’, had access to the prisoners. She made a daily, early morning round, selling comestibles. Having managed to enter the prison carrying some of his ill-gotten gains, Jack had been able to pay the Keeper of the Gaol for the rights to a small alcove away from the main body of prisoners and also for ‘Easement of Irons’, which gave him some freedom of movement within the walls. Although buying those had taken most of his money, Jack felt it was well worth it; he couldn’t bear the thought of being manacled day and night.

With only seven pence left, however, he would soon be in desperate straits himself; reduced to accepting the food issued through the system but without the means to cook it. The thought of having to survive on raw vegetables, stinking fish and offal was less than cheering.

A bleary eyed turnkey approached and stood over Jack’s reclining figure, scratching at his dirty shirtfront.

‘On ya feet; you’ve someone waitin’ to see you at The Lodge.’

As far as he was aware, Jack hadn’t a friend in the world. ‘Somebody to see me? Who might that be, then?’

‘It’s an ‘igh and mighty gent who don’t want to get ‘is nice, shiny boots dirty crossin’ the prison yard, that’s oo. Move yourself, ‘e ain’t got all day.’

To amuse himself as he sauntered at the turnkey’s side, Jack relieved him of the contents of one of his pockets - a filthy wipe and a twist of tobacco.

Seeing no point in allowing his skill as a ‘dip’ to go unrecognized he handed back the stolen goods with an arrogant flourish.

‘Here, Cully, you look as though you need these more than I do.’

‘You thievin’ young rogue!’ The man’s grimy, unshaven features contorted. Grabbing Jack’s shoulder he propelled him through the door into the Turnkeys Lodge.

Without the fireplace and furnishings, its stone construction and barred window would have made the room appear like any other prison cell. A large number of hooks, driven into a board attached to the wall behind a desk and chair, served as the repositary for a remarkable number of keys. The turnkeys rather monastic sleeping quarters were visible through a half-open door.

A foot in the backside sent Jack sprawling so that he suddenly obtained a close up view of a pair of leather boots. The turnkey was right; they were nice and shiny.

‘Is it necessary to treat your charges so roughly, Mr Ryan?’ a plummy, high toned voice enquired of Jack’s escort.

‘He tripped over ‘is own feet,’ came the surly reply.

Gazing upwards, Jack saw a smart pair of trousers and a green waistcoat covering a broad stomach crossed by a gold watch chain.

A clean-shaven and quite elderly, rotund face looked down at him; its kindly countenance enhanced by a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Jack’s heart sank. He was in the presence of a man who had been a key witness in the Twist affair. Being brought before him could only mean one thing – trouble!

When he spoke, the man was neither aloof nor over friendly.

‘My name is Brownlow. Our paths have already crossed, have they not?’

‘S’right, your honour; we’ve sort of met before when I was doing me best to take care of young Ollie.’

Jack scrambled to his feet, avoiding Brownlow’s gaze. ‘I don’t deserve to be ‘ere, you know. Why, apart from lifting a few wipes, I ‘ardly had anything to do with the rest o’ the bunch. Anyway, I’ve got me punishment, you can’t touch me.’

Mr. Brownlow made a small, dismissive motion with a gloved hand. ‘I intend you no harm, young man; far from it. Against my better judgment I have come here today in order to help you.’

Jack’s pulse quickened. ‘You’re a bit late, ain’t you? I’m to be transported soon to the other side o’ the world.’ He screwed up his face and managed to produce a tear which trickled slowly down his cheek, leaving a distinct track right to the corner of his mouth.

‘Not so,’ Brownlow replied. ‘The child whom you knew as Oliver Twist has begged me to intervene with the authorities on your behalf. Although he is sensible enough to realise that your motives were far from altruistic, Oliver does feel that you helped him when he first came to London. You led him to food, shelter and clothing when he needed them most. By doing so you may have inadvertently saved his life. For even in this great and wealthy capital city of ours it is all too easy for a lost boy to starve to death, be murdered for a pair of shoes or die of the cold. He is of the opinion that you were also instrumental in reuniting him with his fortune.’ Brownlow paused, looked a little pensive, then continued, almost as though he was talking to himself ‘There is some truth in this. Such are the ways of fate. Because you found him, he found me and the remnants of his family. Stranger still, his father was my friend, so the boy will soon become my adopted son.’

Jack had little interest in these musings. He wanted to know what Brownlow had in mind for him. He got his wish when his visitor suddenly became more business-like. ‘Oliver may be naive but he is good through and through. I find that I cannot stand in the way of his noble intention to help you. Fortunately for you I have friends in high places who have agreed that, under certain conditions, you be given a second chance.

‘Do all those fancy words mean they’re letting me off?’

‘Yes, in a manner of speaking. I have signed the papers that allow you to be released into my charge. I have also arranged for you to be removed from the temptations of London. You will be sent into the country and given every opportunity to become an honest and upright citizen.’

Jack was no longer listening. He could have turned somersaults. No transportation. No prison hulk! His senses reeled.

‘I’m ready when you are, your honour.’

‘Not so fast,’ Brownlow retorted. ‘Firstly, do not address me as, ‘Your honour’. I am not a Circuit Judge. Call me, ‘Mr Brownlow’, or ‘sir’, if you must. Secondly, you must remain here for one more night. A Bow Street Runner will collect you tomorrow morning. He will be your escort as far as Gravesend where you will be met by an employee of mine, Mr Abel Garnett. You will find him to be a formidable master. He will conduct you to Shippenden Farm. It is a place I own on the Romney Marsh. You will be out of harm’s way down there. I must warn you that should you attempt to abscond or commit any sort of offence whilst you are bonded to me, you will most certainly be arrested. The consequences for you will be severe. Oliver and I will pay a visit to Shippenden within the next few weeks to see how you are progressing.’

Jack was beginning to grasp the situation. ‘But how will I live? What’ll I do with meself all day?’

‘You will work for a living, sir. That is what people do.’

‘What, me - work?’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘What at?’

‘Farming, sir, farming! Plenty of fresh air and exercise will do you the world of good. In the meantime you may wish to spend the next twenty four hours contemplating your good fortune and giving thanks to the Almighty for His mercy. That is all I have to say to you, sir, so I bid you good day.’

Because he was mulling over the appalling thought of actually working for a living, Brownlow’s rather abrupt departure took Jack by surprise.

‘Mr Brownlow, sir, Mr Brownlow ---.’

But, as he’d indicated, Brownlow had said all he wanted to say. With both hands clasped behind his frock coated back, he made his exit.

The turnkey, Ryan, who had been standing to one side, gave Jack a mighty cuff around the head before escorting him back to the Felons Quadrangle.

On the way, Jack surreptitiously relieved him of his twist of tobacco. This time he kept it. He had a broken-stemmed clay pipe secreted away, and he knew of a fellow inmate who would supply the means of ignition in exchange for the promise of his mattress.

****

For the remainder of the day and long into the night, Jack’s mind was occupied by only one thought. He would soon be free of Newgate! Whatever, ‘His nibs’ Brownlow had in mind for him, it would certainly be a lot better than an enforced voyage to a land he’d been told was full of cannibals and monstrous beasts.

Pent up excitement meant that he was wide awake when the grey fingers of daylight penetrated the barred windows set high on the walls. Creeping forwards, they gradually illuminated the bread stealers, bawdy-house keepers, footpads and fraudsters as they lay sprawled in blessed repose.

‘There’s a Runner come to collect you.’ It was Ryan, Jack’s favourite turnkey.

With his heart thumping away in his chest, Jack sprang to his feet, jumped a foot into the air and clicked his heels together. He was alive again!

‘That’s me out o’ here!’

‘You’ve had a stroke of luck but I’ll be seeing you agin,’ the turnkey observed, ‘and next time you’ll be here for the drop.’ He drew a dirty forefinger across his throat.

Grabbing up his spare rags of clothing, Jack swaggered along behind his cheery keeper

The Bow Street Runner waiting in the turnkeys office was tall, thin and trim. Like many that stand head and shoulders above most other people, the man exuded an air of great confidence. His lantern jaw was clean shaven and his black hair had recently enjoyed the attentions of a barber. A more or less permanent smile played around his mouth, as though life to him was constantly amusing. The cutaway coat he wore revealed the colourful waistcoat that had earned the Bow Street Runners the nickname, ‘Redbreasts’. Although a uniform was now available, some traditionalists still preferred the original mode of dress. Aged about thirty, the man, who was armed with a sheathed cutlass and a stave, was nonchalantly twirling a top hat on the fingers of his free hand.

‘There’s a parcel of Ravenscroft’s finest apparel waiting for you there on the desk, me lad. Clean that carapace of prison filth off your vile little body and get changed into it, tout suite.’ Although the words were mildly spoken, there was something in the voice that brooked no argument.

Nevertheless, Jack lodged what he felt to be a justified protest.

‘Hey! Who are you to call me vile?’

The Bow Street Runner raised one eyebrow. ‘My name, sir, is Martin Hawke and I can tell at a glance that there is enough dirt between your toes to grow a row of turnips.’ He turned to the gaoler. ‘Can you oblige with soap and water, Mr Ryan?’

‘There’s soap, basin and a jug o’ water right there.’ The turnkey gestured offhandedly towards a table standing hard by a wall. ‘He can pour it ‘imself. I’m not ‘ere to wait on the likes of ‘im.’

Cold water and hard, lye soap made Jack do a quick job on his ablutions.

Slicking down his over long, unkempt hair, he peered at himself in a broken piece of mirror glass. The cynical, young face that looked back was somewhat cleaner now. The nose was snubbed and slightly crooked but set more or less in the middle. There were those familiar protruding ears and that twisted mouth. He winked at himself, still gleeful at the turn of events.

The parcel contained a pair of woven drawers, a linen shirt, a pair of trousers, a fraction too long for him, and a double breasted coat that was a little too short. There was also a rather dented, conical hat and a fine pair of boots that fitted perfectly. Brownlow must have a good eye, Jack thought.

Having dressed himself, he adjusted the hat to a suitably jaunty angle.

‘Stap me vitals!’ the Bow Street Runner jibed, ‘it’s Beau Brummel’s younger brother!’

‘Pick that stuff up,’ snarled the turnkey, eyeing Jack’s discarded rags. ‘You’re not leaving that lot ‘ere.’

Jack made a fine show of carefully folding the torn and filthy garments before wrapping them in the paper his new outfit had arrived in. With an exaggerated bow, he offered the parcel to the turnkey.

‘Here’s a little gift, sir, for your chee-ild!’

‘Best not do that, Dawkins. Mr Ryan’s many offspring will only get to playing dice for such a prize.’ Hawke grabbed Jack’s arm, and the next moment they were handcuffed together, wrist-to-wrist.

‘What’s all this?’

The Bow Street Runner clapped Jack on the shoulder with his free hand. ‘I should hate to lose you after so brief an acquaitance. Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder! Now, I’m to buy you breakfast from funds provided. I’m sure you can swallow a morsel or two after your sojourn here.’

He propelled Jack through the door. ‘Good day, Ryan. I’m much obliged to you.’

‘You’re welcome, sir. The outer door’s unlocked. I’ll be along to secure it directly.’

‘The Lord looseth men out of prison, eh, Mr Ryan?’

‘Not if I ‘ad my way ‘e wouldn’t.’ retorted the turnkey.

A short walk along a passageway brought them to a door that opened onto Newgate Street. The sudden onslaught of noise and bustle jolted Jack’s nerve ends. Half blinded by the unaccustomed light and deafened by the sounds created by the thronging masses passing to and fro, he was hurried along at a furious pace. Pedestrians of every ilk struggled to make their way against a tidal wave of carts, wagons, horsemen and street vendors. One of the latter thrust a newspaper at Hawke, who, having put on his top hat, now seemed impossibly tall. ‘A tanner for the latest news, sir?’

Hawke ignored the man, and with