Felix Wild: A Foundling on Board HMS Warrior

By Peter Broadbent

Gosport, 1860. Felix Wild has lived on the streets and on his wits for all his young life. He’s been a mudlark at The Hard, eaten tallow when there was nothing else to be had, picked oakum in Forton Gaol, and acquired a skill for ‘tup-tup-tupping’ from the women of Haslar. He has no family, no idea of how old he might be, and has never heard of Christmas. But he has one remarkable talent: he can make a perfect drawing, from memory, of anything that he has seen.

Saved from a further spell in prison by the wealthy William Kettle, Felix joins the Kettle household in East London and is employed to make drawings of the building of a magnificent new iron-clad vessel, HMS Warrior.

His eagerness to learn new things knows no bounds: from working out how to use a knife and fork, and reading a dictionary from cover to cover, to being given the ‘tipsy key’ for the chronometers during his first voyage on board Warrior as she conducts sea-trials. While the men he meets are in awe of his drawing skills, the young women are absorbed in rather less cerebral matters, namely the fit of his fashionably tight ‘gas-pipe’ trousers and his distinctive looks - one eye is blue, the other green.

Felix Wild is a captivating novel that has all the affectionate humour and vivid sense of place that has made Peter Broadbent’s naval memoirs so popular.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chaplin Books
• Release date: Nov 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781911105244

Book preview

Felix Wild

A Foundling on Board HMS Warrior

by Peter Broadbent

First published in 2017 by

Chaplin Books

5 Carlton Way

Gosport PO12 1LN

www.chaplinbooks.co.uk

Digital edition converted and distributed in 2017 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright © Peter Broadbent

Illustrations copyright © Yolanda Bull

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder for which application should be addressed in the first instance to the publishers. No liability shall be attached to the author, the copyright holder or the publishers for loss or damage of any nature suffered as a result of the reliance on the reproduction of any of the contents of this publication or any errors or omissions in the contents.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother, Joan Broadbent (née Large) and to my younger brother Tony who, with patience, compassion and kind-heartedness, looked after our Mum until she peacefully passed away, aged 97, on 10 December 2016. Many, many thanks.

1. Petty Sessions

The lock on the courthouse door is bothersome stiff. Cobbled together many years ago by an incompetent local blacksmith, it is particularly stubborn at this time of year.

Ben Nettlebed, a skeletal man unable to apply muscle of any kind, has to use a well-practised combination of knee, scrawny elbow and malnourished shoulder to grind the lock open. Ben has clawed a living in and around the town all his life. He has no family or friends and knows nothing of his parents. Today he will earn seven-pence and a farthing.

The north-west wind brings with it a driving rain. The Monday mob, who are keen to witness the castigation of local scoundrels, jostle each other to squeeze through the narrow doorway from Bemisters Lane. They respectfully allow a tall gentleman, wearing a well-tailored coat and silk top-hat, to be the first through the door.

Inside the courthouse the tall gentleman flicks moisture from the shoulders of his cape, lays his fox-head cane on one of the three cushioned chairs in the centre of the front row of public seats, and sits down. Behind him, the clamour for the best places on the bare-wood benches is becoming increasingly raucous and ill-mannered.

The courthouse has been closed for a month and the atmosphere is stale and damp. The walls are hung with sagging drapes that hide the cracked and peeling plaster. Ben tugs on a hemp rope and, with an audible whimper, a small window high in the north wall opens slightly. He secures the end of the rope around a protruding rusted nail and turns to watch the familiar Gosport faces scramble for the few spots still available against the wall nearest to the front.

Without a cloth to swab his running nose, Ben turns to face the wall and hurriedly wipes his nose on the sleeve of his threadbare coat. He isn’t looking forward to serving the Justice-of-the-Day today: he knows from experience that Justice Lionel Braveheart enjoys a tipple or two, and hurries through his Sessional duties so that he can finish before midday.

Attached to the courthouse is a partially roofed, red-bricked courtyard with high walls and a stout wooden entrance door secured by a robust black-iron bar. Around all four walls runs a bare wooden bench, occupied by those unfortunates who have been dragged or summoned to attend today’s Petty Sessions. Hunched on the bench are twenty or so cold, wet and shabbily dressed individuals, most staring at the rain puddling on the red tiled floor. Some are fettered by hands or feet. The increasingly heavy rain is drenching those who are sitting on the benches where the overhead cover is in need of repair. In each corner, under a triangular roof section of sorts, stands a Constable of the law clutching a wooden truncheon.

A young boy, sitting next to an elderly man cradling a thin roll of papers, is scanning the walls to see if there is a possible means of escape.

An old woman tries to stuff the end of a cracked clay pipe in her mouth but her gnarled hands make it difficult. The hacking cough of a man with rags on his feet goes on too long and he is lifted up by one of the Constables who slaps him hard on his back. His coughing stops and he falls to his knees.

‘Toby, you old coiler, the last time you was ’ere we thought we’d seen the last of you,’ says the Constable, tossing him back to his seat on the bench. ‘Better ask the Justice to have you up early. In case you don’t last the full day.’

Toby inhales deeply; his breath rattles audibly.

‘You ferk... You ferk...’

The Constable points his truncheon menacingly at Toby’s gulping throat.

‘Careful what you says to me, Toby old man. I could ’ave a mind to convey your ’ostility to Justice Braveheart.’

‘Justice Braveheart is a drunk with bollicks for brains.’ Toby taps his chest. ‘I knows all about Justice Brave-’

The truncheon raps across one of Toby’s knees, bringing tears to his eyes. He gives a pained yelp.

An elderly woman swathed in numerous layers of red checked material and wearing a soiled bonnet is scratching her swollen ankle: one of the rope-like veins oozes blood.

Inside the courthouse, Ben places the Justice’s desk and the lecterns for the two Clerks in their customary position. From a box he spreads sweet-smelling herbs around the Justice’s desk: a requirement of Justice Braveheart who complains bitterly of the stench and possible contagion of the room.

The Junior Clerk, wearing the black cloak and headgear peculiar to those who are legally trained, appears and places three leather-bound books on the Justice’s desk. He puts a polished round stone of brown agate alongside.

‘We have old Toby again,’ Ben says to the Clerk. ‘He’s coughing up bad in the yard.’

The Clerk nods and busies himself with his folder of papers. Ben sniffs: he understands that Clerks of the Sessions, even the junior ones, don’t pay him any mind. He wipes his nose on his sleeve again. At his grey-stubbled age he would appreciate some level of respect, despite his rather humble position. How he dislikes this seven-penny job and everyone associated with it.

A small steaming rivulet of bright yellow piss snakes across the red-brick courtyard floor. It puddles a few feet away from the feet of the adjacent policeman. An elderly bewhiskered woman, with a square of grey material on her balding head, bunches up her skirt with her gnarled hands and smiles in relief. Sitting next to her, a bearded man with ragged holes in both of his trouser knees places a grubby hand in her lap.

The door from the courthouse creaks opens and the Junior Clerk scans those assembled. There is a stiffening of the Constables.

‘The Justice is not here yet,’ says the Clerk, looking at nobody in particular.

‘Whose papers are on top of the pile, Clerk?’ asks a Constable.

‘The boy maybe, because of his years.’

The young boy understands that he has little time to make his escape.

Justice Braveheart, dressed in a fashionable but badly creased full-length tailcoat, a beaver top-hat and hessian boots, arrives at a shuffle. He is followed by his Senior Clerk carrying a folder of papers secured with a variety of coloured ribbons.

The Justice passes Ben without acknowledging him. Ben watches as the Senior Clerk places the ribboned papers on the desk. The Justice slides the books to the side of his desk and places a fist-sized stone, carved in the shape of a skull, on the top of his papers. He sniffs and wipes his nose with a clean handkerchief as he scans the topmost paper.

‘An unknown boy of unknown years, of unknown parentage and... oh shit.’

‘A young Gosport boy sir, not yet a shaver.’ The Junior Clerk, standing erect behind his lectern explains, respectfully bowing his head.

Justice Braveheart fingers through the top few sheets and extracts the one he is looking for.

‘While I am on my feet I will deal with the latest misdemeanour enacted by that out-and-out rascal James Wheelwright. Fetch the guilty bastard in now!’

The erect, unwashed, unshaven and bare-footed James Wheelwright is escorted into the room by a pair of Constables. All three take up position facing Justice Braveheart. The mumble of expectancy from the crowded public benches gradually settles to a hum. Those who are unseated lean up against the walls: the stench of wet, unwashed clothing is overwhelming.

‘Accused, state your name and age for the record,’ says the Junior Clerk.

‘Mister James Wheelwright aged thirty-one years,’ says the accused in a low, gravelly voice.

‘Abode?’

‘No abode, if you mean a place to live. I don’t have a place to ferkin live.’

‘Language!’ shouts the Senior Clerk.

‘Language, Wheelwright!’ bellows Justice Braveheart. ‘If you choose to use intemperate language in my courtroom, I shall send you overseas where you can blaspheme away to your heart’s content to those of a similar nature.’

A Constable jabs the accused in the ribs with his truncheon.

‘Say sorry sir.’

‘Sorry sir,’ mumbles James Wheelwright.

Justice Braveheart looks up. ‘The title Mister does not sit well with you, Wheelwright - I shall have it removed from the record.’ He flicks open a paper and reads: ‘James Wheelwright, labourer of Gosport, you are charged by Diantha Cooke single woman of Gosport, to have had carnal knowledge of her personal body without her consent and to have gotten her with child. This child when born will be a bastard and thereby chargeable to the town.’ The Justice places his paper to the right of his desk. ‘James Wheelwright, you shall formally appear at the forthcoming Quarter Sessions to answer this charge. Until such time you will be detained locally and work daily with the Haslar gravediggers. May the winter’s ground frost be hard, deep and back-breaking. Take the cock-happy bastard away.’ He hands the charge sheet to the Junior Clerk as James Wheelwright is dragged away.

‘Is the woman Diantha Cooke present?’ the Justice asks the room.

Silence.

‘Never in attendance when we need to talk to the strumpet,’ he mumbles as he accepts a folded sheet of paper from the Senior Clerk.

The young boy is brought in, flanked by two Constables: all three stand a few paces inside the door. The Senior Clerk opens a box, untangles and finger-combs a lengthy article of straw-coloured headgear and hands it deferentially to Justice Braveheart who places it on his head. He adjusts the headgear, adopts a self-important stance, unfolds the paper and reads in well-modulated tones: ‘I, as the duly appointed Justice of the Peace for Gosport in the County of Hampshire, do hereby declare the Petty Session for Monday the nineteenth day of November in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty, open. I trust that I will not experience a repeat of the distractions caused during my previous visit.’ He turns his sheet of paper over. ‘I remind you of the commemoration of the Feast of the visitation of Mary with Elizabeth as recorded in the Gospel of Luke. Elizabeth is with child courtesy of John the Baptist.’ He ruffles the sheet of paper and tosses it onto his desk. ‘This commemoration is completely outdated, Clerk. I am minded that I read the exact same words months past... you incompetent.’

The Senior Clerk shuffles away to a shadowed corner and removes his headgear.

The young boy leans towards the door, making ready to run. He is restrained by the larger of the two Constables.

Justice Braveheart looks at the boy, coughs and waves his papers.

‘We have a busy day ahead of us, let us continue.’ He glares at those on the public benches. ‘Everybody stand... stand!’

While waiting for everybody to get to their feet he fingers his papers and plays with his stone skull. He coughs loudly.

‘Long live Queen Victoria and her husband... bless him for his support and fortitude. All be seated, and refrain from your blasted coughing if you are able!’

There is a rustle from the assembled throng as they seat themselves. Someone coughs. Justice Braveheart wipes his brow with his handkerchief and plucks a stray frond from his headgear.

‘I expect all persons in this place to uphold the law of assembly as defined by myself. I shall not hesitate to punish anybody who disobeys any of my rulings.’

The young boy flanked by the two Constables shuffles his bare feet.

‘I have a mind to deal with all today’s matters in a swift and unbending manner. I expect quick and accurate recording from the Clerks and the collection of any monies as required. Place the first good-for-nothing troublemaker in front of me so that I can see his eyes.’

The small boy is pushed to a position directly facing the Justice’s desk and is told to stand up straight.

The Justice looks glaringly at the boy. ‘Name?’

The boy looks at the floor.

‘No name sir,’ replies the Junior Clerk. ‘The boy has no recorded name.’

‘We need a name, man,’ says the Justice, fixing the Junior Clerk with a steely eye. ‘Can’t discipline anyone without a blasted name.’

‘The accused is an unnamed vagrant, sir. We believe that he is without parents, siblings or close friends. The charge papers show that he was given the name Felix by the authorities as he was arrested for a minor misdemeanour earlier this year on Saint Felix Day, the eighth day of March sir.’

‘Felix?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The minor misdemeanour was?’

‘Not noted, sir.’

‘I need a family name for the boy. Your family name, sir?’ the Justice asks the Junior Clerk.

‘Wildgoose sir,’ replies the Clerk.

‘No good. Can’t inflict such a ridiculous birdlike name on the lad.’

‘It is a well-respected and fashionable name of which I am the pr-’

‘That may be so, sir,’ interrupts the Justice. He looks over at the public benches. ‘Is there anyone in the court willing to give a family name to the accused?’

Silence.

Justice Braveheart looks directly at the Junior Clerk. ‘Have you any objections to your family name being shortened, so that we can register it?’

‘No objection, sir. I would be honoured, sir.’ The Junior Clerk almost bends double, not knowing whether to remain seated or stand.

‘Call the boy Wild. Log him as Felix Wild. Appropriate name for a feral foundling. Age?’

‘Age unknown, sir,’ says the Junior Clerk.

‘Blast. Blast and damnation. We appear to have few, if any, details of the accused. Do we have a medical man in the court?’

Silence.

‘Do we have a man with any medical qualification whatsoever in the place?’

At the back of the court a man wearing a grey coat, a chequered scarf draped over his shoulders and a wide-brimmed flax cap stands.

‘I am a horse doctor, sir.’

‘And your medical schooling sir?’

‘I can assess the age of a horse by teeth and have done it accurately for thirty-one years, sir.’

‘Could you determine the age of a young boy from his teeth?’

‘In the absence of any other medical person, sir, I will attempt to.’

The Justice looks to the Senior Clerk who is bunched up in his corner. ‘Is there any legal ruling against a horse doctor assessing the boy’s age?’

The Senior Clerk hunches his shoulders.

‘In heaven’s name, man, stop your sulking. You do not have the brains to sulk effectively.’

The Senior Clerk wraps both his arms around his head.

The Justice waves his hand in the direction of the horse doctor.

‘Present yourself to the front of the court. Examine the teeth of the accused and make an educated guess as to his age, in human not horse years. Remove your hat before entering my part of the court, sir.’

The court watches in silence as the horse doctor tosses his hat aside and shuffles to the front of the court. He holds the boy’s mouth open while the smallest of the two Constables restrains the boy by holding his shoulders.

The boy stares at the ceiling.

‘Well, man? What do his teeth tell you?’

The horse doctor stands up straight, unwinds a rogue section of his scarf and faces the Justice.

‘It is difficult to ascertain accurate age. If he were a stallion I would improve his food mixture, however I-’

‘The boy is not and hopefully will never be a stallion, sir,’ interrupts the Justice.

‘Certainly he isn’t, sir.’

‘Age?’

‘Between thirteen and fifteen, sir.’

‘Return to your seat. Your name, sir?’

‘Saddler, sir. James Saddler.’

‘Note him down, Clerk,’ says the Justice, watching the horse doctor slope back to his bench. Clearly in a rush to start his first case he taps his desk papers with his stone skull. ‘Accused, you are to be known in this court and henceforth as Felix Wild aged fourteen. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ says the boy.

‘Charge details if you please, Clerk.’

The Junior Clerk gets to his feet and unrolls a parchment.

‘Did on Tuesday the 20th day of August in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty, illegally attempt to steal a pocket timepiece, estimated value twelve shillings, from a Mister Samuel Longmire as he alighted from the harbour ferry at Gosport ramp, sir.’

‘Witnesses?’

The Junior Clerk continues. ‘The only plausible witness was a gentleman named Ernest Large, who has since left for foreign parts onboard HMS Vigilant in the service of Her Majesty, sir.’

‘So he is of no blasted use to us here today,’ states Justice Braveheart without looking up from his papers.

The Senior Clerk jumps to his feet, replaces his headgear and inhales deeply.

‘With your permission, sir, I would point out that the accused was placed in Forton Gaol to await trial over two months since, sir. As a boy it is against-’

‘Do not attempt to spout your limited knowledge of the law to me, sir,’ interrupts the Justice.

‘That was never my intent, sir.’

‘You are a legally trained nincompoop, sir. Felix Wild, what do say in response to the charge? Did you attempt to steal a pocket timepiece from a gentleman at the Ferry ramp in Gosport during August last?’

‘No, sir,’ says the boy.

‘That is a definite defence, lad,’ says Justice Braveheart, plucking another stray hair from his headgear. Turning to the Junior Clerk he asks, ‘Was the timepiece actually removed from this man Longmire?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So how do we know the boy intended to take the timepiece?’

‘By virtue of his proximity and behaviour, sir,’ says the Senior Clerk replacing his headgear.

Justice Braveheart swerves to face the Senior Clerk. ‘His proximity and his behaviour?’

‘He had a hand almost on the hip of the gentleman, sir.’

‘Almost... blasted almost?’

‘In the process of snatching the timepiece.’

‘Do we have clear and indisputable evidence that the boy was intent on taking the timepiece?’

‘Evidence of an experienced Constable standing in the vicinity, sir.’

‘An experienced Constable?’

‘Yes sir,’ replies the Senior Clerk a little hesitantly. ‘The accused is a vagrant child, sir, of no fixed abode and no parentage.’

‘Which doesn’t necessarily make him a thief.’

‘Does it not, sir?’

‘No, my good man, it does not.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘Is the aforementioned experienced Constable in the room?’

‘Unfortunately not, sir.’ says the Senior Clerk. ‘He is presently in Forton gaol awaiting a trial date for a grave transgression.’

Justice Braveheart removes his headgear, slaps it on his elbow and replaces it on his head. ‘I am dismissing this case.’ He waves an angry arm at the courtyard door. ‘I have the detritus of local humanity outside in the yard, all of whom thoroughly deserve my considered punishment. This young boy has done nothing wrong to my mind. The cost to the town of keeping a young boy behind bars is excessive. Case dismissed, Clerk. Dismissed.’

‘As you say, sir,’ replies the Senior Clerk.

‘The case should never have been presented.’

‘As you say, sir.’

‘Any further information on Master Wild?’

Silence.

The Senior Clerk raises his hand. ‘I beg your pardon, sir - what age shall I place alongside the boy’s name, sir?’

‘Fourteen. Have you not been paying attention to the case, sir?’

‘I have, sir. Hanging on your every word, sir.’

‘You are a stranger to the truth, my good man - a blasted stranger. Some time ago I clearly declared his age to be fourteen.’

The Senior Clerk nods. ‘Fourteen years, sir. Thank you.’

‘You are dismissed without charge, Felix Wild. I don’t expect that you have any complaint about that?’ says the Justice.

The larger of the two Constables elbows the boy in the ribs.

‘The Justice is addressing you, boy,’ he whispers. ‘Say no complaint sir and thank you.’

The boy looks directly at Justice Braveheart. ‘No complaint, sir and thank you.’

The caped gentleman on the front row stands and salutes the court with his raised stick. ‘Excuse me, Justice Braveheart, may I be permitted to speak to the court?’

‘By all means. Please state your reason for interrupting proceedings, along with your name and occupation, sir.’ Justice Braveheart settles himself in his chair and extracts a long-stemmed pipe from the folds of his coat.

The gentleman tips his stick to his forehead.

‘Thank you, sir. My name is William Kettle. I am a gentleman of private means representing a large marine merchant in Portsmouth City. This week I am conducting business in the Royal Dockyard whilst residing at the Keppel’s Head Hotel in Portsmouth - I have a friendship with the proprietor, Elizabeth Harrison. My permanent family residence is in London.’

‘Please explain to the Court why a gentleman from our capital city should be accorded the privilege of addressing this court, sir,’ asks the Senior Clerk, keeping a weather-eye on Justice Braveheart.

‘Sit yourself down, sir,’ Justice Braveheart says to the Senior Clerk. ‘Mister Kettle was addressing me directly. We are about to embark on an adult and gentlemanly conversation.’

The Senior Clerk nods apologetically and sits himself on the edge of a seat in his shadowed corner. He removes his headgear and stares at the floor between his feet.

‘Continue Mister...’ says the Justice, removing his pipe.

‘Kettle, sir - William Kettle,’ says the standing gentleman. ‘Thank you, sir. I am aware that the people of Gosport and Portsmouth have entrenched Naval connections. As such, they will understand the serious implications of the recent launch of the French vessel Gloire, the first ocean-going iron-clad warship. This vessel and her two sister vessels could upset the balance of naval power and have already initiated a seaborne invasion scare in Westminster, London. The situation was perceived to be so serious that Her Majesty herself asked the Admiralty if the Royal Navy was adequately equipped to counter any French iron-clad offensive. Parliamentary approval for the construction of a steel-hulled vessel was given and it is currently under construction in East London, sir.’

There are a number of shaking heads within the audience.

Justice Braveheart struggles to his feet, places his smoking pipe on the corner of his desk and looks directly at Mister Kettle.

‘That, sir, was an excellent discourse on the current mistrust between the French and ourselves... which is nothing new. I need to know in brief, sir, the reason for your interruption as we have little time to deal with the number of cases this morning.’

‘I am looking to find an apprentice to further my business, having recently had the good fortune to earn myself a lucrative government contract-’

‘What contract, sir?’

‘I am not permitted to divulge contract details, sir.’

‘Understood. Continue.’

‘I am informed that during his recent confinement the young boy, now named Felix Wild aged fourteen years, displayed an unusual artistic ability.’

‘Did he?’ splutters the Justice. ‘What is this ability? Will someone tell me why I was not fully informed of the boy’s ability?’

The Junior Clerk shrugs.

‘I have a requirement for a marine artist, sir,’ says Mister Kettle. ‘A position that I have found difficult to fill despite much searching both here and in London. I would like to determine the young boy’s ability should he be released into my care and without charge from this Session, sir.’

‘More detail, sir,’ says the Justice, preoccupied with a blemish on his coat collar. ‘How did you learn of this boy’s alleged artistic talent?’

‘Over dinner last evening at my hotel I was informed that a young vagrant boy, with unusual artistic ability, was to be present at today’s Session and would likely be released without charge. I am interested in all manner of artistic aptitude as I can use such persons within my business-’

‘How did you hear that the boy would be released without charge, sir?’ interrupts the Justice, pointing his smoking pipe at the gentleman.

‘Likely to be released without charge, sir,’ replies Mister Kettle.

‘How so?’

‘My informant is a confidant of the legal service, sir.’

‘A confidant of the legal service, sir?’ Justice Braveheart slams the top of his desk. The paper pile shudders. ‘What the hell does that mean? Give me details. Name of the confidant, sir.’

‘I cannot, sir.’

‘You will, sir,’ says the Justice fondling his stick. ‘Or I will exercise some of my judicial powers.’

‘It was your brother-in-law Mister George Crofton, sir, who viewed the list of today’s Session and your considered punishments.’

Justice Braveheart’s mouth opens and closes.

‘My brother-in-law is a charlatan, sir.’

‘I have no opinion one way or the other, sir. But if you will confirm that the case against the boy is to be dismissed and that the boy can be released into my charge...’

Justice Braveheart turns to his Senior Clerk.

‘Can we legally agree to such a request?’

The Senior Clerk sulks silently.

Justice Braveheart turns to his Junior Clerk.

‘Can we legally agree to such a request?’

‘It would simplify and hasten proceedings, sir.’

‘Boy!’ Justice Braveheart glares at the accused. ‘Look at me, boy!’

The large Constable jabs Felix in the ribs and nods towards the Justice.

Justice Braveheart waits until the boy raises his head.

‘Boy, I have a mind to dismiss any charge against you as I have no credible witness to confirm your guilt. Normally I would return you to safe custody until deciding what is to be done with you. In the light of recent discussions with a gentleman in this court I propose to release you into the custody of a Mister.... err...’ He looks inquiringly at his Junior Clerk.

‘Mister William Kettle, a gentleman of private means, presently residing at The Keppel’s Head Hotel on the Hard at Portsmouth, sir.’

‘I propose to release you into the custody of Mister William Kettle, a gentleman of private means, presently residing at The Keppel’s Head Hotel in Portsmouth. Do you have any objection?’

Silence.

The smaller Constable whispers, ‘Say no sir.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Case dismissed then. Let the boy be released to the custody of Mister whatever-his-name-is, when all the papers are correctly raised. Clerk - make the necessary notations. And get a written undertaking from the gentleman himself. Who is next?’

‘The man Toby registered as Smith, sir,’ says the Junior Clerk.

A stiff-backed Constable appears at the door.

‘By your leave, sir. The