A Final Jig
written by: William Herbert
Amidst the August heat, flies thronged the air in the roads and alleyways around Pall Mall, attracted to many and varied pungent odours including sweat and horse manure. Nevertheless, the Sons and Daughters of Pride glowed in their Grandest Finery, and the Great Unwashed and Everyone Else in between joined them. The good old city of London had all but ground to a halt, and people from miles away arrived by the minute to witness the ‘Grand Jubilee’. The Prince Regent had promoted the whole performance as a centenary celebration of Hanoverian rule, as well as other minor trivialities: if anyone knew how to spend a pound where only a shilling would do, it was he. And so, folk travelled from miles around to gaze about them at his decadence.
I paraded among them, though I didn’t blend in as I normally would. Instead, the early morning rays glinted off the golden tassels that shimmered from my epaulettes, contrasting with the red jacket that I wore. A single-edged spadroon swung by my side, and I rested one hand on its curving hilt as I paced towards St James’s Park. Envious eyes swivelled on stalks: I didn’t need a mirror to know how good I looked. Would that the honour had been mine to wear that soldier’s uniform, but no matter. In my line of work, appearance is nine-tenths of the law, is it not?
As I approached the entrance, I met with a sight that cooled my zeal: a detachment of Bow Street’s Horse Patrol stood on duty by the gate. Being mounted on their steeds, they towered above the populace. Few dared cause them any outrage or go near them lest they be trampled under hoof or struck with the sabres that hung from their belts. They were uniformed too in blue great-coats and trousers, scarlet waistcoats, and black felt hats that added to their height: suffice it to say though, they did not look as smart or as dashing as I. Such men had bayed for my lifeblood before, though I couldn’t blame them: I’d been a very thorn in their flesh for many a year and always avoided capture.
Recent rumour though had spread around Seven Dials that one among their company could ‘sniff out’ a criminal’s speech, after hearing their voice just the once. Footpads, burglars and thieves alike had fallen prey to this inhuman ability. Greater cunning and guile would be needed to thrive and survive with that kind of monster around: that is where I came in. I specialised in the art of hiding in plain sight, and I’d honed it to the finest jot and tittle. I walked straight past them, under their very noses, and they were none the wiser.
Further down the path, a group of ladies gathered to the side, giggling at the big-billed birds that waddled thereabouts. They admired the vista around them and gossiped about the latest fashions as rich, young women are wont to do. I stood back a while and watched and listened to their inane babble, amazed at how intelligent beings can be oblivious to threats so close to them. It didn’t take long before a small gang of louts burst through the crowd and barrelled into the nearest before making off. People screamed and hollered to raise the hue and cry but the children scarpered quickly. The smallest, a tiny tyke, no older than ten all told, careered towards me, so I caught him by his collar and lifted him off his feet so he couldn’t land a telling punch or kick.
“Miss? Did he take anything from you? Are you injured? Should I march him to the Runners and have him clapped in irons?” I asked.
The boy stared at me, wriggling like a fish on a hook, his face as pale as wool and would have quaked in his shoes, if he’d worn any.
“Lemme go, Mister, please. I ain’t done nuffin’ wrong. It were an accident. I di’n’t mean to ‘urt the old bat, ‘onest!”
The lady in question had looked familiar, but I couldn’t for the life of me place her. She’d dropped her dog in the hullabaloo which yapped and barked at passers-by including me. I did my best to ignore it, but the high-pitched whine grated on my nerves so.
“No harm’s been done, good captain. The constables have more on their plates to cope with than troubling them with this little scamp. Please, let him run along,” she said.
Before I released him, I examined the struggling whelp top-to-toe and noticed a selection of glittering trinkets tucked into his waistband, kept in place by a strand of rope. I saw in him a younger me, not so long ago. I brought my face close so only he would hear my words.
“Listen up, sonny, then ‘op it! Best be careful nex’ time. Mind yer surroundin’s and make sure you don’t get caught.” Then I slapped him round his ear with my spare hand for good measure. He scrammed so quickly I lost him among the hordes who applauded my ‘act of heroism’. Throughout all of this, the dog continued to bark, its tufted fur aquiver. Though its teeth would not have reached my skin through the thickness of the leathered boots, still I shooed it away.
“Hush now, Anzhelika. Come away from this brave soldier. I must apologise, sir, she doesn’t usually make such a fuss.”
She gathered the cur in her arms and tickled its ears and under its chin to soothe its foul temper, though it fixed its beady eyes on me for the length of a Bible. She also waved her fan with many a flick and a flutter. Her eyes peeked above it, flashing a hidden fire that she struggled to conceal. Nevertheless, she appeared on the outside to be a paragon of virtue and she engaged me in grateful conversation.
“How glad I am to meet a brave gallant come to my rescue at the hour of my need. Would that you’d been by my side a week or so since.”
“How might I have served my lady?” I asked.
“A roadside ruffian waylaid my uncle and I on our way here, and he threatened and robbed us.”
Then it hit me. That’s where I’d seen her before.
“And yet you survived,” said I. “And your uncle? What of him?”
She laughed. “Our lives held no interest for the scoundrel. He just wanted the valuables we carried with us. He deprived my uncle of a valued heirloom and me of twenty guineas. He quipped he’d pay me back, by and by, and even asked for my address: the cheek of the rogue! To this day I’ve not seen a penny of that sum. As for my uncle, he is advanced in years but made of sturdy stuff. ‘Twas but his ego that got bruised.”
I’d clean forgotten about the money, but not that crafty toad: hard as nails, I recalled. He’d shot a hole through the rim of my hat nearly blowing my head off, so I divested him of his barking irons before he could do more serious harm. What a shame I’d given them to that hawker. Who knows how much I could have made if I’d sold them myself?
“It sounds like he’s a wily old toad, and you had enough protection.”
To maintain my disguise, I offered her my arm and she laid a gloved hand upon it. Her friends fell in, keeping a discreet distance behind us, acting as our unofficial chaperones.
We strolled around the parks admiring the exhibitions. Clowns and actors, jugglers, and side-stall entertainments are ten-a-penny walking through the side streets if you know where to look. But elephants and lions? Monkeys and snakes? Not so often, except after a spell at the local Dog and Duck perhaps. Coloured flags flapped in the breeze and banners advertised the wares of hundreds of booths, tempting the inexperienced traveller with their spices and sweetmeats to dazzle and corrupt the senses. Structures, built by master craftsmen, boggled the mind; from miniature galleons doing battle on the Serpentine to towers that reached for the sky, littering the open ground. Never had I seen such fearsome and awe-full variety.
Secretly, my stomach churned at the sights when I knew of families that starved, unable to scrape two pennies together to provide the meanest feast. That spoiled sybarite, Georgy Porgy, didn’t give a hoot for the poor; his whole life thus far attests to that fact. He needed to learn the true value of life, so I’d resolved to be his teacher. I had seen what I needed to help his festivities go off with a ‘bang’.
Spanning the canal, a bridge had been thrown across the water, with a Chinese Pagoda in the centre; a blazing edifice where every part had been covered in lamps and glass reflectors. The lady I’d accompanied, invited me to the fireworks that would be held later on that night, but I told her I must decline, blaming duty over pleasure, and I patted the satchel slung over my shoulder.
“Let me not stand in your way captain,” said she, but before I left, I bowed as any gentleman might and promised to write her soon.
***
Between me and my target lay a series of tents, intended to prevent unwanted riff-raff from treading its boards, where a pretty sum must be paid to pass the barriers, something only the wealthy could afford on such sight-seeing trips. My purse couldn’t stretch that far either, but I had a more effective means of achieving my objective.
Chinese lanterns flickered along the path, making it hard to see among the shadows which I usually hid in, but now I befriended the light, no matter how dim it might have been. I needed the guard by his tent to see me coming, so I stepped into a brighter circle, supplied by a new-fangled gas lamp, and see me coming he did.
“Most folk are queueing to see the fireworks, sir. The show starts at ten; I’d hurry to get a good spot if I were you.”
“I need to gain access to the bridge,” I said. “A special request from Sir Arthur Wellesley, to ensure the ‘show’ goes off without a hitch.”
“All visitors must pay a shilling to enter, lieutenant, no exceptions – we all have our orders, I’m sure you understand.”
“What if I showed you my orders? Would that help?”
I pulled out a single piece of paper from my satchel and held it aloft for him to see. I’d convinced myself he wouldn’t be able to read, so I didn’t bother letting him inspect it any closer. I pointed to the blob of sealing wax and the signature underneath and stated in no uncertain terms that it represented orders from the Duke of Wellington. Whatever their opinion of the aristocracy, every Englishman worth his salt must have heard of him and his antics with the French. I’d figured he wouldn’t question the letter’s authority and yet he paused.
“If you’d seen Colonel Congreve’s rockets in action at Boulogne, you’d want me to check they were safe too. Did you hear of the havoc they caused there?” Clearly, he had, because he let me in without further ado.
***
I don’t know what I’d been expecting: something more permanent perhaps? Although it had been built by skilled craftsmen, it wouldn’t take much to bring it down. They’d given me almost everything I needed– wood to burn, sparks to ignite the flames but how to encourage the inferno, I hadn’t got a clue.
Visitor numbers thinned out and the pagoda remained empty most of the time. Crowds gathered on the banks of the canal ready to watch the display, doing me an unplanned favour. If anyone passed by, I simply stood to attention and allowed them to see what they wanted before continuing my search. Being busy is often the worst way to find inspiration, or so I’ve discovered. By far and away the superior method is to take a few moments of peace and quiet: it’s then that a solution presents itself. I took out the soldier’s spyglass and picked out the clock on Westminster Abbey that peered above the trees. The large, single hand ticked ever closer to the hour: no minute hand showed the exact time, so I could only guess how long I had. Surely there were but moments before the display began.
My eyes wandered around the various paintings of oriental life as imagined by a Western artist, I presumed, but they settled on a pipe fed in through the floor. I followed it up the wall until I discovered the connection that led to some interior lighting. A flickering rat-tail flame had been placed in front of a rounded plate of mirrored glass reflecting its light to intensify the weak illumination. Why hadn’t I seen this before? The sulphurous odour it emitted should have been enough to alert me to its presence. Gas had been used on the streets for a few years or so, but lighting the insides of a building hadn’t caught on yet. People didn’t trust gas in enclosed spaces, and who could blame them: no one wanted to become a sacrificial canary.
Close to the burner, a single metal ‘knuckle’ allowed the gaseous vapours through. I couldn’t help but ponder the effect of loosening it a little. Would there be enough gas let out to cause a problem? It took a considerable amount of force – I had no useful tools with me other than my meat-hook hands, so they had to suffice. An added stench of coal gas informed me that I had indeed been successful, and needed to make my escape – I could only guess how long it might take to achieve the required effect.
The soldier had served his purpose, so I discarded his belongings on the floor. Though I coveted his officer’s sword, I resumed my night-time alter-ego. Clad in black, I’d blend in with the shadows much better without his blade, so I persuaded myself I mustn’t take it with me.
Prior to the chiming of the hour, I slipped from an open window into the lake, then I made for cover. Everyone’s attention lay on the bridge, awaiting the pyrotechnics. I hoped my efforts would add an extra element to the proceedings when the time arrived. The canal didn’t need to be deep, as shallow-keeled boats were its only traffic, but I couldn’t afford to paddle either: standing up would draw too much attention, and my boots might get stuck in the silt beneath the surface – I had no desire to lose them too. So, I swam to the shore, making slow, gliding strokes, without too much splashing or noise, straining every sinew in my body. Once at the edge, I discovered a long-abandoned nest amongst a patch of reeds, settled myself upon it, and perched within to scrutinise the entertainment as it unfolded.
Over the tops of the trees, the sound of the abbey’s bells chimed loud and clear until the Royal Artillery struck up a continuous barrage that emitted a cacophonous roar, thus announcing the start of the fireworks. Immediately after, a series of the colonel’s missiles ascended. For safety’s sake, the rockets had been stripped of their usual munitions but kept their mesmerising power. The larger tubes contained a world of smaller projectiles that burst aloft and flung countless parcels of flame into the air, brilliant as the brightest stars. Then, even smaller ones erupted and a shower of fiery light descended to the earth, reaching over enormous stretches of the park, and illuminating the landscape in a sea of magical blue light.
Amidst this hail of flames and sparks, two figures moved across the bridge. They shouldn’t have been there. I wanted to warn them, but if I did, my refuge would’ve been revealed and I’d bring the law upon my head. Instead, I resolved to keep my silence and watch and pray they’d escape in time. But right at that moment, a volcano of flame erupted, enveloping the structure with a terrible magnificence. Ignorant of the full facts, the audience took it to be part of the celebrations and cheered with riotous whoops and shouts.
Thereafter, the tower burned for hours, and the crowds did what they do best; they gawked in fear and trepidation without the slightest decency to tear their eyes away. Even when teams of horses pulling several water pumps to extinguish the flames arrived, a small selection continued to stare as though their necks were made of rubber. Amidst the fiery tempest, the upper storeys toppled over one side of the bridge. I hoped against hope Prince George would soon see for himself the melancholy remains of this temporary splendour and finally change his ways. Fat chance though.
***
After the excitement had drawn to an end the crowds returned to their homes, and I looked for a chance to do likewise, as I yearned for the peace of the countryside. The city surrounded me on three sides: to the north lay Soho and the lands of the old May fair which had seen a great many dwellings built in the past few decades. Many city streets were well lit now, to make it safe for the wealthy to travel at night but more perilous for the classes who’d been reduced to a life of crime. Bow Street lay to the east, so I needed to put as much distance between them and me as possible. The Palace of Westminster and the River Thames stood to the south. Beyond the bounds of the Queen’s House at the western end of the park, open fields spread out from Knights Bridge and Kensington, granting my freedom along the Great West Road, but first, I had to get there.
As I fled, I kept to the trees that provided the most amount of shade, but there came a point when I’d run out of shelter and had to find elsewhere to skulk. Not far off, I spied a line of riders and horses blocking the road. Their bare swords rested on their shoulders but each soldier stared straight ahead. Were they looking for me? I couldn’t tell but they certainly meant business and I couldn’t afford to test their resolve. Their very presence funnelled me towards Constitution Hill. I smelt a trap but had no other choice. The railings and parts of the wall of the Green Park had been dismantled in places to allow for the greater numbers of people expected earlier that day, so I made for a nearby gap.
Rocket casings littered the ground, and the stinging odour of singed sulphur still wafted through the air. My muscles ached and my limbs were sore from the effort of making that swim. Water still soaked my clothes and they dragged my body downwards, sapping the tiniest morsels of energy I had left.
Pre-dawn light and the effects of fatigue blurred my vision. Low-hanging mist and smoke made it impossible to identify moving shapes more than a few paces away. I avoided anywhere the Runners might lurk; the Ranger’s Lodge, the Fountain, and another building erected for the Jubilee revelries, that hadn’t succumbed to the ravages of fire. In the search for desperate liberty, rational thought deserted me and I acted from the nature of a wild spirit, as any cornered beast. When St George’s Hospital loomed into view, I dipped my head and strode towards the turnpike.
From around the corner of a high brick wall though, a voice called my name and it froze me to the spot.
“Edward Catrell. In my duly appointed authority under Bow Street Magistrates Court, I arrest you for your crimes against the king and his subjects.”
“Edward who? Never ‘eard of ‘im gov’nor.”
“Don’t play dumb, Mister Catrell. We know who you are.”
“Never ‘eard of ‘innocent ‘til proven guil’y?”
“Come, come, sir. The evidence we have against you is undeniable.”
I couldn’t see the gentleman’s face, being somewhat hidden by whiskers and the brim of his hat. Two others emerged from the shadows and took up their positions behind me, hemming me in. So that is what this felt like; unnerving wasn’t the word. Under their intense intimidation, I countered from pure instinct. As soon as the nearest figure crept into arm’s reach I lunged for his weapon. A brief gasp of surprise leaked from his mouth as I struck him in the throat, grasped and twisted his arm until he dropped his billy club to the ground and I slipped behind him to shield my body from their fire-arms aimed full square at my chest. Another din erupted: the two remaining Runners twirled wooden rattles about their heads, calling for reinforcements. I shoved the hapless Runner into the others, turned and bolted in the opposite direction, screaming as I did so.
The trouble with fighting uneven odds is that, sooner or later, the advantage of surprise drops away and superior numbers begin to tell. More uniformed officers appeared out of nowhere: I’d never seen so many in one place.
“Keep tryin’ boys!” I jeered. “This is the day that you almost cau …,”
A glancing truncheon struck my jaw, knocking me off my feet, but I leapt straight back up again. After that though their blows rained on me thick and fast until forced to slump to my knees, spitting teeth and blood. My energy completely spent, I fell to the floor and they swooped on my broken body. They forced my arms behind my back and bound my wrists in iron cuffs. With one man on either side of me, they grabbed my elbows and hauled me to my feet, sparing no thought to my injuries. From behind, I heard a bark and growl, accompanied by a more soothing voice, at least to begin with.
“How now, my ‘dashing captain’? Did you really think an officer would not report the theft of his personal goods?”
“That stuck-up soldier served ‘is purpose. I did what I ‘ad to do.”
“Does that include killing those poor innocents on the bridge?”
“Their deaths are on the Regent’s ‘ead. Not that he’d care much, mind.”
“Neither would you, I wager. It seems that you’re about as fond of repaying a loan of four hundred shillings or so, leant in good faith I might add.”
“Or at the point of a gun barrel. What does the good book say? Neither borrower nor lender be?”
“There’s your next mistake, for the Bible doesn’t say that.”
“I di’n’t say which book, now did I?”
“Indeed. The one that I refer to says, ‘Thou shalt not steal’. In the eyes of the law, an unpaid loan is theft, and for that I shall see you swing from a noose and have the matter settled.” She turned to leave, but before she went, I begged her for the missing piece of the puzzle.
“You knew who I was all along. How?”
“Your disguise bamboozled me sure enough, I’ll grant you that. I cannot claim the glory of rumbling your bilk though. Credit for that goes to dear Anzhelika, here,” she indicated the mut she cradled in her arms. “She has a good nose for low-lives and a talent for detecting expressions that are hidden from our duller human senses. Take him away, officers. God save the king.”
With that frozen tone to her voice ringing in my ears, they dragged me away and I haven’t seen her since.
***
‘God save the king’ she said. If it is right that He should save a crazed despot such as he, then that is up to Him, for His thoughts are not like ours, nor are our ways anywhere near being akin to His. Bear in mind however that in the end, everyone is subject to His Mighty Judgement. We of this nation have been Weighed, Measured and found to be Greatly Wanting but it is the Church, the Bench, and the Crown itself, those who should know better, who lack any Righteous Fear and ignore the Debt of Allegiance they Owe to Him. They, more than any, are moved and seduced by their own petty greed, hoisting Satan’s Standards above their heads and making high cockalorum beneath it.
We hear it in our songs, we feel it on the wind, that change is a-coming, and it marches on a-pace. Nay! The time is here already when the people will not stand for the evils of their ‘betters’. I am but a cog in a complex machine that cannot and will not be ignored, though it takes a hundred years to see its purpose out.
Now prey excuse me, for I needs must answer the call to dance my final jig. The crowds may have their fun of me and the hangman shall earn my boots, but I beg you to consider the lessons that I’ve learned, lest you commit the same Great Sins as I.
THE END
- A Final Jig - February 27, 2025
