CHAPTER 39: Flight

The constant darkness was so disorienting, Jack had no idea how long he had been here, could no longer string together a pattern of days and nights from the random sounds of distant activity. His only way to measure the passage of time was by his own hunger; when it verged on unbearably acute — and not before — someone arrived to give him a dish of food, stale bread in a drizzle of lumpy broth that may have once contained meat. This was in addition to the tankards of small beer that were pushed through the opening in the door slightly more often.

But the dish was bigger than the tankard. They had to open the door slightly to shove it inside.

Hunger was gnawing at Jack's gut now. It seemed like forever that he'd been waiting here, pressed to the door, through another spell of quiet above, although he could not judge if that meant it was day or night. The first time they'd brought him food, they had unshuttered a lantern in the doorway, blinding him before he could react. Since then, he'd learned that any attempt to approach his gaolers — and there were always two at a time — was repulsed with swift kicks, although he was never beaten.

"We're to save him for the Major," Jack heard one of them snarl to his companion as they bolted him in again.

What sort of major, Jack had wondered ever since. Military, most likely, although "major" was not a Naval rank. Did magistrates and constables bear such a rank? Which of his many crimes was he being called to answer for?

Hunger twisted in his belly again, and Jack reached out to steady himself by the wall, praying he still had the strength to carry out his plan. Last time they'd come, he had feigned madness — not much of a stretch, under the circumstances — cowering in a far corner, sobbing, mumbling a great load of nonsense, any damn fool thing to throw them off their guard. He'd scrunched up against the far wall, covering his face in abject terror, but in fact he'd been shielding his eyes from the light, peering through his fingers to gauge how far they were likely to open the door.

By the chuckling of the two fellows, the way they lingered in the doorway a few precious seconds longer than usual — Haw haw, not so crank a sharper now, is he? — Jack thought they'd fallen for his performance. When they came for him the next time, they might be that much more lax, which might buy him the extra seconds he needed. He had to get out of here now, before this mysterious major, whatever he was, had a chance to set the rules of this game. While there was still time to warn Tory, or, at the very least, draw their pursuers off her trail, for he was damned if he would drag her to the gallows with him.

These thoughts stiffened his resolve when he thought he heard footfalls and the rattling of a tin lantern in the passage outside. He crouched low against the wall beside the door frame, every muscle tense, still weak with hunger, but stoked up on outrage and desperation. The bolt scraped outside, and the thick door began to move slowly inward, away from the frame; he could see the gap widening. A few inches above his head, an arm thrust a lantern into the cell, but the deadlights were still down on the sides. Its beam was directed at the back of the cell, where Jack had been last time.
   
It  would take only a heartbeat for them to see he wasn't there, and in that instant, Jack sprang up from his position under the raised arm, throwing his weight against the gaoler's bulk, who stumbled against the door with a yelp and a curse, forcing it farther open. Jack  bolted outward, into a second heavy shape, heard more curses, felt arms raised, heavy hands grasping for him, but the darkness was more to his advantage than theirs. They were bigger, stronger, but he was quicker, with a tumbler's agility. And he could see. Weakened as he was, he feinted and dodged and kicked his way past their solid shapes, rolled under another flailing arm, and landed himself in an open part of the passage for a blessed, unobstructed instant.

On his feet in a flash, Jack ran for his life.



Tory could not believe night had fallen again so soon, and she had no earthly idea how she had passed the day. Time seemed to be standing still, for her, anyway, since her interview with Matty last night. Thank all the gods tonight had not been a play night; she shouldn't have known what she was about onstage. It had required all the acting skills she possessed to explain to Jenny why she'd missed the revels at the Blue Fox in Kit's honor. As it was, she'd only just persuaded Matty to deliver her back to her lodging house by the back door before the others escorted Jenny in by the front. Up in their attic rooms, she'd lied to Jenny that she'd felt unwell and taken herself off home again so as not to spoil the celebration — earning herself a chiding for going off on her own.

For once, Tory had been glad to spend the night alone, once Jenny had been bustled back downstairs to Tom. She'd also spent most of the following day holed up with her logbook, ostensibly reworking another playscript, although she had nothing at all to show for it. Most of that time she'd spent simply fretting over Matty's sudden, unwelcome appearance. What could he be doing here after all this time? Why should he turn up at the very moment Jack was gone?  Were the two circumstances connected, or was it sheer, blind coincidence, like a bad play? And why had he been so insinuating about Jack? Well, she supposed she had been babbling like a schoolgirl, defending Jack's absence and his motives. Had she only been trying to convince herself? What must Matty have thought of her? But when had Matty's opinion ever mattered to her?

"My dear, you look terrible!" Jenny had greeted her, when she and the others arrived that evening to drag Tory out to supper. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Oh, it's nothing, just a plot complication I'm trying to work out," Tory had responded with as much lightness as she could muster, although when she glanced doubtfully down at the nearest page, it was completely empty.

If Jenny noticed, she didn't let on. "Well, never mind, you'll figure it out," was all she said. "You always do. Come along, now."

The meal had been eternal, with Tory far too preoccupied to hear what anyone else was saying, let alone take part. It seemed to her that Jenny was especially vivacious and lively, jesting with Kit and Tom, sharing company gossip —to compensate for her own lackluster presence, Tory supposed.  Or perhaps Jenny simply longed for the meal to end as well, so she could be off with Tom all the sooner.

Now that night had fallen again, the ever-earlier dark of an autumn evening, Jenny was gathering the last of her things. Tom would be along downstairs any minute. But nearing the door, Jenny suddenly turned back.

"Oh Tory, maybe I shouldn't go out tonight."

"What? Why not?" Tory was genuinely shocked. She'd been hoping to worry and fester in peace.

"I can't leave you like this!" Jenny exclaimed.

"Like what?" But Tory hurried on before Jenny could answer her. "I'm absolutely fine, Jenny, just tired, is all. And Tom will be so disappointed! To come all this way for nothing? Fly away and enjoy yourselves, I beg you. One of us ought to!"

She'd managed to keep her manufactured smile in place all the way downstairs and into the back passage. Tom was already lurking in the shadows within the covered back porch when Tory opened the door, and she surrendered Jenny to his arm with a pat on her friend's hand and what she hoped was a reassuring, conspiratorial grin. And all the while, Matty was so present in Tory's mind that when Tom and Jenny had gone off, and she half-turned to go back inside, she was not even surprised to recognize Matty's figure hurrying down the back street behind the lodging house, on the opposite side of the road. It was as if she'd conjured him out of her own thoughts.

She stayed on the porch an instant too long, too near the lamp, and Matty's head suddenly turned in her direction. His bustling slowed.

"Why . . . Mrs. Lightfoot!" he said in a cautious whisper.

"Captain Forrester," she said, her voice as neutral as she could make it. It was already too late to rush inside.

Matty had come to a full stop, glancing hesitantly up and down the empty street. Then he seemed to come to some decision. Tugging his hat brim lower on his face, he trotted quickly across to her side of the street and inserted himself into the shadows at the bottom of the back porch steps.

"Forgive me. I know how improper this is," he whispered up at her. "But it may be a fortunate thing that I should run into you just now, as I am off about some business that concerns you."

"Me?" Tory had taken instinctively to the shadows as well, in the covered corner of the porch that Tom had just vacated. "What business is that?" she whispered down to Matty.

"After we spoke last night, I sent word to my ship in Bristol Harbor," Matty told her. "It seemed to me you were concerned about Jack, and as my company has an agent in London, I had my lieutenant send a messenger to town to make inquiries about Jack Dance onstage at Drury Lane. I . . . I only thought to set your mind at ease."

Tory frowned into the darkness. She wished she could see Matty's face. "But he can't have come back already. It's sixteen hours from Bristol to London, and that's just one way." She knew the timetables well enough, all these days waiting for the mail coach.

"Why, that's the thing. As it happened, my agent arrived on board Hotspur this evening, on another matter. He missed my messenger, but when my lieutenant mentioned my request, I'm told he replied, 'Jack Dance of Drury Lane? It's all over London! Doesn't he know?'"

Tory was leaning out so far above the porch railing, she nearly tumbled over it. With an oath, she gathered her skirts and scuttled down two steps. "Know what?"

Matty shook his head in the darkness. "That's all he would say."

"Well, who was it came to tell you?" She glanced about as if expecting to find yet another conspirator lurking in the shadows. "May I speak to him?"

"That fellow is on his way to Bath, on some other business," Matty said. “There is some issue with one of our cargoes, which is why I must be off to Bristol at once, to find out what my agent knows, regarding my business as well as yours. For my ears alone, or so it seems, and he will only be aboard Hotspur overnight, so I must go."

Tory had come almost all the way down to the last step, hands like claws grasping the rail in her anxiety. What sort of trouble could Jack be in? It's all over London. Some scandalous love affair, was that why she hadn't heard from him in so long? Murder? If so, was Jack the accused, or the victim?

"I've a private carriage in the next street," Matty was telling her. "I'll send you word in the morning, if you like, as soon as I find out anything."

Morning? Tory would go out of her mind if she had to wait that long. How far was Bristol? Jack and Alphonse had once traveled there and back in a couple of hours.

"Let me go with you," she all but hissed into the darkness. "I won't be a minute."

"What? Don't be ridiculous, Tory!" Matty made an effort to lower his harsh whisper. "I can't spirit you off in the middle of the night!"

"It's only a few miles away . . . "

"Have a care for your reputation!" Matty's voice was low and terse. "Have a care for mine!"

"But no one will ever know!" Tory insisted. "I'll be back by morning. But we must hurry, before he's off again. Please, Mateo!"

Upstairs, she scarcely had time to blow out the lantern and grab her old plaid shawl. All she could think of was Jack.



Sprinting along a dark passage on pure instinct, Jack's eyes were well accustomed to the dark by now, but there was nothing to see — until he swung round a corner and saw a crack of light beckoning him from a door at the top of a flight of stairs. Up he ran, heading for the noise and light above ground, driven by the huffing and cursing of his pursuers somewhere behind him.

Through the door, Jack exploded into a large kitchen, where gaslight blinded him. Navigating by shouts and the clatter of kitchen things, he managed not to collide with too many of the people until he was able to reel out a back door into the blessed night, where his vision was more keen. Cut off by a high hedge, he circled around to the front of the solid, sizable building; light beamed out of two stories of windows, gas lamps lit the walkways, and he heard the clatter of carriages before he rounded the building and saw them in a broad, front drive. Laughter and a hum of activity drifted out from behind him. A commercial house, a club of some sort.

A brick path led from the house across a wide green lawn alongside the drive and down to the street, and Jack veered off in that direction. But not before he saw two more lumbering shapes, no doubt alerted by the commotion in the kitchen, come lurching out from under the front portico after him. He kept running straight ahead, even though carriages were slowing, their drivers starting to take an interest. He didn't know what they were shouting behind him, but he had a mad idea of suddenly veering sideways, for the surrounding hedge, straight through it if he had to, he was desperate enough to do it. He was just racing past the last carriage in the line, ready to break for the hedge, when someone fell on him from behind it.

Jack felt like he was trapped in the embrace of an ape, huge, meaty arms grappling with him in the dark, a trunk as stout and sturdy as an oak, and just as implacable. The last of his breath was squeezed out of his lungs, he was wrestled to his feet and slammed backwards against the carriage; the lamps rattled on the box with the impact. Dazed and blinking against its pale light, Jack could see nothing but a huge fist drawn back with murderous intent, possibly the last thing he would ever see.

Then the fist stopped in mid-punch, only inches away.

"You ain't Harding!" bellowed his would-be assailant, squinting at him in the light.

Jack scarcely had breath to respond. "Harding?" he gasped.    
   
For the first time since his imprisonment, Jack was able to get a clear view of the clothing he wore: a dark green sleeve, shiny in the light, a glimpse of yellow waistcoat, checkered trousers, black and white, like a chessboard. Had he not seen Harding in such a rig that last night in Bath?

"Of course I'm not Harding!" he sputtered. "Had a drink with the fellow in Bath." He dragged in another breath. "Fetched up here!"

"Well, who are you?"

Jack rasped out his name. The bruiser still clutching him by the lapels turned him closer to the light, squinting into his face.

"Not Mr. Dance of the Fairweather players? I know you! You're acquainted with Mr. Bell. I seen you outside the playhouse one night down in Kelsingham."

"Of course, I know Kit!" Jack cried, grateful to hear the first words that had made any sense to him in days. He couldn't remember this fellow's name, but he pressed on. "And if I don't get to London very soon, Kit and all of them will be out on the street." That seemed to sober the big, rough-looking fellow, who let go of Jack's coat. McCutcheon, that was his name.  The Bristol Mauler. "Why have I been held here, McCutcheon?"

"'T'wadn't you we thought we had, Mr. Dance," McCutcheon apologized. "It's Henry Harding we has business with."

"Harding," Jack muttered. "You'll have to wait your turn."

Another flash fellow in the little crowd that had gathered around them spoke up now. "Hold on there, Cudge, there's already a fellow called Jack Dance up in London. He's been on the boards at Old Drury twice in the last week — "

"Twice?" said Jack. "B'God, how long have I been here? What's the date?"

McCutcheon told him. Jack could feel his jaw dropping. The fifteenth of October already? Tomorrow he was contracted to give his third and final performance, and he hadn't even got to London yet.

"I was engaged for three dates. But obviously, I have not fulfilled that engagement," he added, with a meaningful glance at McCutcheon.

"Well, some fast cove has," said Cudge's colleague. "Made himself the laughingstock of Town, he has. They're ready to riot in the pit!"

"There is your Henry Harding," said Jack grimly.

 

Top: Harlequin Flees,  Lisa Jensen

Above left: White’s Club, 19th C engraving