Forty-Four

Blacklegs, Rascals, and Rogues

Philip spent the next fortnight at the King’s Bench in self-imposed solitude, ordering via the turnkey what little food or drink he could tolerate, and refusing most. On top of that, he hadn’t slept. The solid stone corridors of the prison echoed with the slightest sound. The nights were the worst, with the squeals of scampering rats, the ring of raucous, drunken laughter, the sobs and moans of abject despair. The grunts and groans were of another sort altogether, as the women who were able plied their only available trade to anyone who could afford the fleeting pleasure.

Those who were able to make an honest living within the prison walls did their best just to keep body and soul together, while the jailers raked their profits from every shoe re-soled and every clean-shaven face. Those with no trade to barter simply wasted their days in idleness, drunkenness, and assorted vice.

When Philip first arrived, he was keenly aware that a gentleman in such finery as he wore would present a tempting target to the rogues and footpads inhabiting the walls of such a purlieu, but safely calculated the sword at his side would serve to discourage any would-be assailants. Now the sword was sold and the price it had brought nearly gone.

He would have been surprised to know the wild look he had acquired in his weeks of confinement proved a much greater deterrent to the prison denizens than if he’d carried his weapon. His form was lean and hard, three weeks on the prison food having etched away any ounce of fat. His hair, long and lank, partially concealed his hard, hooded gaze, set now in a face chiseled almost to gauntness.

Weary of his own company, he was nevertheless more wary of the common taproom. Though strong drink was prohibited, the place swam in illicit gin; and no gaming hell in London boasted more sharps, blacklegs, and rogues than the King’s Bench Debtors’ Prison.

Adopting his swagger of old, Philip entered the tap and slapped tuppence onto the bar. “A tankard of your best.”

“Ye be tuppence short,” said a mountain of a man devoid of front teeth and sporting a cauliflower ear.

Once Philip matched the coins, the tapster poured from the keg a tankard full to the brim of a cloudy, dark, amber brew. “The best in the house,” remarked the mountain, spitting on the floor and setting it before him.

“Is it indeed?” Philip remarked with a curious look. “I’d say it more resembles piss from a poxy whore.”

“Have you a death wish?” asked a man in shabby soldier’s garb, appearing at Philip’s elbow.

“I didn’t say from his poxy whore,” Philip amended as the tapster, laying both hands on the bar, cast his massive menacing shadow over him.

“Ned,” the shabby soldier addressed the barkeep. “Pay no heed to me friend ’ere. ’E’s a foul-tempered fiend when in drink but will cause you no further trouble.”

“Ye best see ’e don’t at that!” growled Ned.

“Now my fine friend,” the shabby soldier turned back to Philip with a smile, “since the house brew is not up to your exacting standards, would you care to join me and my comrades in the back? I’ve procured a case of mediocre Madeira I’d be honored to share with a gentleman of your obvious discernment.” His gazed skimmed Philip’s soiled and rumpled but still aristocratic accoutrements.

“Would you indeed? And just who the devil might you be?”

“Captain James McAfee, at your service.” He swept a low bow.

McAfee reminded Philip of none more than MacHeath the highwayman from Gay’s Beggar’s Opera. Still, with a reckless disregard of the danger, he followed the captain to the back of the taproom, where cards, dice, and drink abounded amongst the ragtag occupants. While those few with sufficient coin shared in the smuggled fortified wines, those without tippled illicit gin, often adulterated with turpentine or sulfuric acid.

After drinking, supping, and drinking a great deal more, those who’d not already passed out formed rough circles around the tables, producing cards and dice, the drug of diversion for despairing souls.

The captain cleared a table with a forceful stroke of his arm and retrieved a greasy pack of cards from his pocket. “What say you to some friendly play, your lordship?” As Philip had in no way disclosed his rank, the honorific was more mocking than deferential. “Losers pay the reckoning?”

They had emptied several bottles of Madeira, not to mention the food. Philip doubted he had sufficient money remaining to cover it all, but then again he’d never played to lose.

“A gentleman’s game between gentlemen?” The captain now spoke with a clipped and precise enunciation of every syllable. “Shall it be whist, dear boy?” His creditable aping of Philip’s more cultured tones revealed much about the true nature of the self-styled captain’s background.

“If you like.” Philip shrugged acquiescence.

With a narrowed gaze, McAfee scanned the tap for likely prospects to complete a quartet for whist. “Sir Archie will no doubt join us.” He nodded to an emaciated man in an old-fashioned wig wearing the tattered dress of a country gentleman. “The old squire loves nothing more than a game of chance. Lost a vast estate to his passion fifteen year since.

“And over there,” McAfee jerked his head to indicate a shabby young man, “Willie Wills, the linen-draper’s son. Squandered his entire patrimony on the dice, though his heartbroken papa still religiously sends him five shillings every Sunday fortnight. Being ’tis only Tuesday, he should still be ripe for the plucking,” he added with a callous lack of shame.

McAfee only had to begin shuffling for both of these worthies to express interest. Within moments they were seated at the table and dealing out the cards.

Philip’s hardened gaze flitted from face to face, wondering how long before his own would be stamped with such wretched resignation. He shuddered to think himself brought so low that he would even consider fleecing the helpless and hopeless inmates. No, his conscience couldn’t allow it, at least not yet.

He resolved to play an honest game unless McAfee evidenced an inclination to cheat, but soon learned to his consternation that it was actually he who had been accounted a pigeon for the plucking. Philip almost laughed at what was a truly remarkable set-up.

The play, commencing in a fast and furious manner, would have confused anyone inexperienced with the game or who may have overindulged in drink. It was almost comical as the players, to a man, employed every device of a cheat: signaling, mucking, culling, pegging, and palming the cards.

Although Philip’s first impression of McAfee as a sharper of the lowest order was not mistaken, he had failed to anticipate that the captain would play in confederation with the other two hapless and benign-looking individuals. Even his partner, Sir Archie, conspiring with their opponents, was throwing good cards after bad and intentionally losing every possible trick. He would receive a cut from the winners after the game. It was an old and unoriginal ploy, but now he’d discovered the ruse the question remained—precisely how was he to counter their tactics?

At any gentleman’s establishment, the rules of conduct were clear. Call the cheat and call him out, but this was the King’s Bench, not White’s Chocolate House. Here such actions would be thought laughable, or worse might merit one a knife in the back.

Deciding discretion the better part of valor, upon completion of the play Philip threw down his cards and pushed back his chair.

“Surely you don’t quit so soon, when we might take our revenge in the next rubber,” baited Sir Archie.

“My friends, you are the worst assortment of blacklegs, rascals, and rogues, the likes of which I’ve not encountered for a goodly number of years. The worst of it is you’re not even very good at it!” Philip tossed his purse onto the table with a snort. “I commend you all for a most diverting evening… that shan’t be repeated.”

***

Dangerously low on coin after this experience, Philip failed to break his fast. Famished by noon, he inquired of the turnkey if he might take the midday meal alone in his chamber.

“Here ye be,” said the jailer, picking his teeth. “We have a joint of mutton, some boiled cabbage, a loaf of white bread, and a pint of porter, all for the meager sum of two shillings.”

“Bloody highway robbery,” Philip remarked under his breath.

The jailer smiled. “Tell you what, guvn’r, I’ll give ye double or nuffin’ on the dice.”

Philip had already taken up the two-pronged fork and knife to attack the first meat he’d had in two days. He paused, fork to his lips. “Double or nothing, you say?”

“Aye, guvn’r. Call your main. Best of three casts.”

“All right, I accept your wager, Mr…” He realized belatedly that he had yet to learn his jailer’s name.

“Cox. Allred Cox.” Having made his introduction, Cox pulled a shaky wooden chair over to the narrow table and pulled a dice box from his pocket. He handed it to Philip, who laid his eating utensils aside. With a half smile, he called seven and threw, rolling up a pair of twos.

“Six be my lucky number,” said Mr. Cox and took up the dice for his cast, turning up a pair of threes. “Nicked on the first roll, b’ Jesus!”

Philip’s second roll, called again at seven, turned up crabs, while the turnkey nicked again with twelve. “There appears no need for me to throw again,” Philip said. “Unless you’d care to double once more?”

Cox grinned, a broad black-toothed grimace. “Didn’t know you was such a sporting cove.” He offered Philip the dice.

“No, no. You may cast first,” said Philip and took up his fork.

Having studied the number of pips turning up that singularly defied the odds, a pattern had emerged in Philip’s brain. One more “lucky” cast from the turnkey would either confirm or refute his theory.

As suspected, Cox rolled his second combination of sixes in as many turns. As he reached to retrieve the dice, he was startled by the awful crunch of cartilage and bone as Philip impaled his two-pronged fork straight through his jailor’s right hand, effectively nailing the offending appendage to the table.

The primal howl that ensued was said to have rung clear through every one of the four prison galleries.

“A thousand pardons, my good fellow, if there are not two sixes on each of your dice and a set of low rollers in your left hand.”

Some seconds passed before Cox could regain enough sense to remove the fork. Cradling his crippled right hand to his breast, Cox removed his dingy cravat with his left and fumbled to wrap it around the bloody and mutilated member. “You’ll pay dearly for this, ye soddin’ whoreson.”

Philip smiled a humorless smile. “Then the joke is surely on you, Mr. Cox, for my money is already gone.”