The air inside the cell was moist with moral debt. But there was a figure in it that walked tall, with no penitence. Perhaps it was that he was not responsible for the crimes attributed his name. Indeed, it might be that he was so cold-hearted as to have committed them, and then distanced them from his conscience, and thus feel no remorse. He was silhouetted against the wall, and unlike the other prisoners (various savage and philistine types, petty thieves, royal poachers, drunkards, feminine proprietors, but very few men of good repute), he did not carouse to the wailings and screeches of the slapdash players in the corner.
Me, I had secured entry into these halls by the narcolepsy of the guards, and had trod in ankle-deep mud to that dank corridor at the end of the main hall. The prison proved naught more than a stony, papery excuse for a house of incarceration and execution, and a poor one at that. Feeling not much like dirtying myself more than I had in my foolhardy but successful attempt to gain entry to these hallowed halls of ale and malfeasance, I lay down my threadbare macintosh in direct contact with the blackened iron bars of the cell, and sunk inches into the polluted and foul sediment on the floor.
Unsure of how to lead off a conversation with a convicted murderer, highwayman, and traitor, I made to hazard a statement about my intentions, but was interrupted.
“My hanging is not for eight days, I believed,” croaked the black outline.
After much mumbling, I managed to wispily exhale “I… I couldn’t know about that.”
“Then, pray, why’d you come to visit this poor soul, down on his luck?”
Originally intending only to query this prisoner, revealing nothing about my self, I was beguiled by his cadence, in equal measures debonair and gruff, charming and wheezy. It was a voice that drew one in and implored one’s curiosity. The voice would not yield any ground to the dishonest, though by it’s masculine and guilty notes, one could tell this plagued soul had been the courier of dishonesty in it’s own time. Lured by his seeming implacability, I set myself the subconscious task of revealing all of my intentions.
“Your pardon, sir. I am Gregory Whitmore, of the Belfast News Letter. I was informed that in this particular county jail there was a certain prisoner, of the name Turpin. Some of the other prisoners told me he resides in this cell. Are you the one they call Turpin, sir?”
“Well, I believe I am the only one in this cell at the moment, and if Turpin resides here, than that I must be. Aye, Turpin, I am,” he affirmed, supplicant.
More daring now, I probed him further. “Dick Turpin?” I asked.
“I 'ave been called John Palmer, and 'ave been, once, the apprentice postmaster of Saffron Walden Town, Sussex County, but now I sit here before ye, Dick Turpin. At your service, guv.”
“Ah. Mr. Turpin…” I began, timorously.
“Dick. The honorable highwayman, for those awed.”
“Dick, I am writing an anthology of English criminals, and on the assumption that you were not yet clammy and cold, I ventured out to find you and request your personal contribution.”
“I can give ye some information, but I cannot, shan’t have you make of me a hero, for I am no hero.”
“Agreed. Let’s start with childhood, then.”
“They couldn’t feel me kick, and so they thought me stillborn. Not so. I was live and kicking, and will be long after they slip that cold rope around my bare neck. Asides, the irony became that it was my mother that was dead at birth. I never met the woman, true, with the exception of eight-and-a-half months in her swollen belly. “
“As I understood it, she had come from France, through Newhaven, and to Saffron Walden. She had started selling baked goods, like of shepherd’s pie and Danishes, in the market. My father came into the market looking for seeds, for at the time he was a farmer, and still occasionally he puts down the hoe to the soil. He ventured to ask her to court, and was shocked to hear her reply in a strong French accent, for her solicitations had seemed so English. Ignoring that, he had requested to see her further. Not being a very sanctimonious bastard, and now a bachelor far from his parentage, he had no reservations against courting openly. Confused, they had ended up together just after market . Under a week later, she lived with him, with no possessions in this material world, for she had come to England with none. “
“So, during childbirth, she died. My father never talked much about it, and so her memory just dropped out of ours. He became morose, and the fields grew weedy and untilled. He started an inn, because he was looking for something much easier to manage than a field or a band of men, as he had in his army days. I forgot all about him, and I became something of a roustabout, spending my nights in the streets or in charitable homes. Spending the night stuffing my face with shepherd’s pie in my father’s pub, I met James Smith. I had a great lust for education, for unparticular reasons and with questionable logic. James taught me to read and to write. I was in want of a career. James taught me all the methodology of postmastership. Whether or not it was out of fear for my future without veritable career, or purely out of charity and spirit, he brought me to adulthood with all the skills I could need.”
“Now me father… I’m sorry, could you fetch something to wet me whistle?” he asked.
Dumbfounded by this sudden change of topic, I agreed. I spirited warily up the cold and clinking steps, with all the silence of a crash and a squeal, but the guard didn’t wake up, or more likely, did not care. His belief that sleep was more important that the prevention of escape was unshakeable, it seemed. I ushered myself swiftly up, observing that while the staircase was lit with lamps and torches, and bathed in a soft yellow glow, it was wintry-cold and horrifying.
Exiting unto the office of the magistrate, and opening the door, I spotted a pub perpendicular to me, across the cobbled street. I entered the pub, which was filled with men of ill repute, and played by an untalented minstrel, and ordered up a pint of domestic ale. Receiving it, I made my way back to Mr. Turpin.
Looking beyond the black iron bars, I found him not present. It dumbfounded me, where he could have gone. I imagined him retreating into the woeful depths of his heart, or passing himself through the window bars as if they were shadows, and he, steam. Any solution seemed as implausible as the next, and at the same time as reasonable a resolution for this enigma. Dismayed, I put down my muddied coat in the rot on the floor, laid lengthwise and inside-out, so as not to damage the public-side of my thread. I waited, but Turpin never showed up. I drank the ale, and unawares of it’s distilled strength, having never been exposed to alcohol, I found myself dizzied. I stumbled back over to the pub, and paid sixpence for a room. I woke in the morning aching, my head splitting, and washed my mac in the ringed oaken public basin in the communal area of the inn.
I departed without it that morning, and with a limited, hung-over foresight, took a gas lamp with me. Arriving at the magistrates office, I hopped the short wooden fence, and used a rear entrance to get in. This time, I was more self-aware descending down the stairs, and made little to no noise, or none that the slumbering guard could detect. This time I could see his face. He was unshaven, with probably at least a three-days growth sprouting from his chin and upper lip, but despite his sad condition he maintained an air of dignity. He had rigged a device with wood from his prison bench to reserve rainwater, and use it as a spout for showers and drinking. I considered bringing him some firelighters so he could boil his water, but decided against the definite prospect of importing contraband. He wore a tattered greatcoat, but wore it in such a way that the unlearned observer might think it in pristine condition.
“Mr. Turpin…”
“Hullo, Jack”
Author notes
With any luck, this is part of a serialization of the life of highwayman Dick Turpin, written by an interviewer and dime novelist right before Turpin's execution. Feedback is appreciated, and honest ones, as it is yet unrevised.
A contest entry
- 17th, 18th and 19th Century Fiction by Bitter Irony.
250 points, ended September 13, 2007, 11 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next story in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Nice work! I love the title, and I love the way you use a dime-novel style to tell the story.
Be careful with quotation marks. I notice you have Turpin speaking for more than one paragraph at a time. If you do this, don't use the second quotation mark until the very end. Example:
"Paragraph one.
"Paragraph two.
"Paragraph three."
Thanks for entering the contest, and good luck!beginning: 2, language: 3, plot: 3, ending: 4, dialog: 4, characters: 3.
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Very good
It took me awhile to get used to the style of speaking in the beginning, but it flowed very nicely. I liked your descriptions of Dick Turpin. I wondered what the interviewer looked like and maybe how old he was. Maybe thats something you could incorporate into the story. Your story is good and I think you should keep going.
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