Disclaimer: see prologue.
Author's note: London in the early 1700s was a booming, busy town. Christopher Wren was busy building St Paul's Cathedral, and the city was steadily growing to become the vast metropolis it is today.
Prisoners were kept in Newgate Gaol, but most of the hangings took place at Tyburn - just outside the city. Pirates were hanged at Execution Dock, downriver from the Tower of London in Wapping. Hangings were great spectator sports, attracting crowds. Doctors had the right to the bodies of the prisoners for dissection, but there was usually a fight between them and the bereaved family.
The 'Dagger' inn was real, and was apparently a hangout of the playwright Ben Jonson. It was on Holborn, between today's Oxford Street and St Paul's. That little factoid courtesy of this site: building-history. pwp. blueyonder. co. uk (close the gaps, the URL's getting stripped).
----
Chapter 4
Anamaria was glad she was assigned to be a topman as they were sailing up the River Thames into the Port of London. She had been to England once before, briefly, with Jack Sparrow when she was still very much a girl. But that had been long ago, and it had been Portsmouth.
London was quite another matter. She had never seen so many people, nor so many ships and boats in one place. From the mainmast of the Lady Mary, she had a good view of the city as they approached. It was huge, and shambolic. Curls of smoke drifted into the sky from a thousand chimneys. Rowing boats weaved between the larger ships, crossing from shore to shore filled with people and goods.
"Fantastic, ain't she?" Anamaria's neighbour said, with a smile on his lips.
"Big," said Anamaria, simply.
Orders were shouted up from below, and the crew worked quickly to furl the sails and bring the ship to a halt. The anchor was lowered with a splash. They had arrived in London.
Descending from her post, Anamaria looked upriver at the forbidding building on the north shore.
"What's that?" she asked.
"That, André," her neighbour said, "is the Tower of London. Where they send traitors. And just down there," he pointed, "that's Execution Dock. They'll hang that Jack Sparrow there, and he'll dangle in his gibbet for the crows." He grinned. "Good place for pirates, eh?"
She nodded.
It took them a full day to unload the Lady Mary of her rich cargo. The sacks and barrels went bobbing off in longboats towards the shore, where they were taken aboard carts. Once the ship was empty, her crew were set to scrubbing and tidying. It was only when she was pristine that the captain gave permission to go ashore.
Anamaria gathered her belongings together and went to fetch her wages. She was paid in good silver, and with coins chinking together in her pockets she stepped onto London soil.
The thing that hit her first was the noise and the smell. She stood, uncertain, on the side of the street as carts and barrows rattled past. Boys with parcels ran hither and thither. Women were selling fish from baskets, crying their wares in high voices.
Slowly, she started walking, her bundle over her shoulder.
She paused at the first tavern, and asked the way to Newgate Gaol. The tavern owner grinned.
"Aye, there's a hangin' this afternoon. Just follow the crowds."
"A hanging?"
"Some murderer." The man shrugged. "There'll be the usual folk around, though. Nowt like a good hangin', eh?"
Anamaria agreed, weakly, and after ascertaining which way she needed to go, left the tavern.
It proved a long walk to Newgate, but an interesting one. Many of the buildings were new, and the older ones showed scorch marks. Anamaria remembered someone - the Black Pearl's first mate, Gibbs, perhaps - telling her about the great fire that had ravaged the city some years before. Huge swathes had been destroyed, she remembered. The new buildings were packed in close, and the gutters ran with waste.
She tried to decide, as the streets got busier, whether or not she liked London. Though the squalor of the streets was not that far removed from the worst parts of Tortuga or Port Royal, the whole was so much larger, and the climate so much damper and colder (she paused, and extracted her jacket from her bundle), she rather found herself longing for the blue skies of the Caribbean.
But there was a job to do first.
Newgate was easy to find, because just as the tavern owner had promised there was a press of men and women hanging around outside the gaol. There were also, Anamaria was interested to note, people coming freely in and out of the prison, many of them women in low-cut blouses and hair curling around their necks.
She hefted her bundle more comfortably on her shoulder and waited, listening to the people talk around her. The chatter was all concerned with the forthcoming hanging, which, Anamaria was amazed to learn, would take place at another site another long walk away.
"Goin' to Tyburn?" her neighbour asked her, and continued on without waiting for an answer. "Good to see the hangin', ain't it, but it's a bloody long way to walk." The woman glanced at Anamaria, and ran her eyes over her. "You ain't from round here."
"Caribbean," said Anamaria, shortly.
"Ah. Sailor?"
Anamaria nodded.
The woman seemed to be on the verge of saying something else, but just then the great gates of Newgate swung open and two horses came out, tossing their proud heads. The crowd cheered, and moved aside to allow the animals and their burden out of the prison.
Anamaria craned her neck to see. The horses were pulling a low wooden cart, on which sat, bound, a prisoner. He was a sad-looking man, scrawny and filthy, and his head hung low as the cart rattled past the people. Various vegetable missiles flew through the air, hitting the cart, the prisoner and sometimes the guards marching alongside.
As the sledge passed, the crowd began to disperse. Some people followed behind the condemned man, whilst others headed off towards their homes or their work.
Hesitating a moment, Anamaria decided to follow the prisoner and see this Tyburn for herself. After all, she reflected, she was in London to get Jack Sparrow off the gallows. These would be different gallows from the ones Sparrow was to hang on, if she had understood correctly, but they were nevertheless gallows.
The crowd gathered again as the cart drew near the Tyburn Tree, men, women and children. A day out to see a man hang. Anamaria found a good vantage point and settled down to wait.
The cart drew to a halt underneath the gallows tree, and Anamaria saw with horror - and a touch envy at the simplicity of the system - that the man would be hanged when the platform he stood on was drawn out from under him. In the pale face, the prisoner's eyes were filled with a sort of mad glare; fear, or pain, or anger. The executioner placed a noose around the man's neck, and nodded.
Hushed now, the crowd waited for the signal. With a start, the horses were encouraged to move off. The rope dropped; the condemned man dropped too, his feet off the ground. There was a pause, and he began to struggle desperately, his legs kicking out even as his face darkened from lack of air.
He danced the horrible jig on the end of the rope for some minutes, watched intently by the audience. Eventually, his movements stilled, and instantly two groups rushed forwards from either side of the gallows, fighting for the body.
Anamaria turned away. It was not the first hanging she had seen, and indeed she had been much closer to death many times. Her own sword had run through several men in the course of her career as a pirate, and she had helped mop the blood-stained boards of more than one ship. But the callous, enthusiastic audience and the scramble for the corpse were new, and terrible. This was not a fitting end for Jack Sparrow.
She walked slowly back towards the city. Her legs were aching now from the day spent afoot, and she was longing for food, drink and a bed for the night.
Nevertheless, Anamaria made the decision to get as close to Newgate as she could before her legs gave out underneath her, and she ended up finally at an inn advertised with a sign of a dagger. Somewhat comforted by the symbol, she went in and found herself in a dark, smoky room that smelt wonderfully of savoury baking.
"What can I do for you, lad?" the innkeeper asked, wiping his hands on a greying apron.
"Food, and ale, and a room, please," Anamaria said.
"I can bring you one of our pies," the man returned, "and a pot of ale. As for rooms, they're tuppence a night."
She nodded. "Fine. Thank you."
He waved her to a seat, and she sank down. Shortly a brimming tankard of ale and a hot meat pie, decorated with a pastry image of a dagger, arrived in front of her. Anamaria ate gratefully, and afterwards was shown to a small but clean room. She took off her boots and breeches, unwound the binding cloth from around her breasts, and fell into a deep sleep.
Author's note: London in the early 1700s was a booming, busy town. Christopher Wren was busy building St Paul's Cathedral, and the city was steadily growing to become the vast metropolis it is today.
Prisoners were kept in Newgate Gaol, but most of the hangings took place at Tyburn - just outside the city. Pirates were hanged at Execution Dock, downriver from the Tower of London in Wapping. Hangings were great spectator sports, attracting crowds. Doctors had the right to the bodies of the prisoners for dissection, but there was usually a fight between them and the bereaved family.
The 'Dagger' inn was real, and was apparently a hangout of the playwright Ben Jonson. It was on Holborn, between today's Oxford Street and St Paul's. That little factoid courtesy of this site: building-history. pwp. blueyonder. co. uk (close the gaps, the URL's getting stripped).
----
Chapter 4
Anamaria was glad she was assigned to be a topman as they were sailing up the River Thames into the Port of London. She had been to England once before, briefly, with Jack Sparrow when she was still very much a girl. But that had been long ago, and it had been Portsmouth.
London was quite another matter. She had never seen so many people, nor so many ships and boats in one place. From the mainmast of the Lady Mary, she had a good view of the city as they approached. It was huge, and shambolic. Curls of smoke drifted into the sky from a thousand chimneys. Rowing boats weaved between the larger ships, crossing from shore to shore filled with people and goods.
"Fantastic, ain't she?" Anamaria's neighbour said, with a smile on his lips.
"Big," said Anamaria, simply.
Orders were shouted up from below, and the crew worked quickly to furl the sails and bring the ship to a halt. The anchor was lowered with a splash. They had arrived in London.
Descending from her post, Anamaria looked upriver at the forbidding building on the north shore.
"What's that?" she asked.
"That, André," her neighbour said, "is the Tower of London. Where they send traitors. And just down there," he pointed, "that's Execution Dock. They'll hang that Jack Sparrow there, and he'll dangle in his gibbet for the crows." He grinned. "Good place for pirates, eh?"
She nodded.
It took them a full day to unload the Lady Mary of her rich cargo. The sacks and barrels went bobbing off in longboats towards the shore, where they were taken aboard carts. Once the ship was empty, her crew were set to scrubbing and tidying. It was only when she was pristine that the captain gave permission to go ashore.
Anamaria gathered her belongings together and went to fetch her wages. She was paid in good silver, and with coins chinking together in her pockets she stepped onto London soil.
The thing that hit her first was the noise and the smell. She stood, uncertain, on the side of the street as carts and barrows rattled past. Boys with parcels ran hither and thither. Women were selling fish from baskets, crying their wares in high voices.
Slowly, she started walking, her bundle over her shoulder.
She paused at the first tavern, and asked the way to Newgate Gaol. The tavern owner grinned.
"Aye, there's a hangin' this afternoon. Just follow the crowds."
"A hanging?"
"Some murderer." The man shrugged. "There'll be the usual folk around, though. Nowt like a good hangin', eh?"
Anamaria agreed, weakly, and after ascertaining which way she needed to go, left the tavern.
It proved a long walk to Newgate, but an interesting one. Many of the buildings were new, and the older ones showed scorch marks. Anamaria remembered someone - the Black Pearl's first mate, Gibbs, perhaps - telling her about the great fire that had ravaged the city some years before. Huge swathes had been destroyed, she remembered. The new buildings were packed in close, and the gutters ran with waste.
She tried to decide, as the streets got busier, whether or not she liked London. Though the squalor of the streets was not that far removed from the worst parts of Tortuga or Port Royal, the whole was so much larger, and the climate so much damper and colder (she paused, and extracted her jacket from her bundle), she rather found herself longing for the blue skies of the Caribbean.
But there was a job to do first.
Newgate was easy to find, because just as the tavern owner had promised there was a press of men and women hanging around outside the gaol. There were also, Anamaria was interested to note, people coming freely in and out of the prison, many of them women in low-cut blouses and hair curling around their necks.
She hefted her bundle more comfortably on her shoulder and waited, listening to the people talk around her. The chatter was all concerned with the forthcoming hanging, which, Anamaria was amazed to learn, would take place at another site another long walk away.
"Goin' to Tyburn?" her neighbour asked her, and continued on without waiting for an answer. "Good to see the hangin', ain't it, but it's a bloody long way to walk." The woman glanced at Anamaria, and ran her eyes over her. "You ain't from round here."
"Caribbean," said Anamaria, shortly.
"Ah. Sailor?"
Anamaria nodded.
The woman seemed to be on the verge of saying something else, but just then the great gates of Newgate swung open and two horses came out, tossing their proud heads. The crowd cheered, and moved aside to allow the animals and their burden out of the prison.
Anamaria craned her neck to see. The horses were pulling a low wooden cart, on which sat, bound, a prisoner. He was a sad-looking man, scrawny and filthy, and his head hung low as the cart rattled past the people. Various vegetable missiles flew through the air, hitting the cart, the prisoner and sometimes the guards marching alongside.
As the sledge passed, the crowd began to disperse. Some people followed behind the condemned man, whilst others headed off towards their homes or their work.
Hesitating a moment, Anamaria decided to follow the prisoner and see this Tyburn for herself. After all, she reflected, she was in London to get Jack Sparrow off the gallows. These would be different gallows from the ones Sparrow was to hang on, if she had understood correctly, but they were nevertheless gallows.
The crowd gathered again as the cart drew near the Tyburn Tree, men, women and children. A day out to see a man hang. Anamaria found a good vantage point and settled down to wait.
The cart drew to a halt underneath the gallows tree, and Anamaria saw with horror - and a touch envy at the simplicity of the system - that the man would be hanged when the platform he stood on was drawn out from under him. In the pale face, the prisoner's eyes were filled with a sort of mad glare; fear, or pain, or anger. The executioner placed a noose around the man's neck, and nodded.
Hushed now, the crowd waited for the signal. With a start, the horses were encouraged to move off. The rope dropped; the condemned man dropped too, his feet off the ground. There was a pause, and he began to struggle desperately, his legs kicking out even as his face darkened from lack of air.
He danced the horrible jig on the end of the rope for some minutes, watched intently by the audience. Eventually, his movements stilled, and instantly two groups rushed forwards from either side of the gallows, fighting for the body.
Anamaria turned away. It was not the first hanging she had seen, and indeed she had been much closer to death many times. Her own sword had run through several men in the course of her career as a pirate, and she had helped mop the blood-stained boards of more than one ship. But the callous, enthusiastic audience and the scramble for the corpse were new, and terrible. This was not a fitting end for Jack Sparrow.
She walked slowly back towards the city. Her legs were aching now from the day spent afoot, and she was longing for food, drink and a bed for the night.
Nevertheless, Anamaria made the decision to get as close to Newgate as she could before her legs gave out underneath her, and she ended up finally at an inn advertised with a sign of a dagger. Somewhat comforted by the symbol, she went in and found herself in a dark, smoky room that smelt wonderfully of savoury baking.
"What can I do for you, lad?" the innkeeper asked, wiping his hands on a greying apron.
"Food, and ale, and a room, please," Anamaria said.
"I can bring you one of our pies," the man returned, "and a pot of ale. As for rooms, they're tuppence a night."
She nodded. "Fine. Thank you."
He waved her to a seat, and she sank down. Shortly a brimming tankard of ale and a hot meat pie, decorated with a pastry image of a dagger, arrived in front of her. Anamaria ate gratefully, and afterwards was shown to a small but clean room. She took off her boots and breeches, unwound the binding cloth from around her breasts, and fell into a deep sleep.