Newgate Prison, 1701
I had seen Newgate Prison countless times from the outside in my youth. It is by far one of the more fascinating buildings in London to a young boy, and thinking of the pirates, thieves, and black-hearted killers inside had always given my heart a bit of a frightened jump. It was the kind of fear one cultivates for the thrill, the sort of simultanous terror and comfort offered by a captured boar.
When one morning my father roused me and informed me that Newgate would be our destination for the day, it sent a sick thrill of anticipation through my stomach. I dressed quickly and followed him through London's labyrinthine streets until we came to the the city's greatest prison.
Words and perhaps money changed hands, and one of the gaolers took up an enormous key-ring and led my father and I into the bowels of Newgate. Being a young man of twelve now, I did not tremble or try to fit my hand into that of my father. I held up my head and tried quite hard to meet the eyes of the prisoners who stared out at us. I had heard that the fearsome pirate William Kidd was somewhere in this prison, and if there was one good thing to take from this experience, I should have liked to see his face before he met his end. We reached the end of our trek at a rather unimpressive wooden door, into which the gaoler fit one of his keys. He opened up this room for us, and then turned to go, leaving us alone with whomever it was inside.
Almost instantaneously upon the door's opening, we were washed in the scent of decay. My stomach turned but I swallowed hard and managed to banish the nausea. Once that initial wave had passed, I began to notice other scents beneath that of rot; Parisian perfume, tangy sweat, and something metallic that my nose could not identify. It was wholly the most disgusting thing I had ever experienced, and my eyes began immediately to water.
Tucked into the corner of the room, as if by afterthought, was what had probably once been a man. Now, the criminal resembled more than anything a wounded animal, curled in upon himself like an earthworm in the sun. His face was swathed in gauze dampened by open sores. The only exposed flesh was that of his hands, which were dotted with gummae that indicated advanced syphilis. On the floor by his side was a half-drained glass vial of quicksilver.
"Good morning, Mr. Holly," said my father. I remember thinking him practically invincible in that moment, to be so unphased by this man's state of illness and decay.
"Ge' th' fuck ou'," said the pile of rags in the corner that was apparently Holly. "Can' you vultures le' me go peacefully to me grave, at least?"
"I'm sure you are aware by now that the answer is no," said my father, and closed the door behind us. Silence descended upon us, heavy as saturn and quick as mercury.
A long moment passed in which the two men seemed to be daring each other to speak, until my father said, "I have a job for you."
Holly made a sound that would have probably sounded derisive if he hadn't been quite so phlegmatic. Again, my stomach threatened to rebel. "I'm rather occupied wi' dyin' in prison at the moment, thanks."
"You should know as well as anyone that my employer has far more efficacious remedies for your ailment than whatever they're sneaking into your cell for you."
Holly leaned back, and his head slammed into the wall so hard that I feared for a moment that he had brained himself and ended the conversation rather abruptly and dramatically, but that fear was laid to rest when he spoke again. "I don' wan' a cure, I wan' to die," he said.
For half a second my father looked uncomfortable, then said, "That too can be arranged."
((To be continued, omg!!!))
When one morning my father roused me and informed me that Newgate would be our destination for the day, it sent a sick thrill of anticipation through my stomach. I dressed quickly and followed him through London's labyrinthine streets until we came to the the city's greatest prison.
Words and perhaps money changed hands, and one of the gaolers took up an enormous key-ring and led my father and I into the bowels of Newgate. Being a young man of twelve now, I did not tremble or try to fit my hand into that of my father. I held up my head and tried quite hard to meet the eyes of the prisoners who stared out at us. I had heard that the fearsome pirate William Kidd was somewhere in this prison, and if there was one good thing to take from this experience, I should have liked to see his face before he met his end. We reached the end of our trek at a rather unimpressive wooden door, into which the gaoler fit one of his keys. He opened up this room for us, and then turned to go, leaving us alone with whomever it was inside.
Almost instantaneously upon the door's opening, we were washed in the scent of decay. My stomach turned but I swallowed hard and managed to banish the nausea. Once that initial wave had passed, I began to notice other scents beneath that of rot; Parisian perfume, tangy sweat, and something metallic that my nose could not identify. It was wholly the most disgusting thing I had ever experienced, and my eyes began immediately to water.
Tucked into the corner of the room, as if by afterthought, was what had probably once been a man. Now, the criminal resembled more than anything a wounded animal, curled in upon himself like an earthworm in the sun. His face was swathed in gauze dampened by open sores. The only exposed flesh was that of his hands, which were dotted with gummae that indicated advanced syphilis. On the floor by his side was a half-drained glass vial of quicksilver.
"Good morning, Mr. Holly," said my father. I remember thinking him practically invincible in that moment, to be so unphased by this man's state of illness and decay.
"Ge' th' fuck ou'," said the pile of rags in the corner that was apparently Holly. "Can' you vultures le' me go peacefully to me grave, at least?"
"I'm sure you are aware by now that the answer is no," said my father, and closed the door behind us. Silence descended upon us, heavy as saturn and quick as mercury.
A long moment passed in which the two men seemed to be daring each other to speak, until my father said, "I have a job for you."
Holly made a sound that would have probably sounded derisive if he hadn't been quite so phlegmatic. Again, my stomach threatened to rebel. "I'm rather occupied wi' dyin' in prison at the moment, thanks."
"You should know as well as anyone that my employer has far more efficacious remedies for your ailment than whatever they're sneaking into your cell for you."
Holly leaned back, and his head slammed into the wall so hard that I feared for a moment that he had brained himself and ended the conversation rather abruptly and dramatically, but that fear was laid to rest when he spoke again. "I don' wan' a cure, I wan' to die," he said.
For half a second my father looked uncomfortable, then said, "That too can be arranged."
((To be continued, omg!!!))