Bernard Cornwell – 1807 09 Sharpe’s Prey

Because Richard Sharpe had come home.

CHAPTER 2

The tavern displayed no name. There was not even a painted sign hanging outside, nothing, indeed, to distinguish it from the neighboring houses except, perhaps, a slight air of prosperity that stood out in Vinegar Street like a duchess in a whorehouse. Some folk called it Malone’s Tavern because Beaky Malone had owned and run it, though Beaky had to be dead by now, and others called it the Vinegar Alehouse because it was in Vinegar Street, while some knew the house simply as the Master’s because Jem Hocking did so much of his business in its taproom.

“I have interests,” Jem Hocking said grandly, “beyond those of the mere parish. I am a man of parts, Major.”

Meaning, Sharpe thought, that Hocking persecuted more than the workhouse inmates. He had become rich over the years, rich enough to own scores of houses in Wapping, and Friday night was when the tenants brought him the rent. Pennies only, but pennies added up, and Hocking received them in the taproom where they vanished into a leather bag while a cowed white-haired clerk made notes in a ledger. Two young men, both tall, strongly built and armed with cudgels, were the taproom’s only other customers and they watched every transaction. “My mastiffs,” Hocking had explained the two young men.

“A man of responsibility needs protection,” Sharpe had said, using two of his three shillings to buy a flagon of ale. The girl brought four tankards. The clerk, it seemed, was not to be treated to Major Dunnett’s largesse. Only Sharpe, Hocking and the two mastiffs were to drink.

“It takes a man of authority to recognize responsibility,” Hocking said, then buried his face in the tankard for a few seconds. “What you are seeing, Major, is private business.” He watched a thin woman offer some coppers to the clerk. “But in my parish duties,” Hocking went on, watching the clerk count the coins, “I have responsibility for the disbursement of public funds and for the care of immortal souls. I take neither duty lightly, Major.” The public funds were fourpence three farthing a day for each pauper out of which Jem Hocking managed to purloin twopence, while the rest was grudgingly spent on stale bread, onions, barley and oatmeal. The care of souls yielded no profit, but did not require any outlay either.

“You have a Board?” Sharpe asked, pouring himself and Hocking more ale.

“I have a Board of Visitors,” Hocking agreed. He watched the ale being poured. “The law says we must. So we do.”

“So where is the responsibility?” Sharpe asked. “With you? Or the Board?” He saw the question had offended Hocking. “I assume it is you, Master, but I have to be sure.”

“With me,” Hocking said grandly. “With me, Major. The Board is appointed by the parish and the parish, Major, is infested with bleeding orphans. And not just our own! Some even gets stranded here by the ships. Only last week the mudlarks found a girl child, if you can imagine such a thing.” He shook his head and dipped his nose into the ale’s froth while Sharpe imagined the mudlarks, men and women who combed the Thames foreshore at low tide in search of scraps fallen overboard, bringing a child to Brewhouse Lane. Poor child, to end with Hocking as a guardian. “The Board, Major,” Hocking went on, “cannot cope with so many children. They confine themselves to a quarterly examination of the accounts which, you may be sure, add up to the exact penny, and the Board votes me an annual motion of thanks at Christmas time, but otherwise the Board ignores me. I am a man of business, Major, and I spare the parish the trouble of dealing with orphans. I have two score and sixteen of the little bastards in the house now, and what will the Board of Visitors do without me and Mrs. Hocking? We are a godsend to the parish.” He held up a hand to check anything Sharpe might say. This was not to deflect a compliment, but rather because a thin young man had come from the tavern’s back door to whisper in his ear. A raucous cheer sounded from behind the door. The cheers had been sounding ever since Sharpe had arrived in the tavern and he had pretended not to hear them. Now he ignored the young man who tipped a stream of coins into the clerk’s leather bag, then gave Hocking a pile of grubby paper slips that vanished into the big man’s pocket. “Business,” Hocking said gruffly.

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