Dick Butterfield raised his eyebrows, turning his forehead into its field of furrows. “Perhaps you could trouble to tell me what the matter is that I’m not to laugh at, sir.”
John Roberts stared at him, puzzling over whether or not Dick Butterfield was making fun of him. “It is a declaration of loyalty to the King,” he said finally. “We’re going from pub to pub and house to house asking the residents of Lambeth to sign it.”
“We need to know what we’re signin’, don’t we?” Dick Butterfield said. “Read it to us.”
The pub was silent now. Everyone watched as John Roberts opened the ledger. “Perhaps you would like to read it aloud, for everyone’s benefit, since you’re so interested,” he said, sliding it toward Maggie’s father.
If he thought his demand would humiliate the other man, however, he had miscalculated; Dick Butterfield pulled the book to him and read reasonably fluidly, and even with feeling that he may not have actually felt, the following:
We, the Inhabitants of the Parish of Lambeth, deeply sensible of the Blessings derived to us from the present admired and envied Form of Government, consisting of King, Lords and Commons, feel it a Duty incumbent on us, at this critical Juncture, not only to declare our sincere and zealous Attachment to it, but moreover to express our perfect Abhorrence of all those bold and undisguised Attempts to shake and subvert this our invaluable Constitution, which the Experience of Ages has shewn to be the most solid Foundation of national Happiness.
Resolved unanimously,
That we do form ourselves into an Association to counteract, as far as we are able, all tumultuous and illegal Meetings of ill designing and wicked Men, and adopting the most effectual Measures in our Power for the Suppression of seditious Publications, evidently calculated to mislead the Minds of the People, and to introduce Anarchy and Confusion into this Kingdom.
When Dick Butterfield finished reading, John Roberts set a bottle of ink on the table and held out a pen. “Will you sign, sir?”
To Maggie’s astonishment, Dick Butterfield took the pen, uncorked the ink, dipped it in, and began to sign at the bottom of the list of signatures. “Pa, what you doing?” she hissed. She hated the hectoring attitude of John Roberts and her employer, Mr. Beaufoy, indeed of all of the men who’d spoken at the meeting, and had assumed her father would as well.
Dick Butterfield paused. “What d’you mean? What’s wrong with signing? I happen to agree-though them words is a bit fancy for my taste.”
“But you just said you didn’t think the Frenchies were a threat!”
“This an’t about the Frenchies-it’s about us. I support old King George-I done all right by him.” He applied pen to paper again. In the silence, the entire pub concentrated on its scratching across the page. When he finished, Dick Butterfield looked around and feigned surprise at the attention. He turned to John Roberts. “Anything else you want?”
“Write down where you live as well.”
“It’s no. 6 Bastille Row.” Dick Butterfield chuckled. “But p’raps York Place’d be better for such a document, eh?” He wrote it next to his name. “There. No need to visit, then, eh?”
Now Maggie recalled several crates of port that had appeared from nowhere a few days earlier and were hidden under her parents’ bed, and smiled: Dick Butterfield had signed so readily because he didn’t want these men paying any visits to Bastille Row.
Once he had captured Dick Butterfield’s details, John Roberts slid the open book across to Thomas Kellaway. “Now you.”
Thomas Kellaway gazed down at the page, with its carefully composed declaration-its rhetoric-laden, almost incomprehensi-ble wording decided on at an earlier, smaller meeting, its messengers with their books fanning out across Lambeth’s pubs and markets even before the Cumberland Gardens meeting was over-and its ragtag signatures, some confident, others wavering, along with several Xs with names and addresses scrawled after them in John Roberts’s hand. It was all too complicated for him. “I don’t understand-why must I sign this?”
John Roberts leaned over and rapped his knuckles on the table next to the ledger. “You’re signing in support of the King! You’re saying you want him to be your King, and you’ll fight those who want to get rid of him.” He peered at the chairmaker’s puzzled face. “What, are you a fool, sir? Do you not call the King your King?”
Thomas Kellaway was not a fool, but words worried him. He had always lived by a policy of signing as few documents as possi-ble, and those only for business. He did not even sign the letters Maisie wrote to Sam, and discouraged her from writing anything about him. This way, he thought, there was little trace of him in the world, apart from his chairs, and he would not be misunderstood. This document before him, he felt with a clarity that surprised him, was open to misunderstanding. “I am not sure the King be in danger,” he said. “There be no French here, do there?”
John Roberts narrowed his eyes. “You would be surprised at what an ill-informed Englishman is capable of.”
“And what d’you mean by publications?” Thomas Kellaway continued without appearing to have heard John Roberts. “I don’t know anything about publications.”
John Roberts looked around. The goodwill that Dick Butterfield’s signature had garnered with the rest of the pub was rapidly diminishing with every ponderous word Thomas Kellaway uttered. “I haven’t time for this,” he hissed. “There are plenty of others here waiting to sign. Where do you live, sir?” He flipped to another page and waited with pen poised to note down the address. “Someone will visit you later to explain.”
“No. 12 Hercules Buildings,” Thomas Kellaway replied.
John Roberts stiffened. “You live at Hercules Buildings?”
Thomas Kellaway nodded. Jem felt a knot tighten in his stomach.
“Do you know a William Blake, who is a printer in that street?”
Jem, Maggie, and Dick Butterfield caught on at the same time, partly thanks to Thomas Kellaway’s mention of publications. Maggie kicked Thomas Kellaway’s stool and frowned at him, while Dick Butterfield feigned a coughing fit.
Unfortunately, Thomas Kellaway could be a bit of a terrier when it came to making a point. “Yes, I know Mr. Blake. He’s our neighbor.” And, because he did not care for the unfriendly look on John Roberts’s face, he decided to make his feelings clear. “He be a good man-he helped out my daughter a month or two back.”
“Did he, now?” John Roberts smiled and slammed shut the book. “Well, we were planning to pay a visit to Mr. Blake this evening, and can call on you as well. Good day to you.” He scooped up the quill and ink bottle and went on to the next table. As he made his way around the pub collecting signatures-Jem noticed that no one other than his father refused to sign-John Roberts glanced over now and then at Thomas Kellaway with the same sneer. It made Jem’s stomach turn over. “Let’s go, Pa,” he said in a low voice.
“Let me just finish my beer.” Thomas Kellaway was not going to be rushed by anyone, not when he had half a pint left to finish, even if the beer was watery. He sat squarely on his stool, hands resting on the table on each side of his mug, his eyes on its contents, his mind on Mr. Blake. He was wondering if he had got him into trouble. Though he did not know him well the way his children seemed to, he was sure Mr. Blake was a good man.
“What should we do?” Jem said in a low voice to Maggie. He too was thinking about Mr. Blake.
“Leave it be,” Dick Butterfield butted in. “Blake’ll probably sign it,” he added, glancing sideways at Thomas Kellaway. “Like most people.”
“We’ll warn him,” Maggie declared, ignoring her father. “That’s what we’ll do.”
2
“Mr. Blake is working, my dears,” Mrs. Blake said. “He can’t be disturbed.”