Burton, the author, the man who'd described in minute detail the character and practices of cultures far removed from his own, felt that he could never find the words to depict the utter squalor of the Cauldron. The dirt and decay, the putrescence and rot and garbage, the viciousness and violence, the despair and emptiness; it was far beyond anything he'd witnessed in the darkest depths of Africa, amid the so-called primitives.
Thus far tonight, the two men had drunk sour-tasting beer in four malodorous public houses. It was the fifth that delivered what they were looking for.
They were approaching Stepney when Burton mumbled, "There's another public house ahead. I have to get this foul taste out of my mouth. We'll take a gin or rum or something; anything, so long as it's not that pisswater they call ale."
The cabbie nodded wordlessly and stumbled on, his big feet squelching through the slime.
The pub-the White Lion-halfway down a short and crooked lane, bulged out over the mud as if about to collapse into it. The orange light from its windows oozed into the fog and was smeared across the uneven road surface and opposite wall. Shouts, screams, snatches of song, and the wheeze of an accordion came from within the premises.
Burton pushed open the door and they entered, Penniforth bending to avoid knocking his head on the low ceiling.
"Buy us a drink, Dad?" asked a man of Burton before he'd taken two paces toward the bar.
"Buy yer own fuckin' drink," he replied, in character.
"Watch yet mouth, you old git!" came the reply.
"Watch yours!" warned Penniforth, his massive fist pushing up under the man's chin.
"Steady, mate, no 'arm done," whined the individual, turning away.
They shouldered through the crowd to the counter and ordered gins.
The barman asked to see their money first.
Leaning on the scarred wood, they gulped down the spirit and immediately ordered another round.
"Thirsty, aint'cha?" commented the man beside Penniforth.
"Yus," grunted the cabbie.
"Me too. I always gets a thirst on after fightin' with the missus."
"Been givin' you earache, 'as she?"
"Not 'alf, the bleedin' cow. I ain't seen you in 'ere before."
"I ain't been 'ere afore."
"That your old fella?" The man nodded toward Burton.
"Yus," answered Penniforth, gruffly. "Nosey, ain'tcha?"
"Just bein' neighbourly, that's all. If yet don't wanna talk, it ain't no skin off my nose!"
"Yer, well, fair enough. I thought I'd get 'im out o' Mile End for an 'oliday!"
The other man laughed. "An 'oliday in Stepney! That's rich!"
"At least you don't 'ave bleedin' monsters runnin' around at night!" exclaimed the cabbie.
Burton smiled appreciatively into his glass. Good chap, Monty! Quick work! He ordered more drinks and included a beer for their new acquaintance.
"`Ere yer go, mate-get that down yer neck," he rasped, sliding the pint over.
"Ta, Dad, much appreciated. The name's Fred, by the way. Fred Spooner."
"I'm Frank Baker," offered Burton. "This is me son, Monty."
They drank to each other's health.
Over in the corner, the man with the accordion began to squeeze out another tune and the crowd roared its bawdy lyrics, which, as far as Burton could make out, told of the various places visited by a pair of bloomers belonging to Old Ma Tucker.
He waited patiently, the odour of old sweat and bad breath and acidic beer and stale piss clogging his nostrils. He didn't have to wait for long.
"So they're in Mile End now, are they?" shouted Spooner above the noise.
"Yus," said Penniforth.
"They'll be 'ere next, then," said the East Ender, with an air of resignation. "My mate over in Wapping lost 'is tenant to 'em last week."
"Wotcher mean, `lost'?"
"They snatched one of the kids what roomed at 'is place. That's what they do-they steal the nippers, though most of the kids what were taken 'ave come back since. They took 'em from Whitechapel first, then Shadwell, Wapping these weeks past, and now I guess it's Mile End's turn."
"Bloody 'ell. What are they?"
"Dunno, mate. Dogs. Wolves. Men. Summick in-between. You know they explode?"
"Explode?" uttered Burton. "What do yer mean?"
"I've 'eard of three occasions when it's 'appened: they burst into flames for no reason and burn like dry straw 'til there ain't nuffink of'em left! I wish the 'ole lot o' them would go up like that. It's hell draggin' 'em back, if yer arsk me!"
"It's a rum do, that's fer sure!" said Burton.
"Come on, Pa-we'd better be off," urged Penniforth.
"I'll finish me drink first," objected Burton.
"'Urry it up, then!"
"You seen an artist around?" Burton asked Spooner.
"Aye. Slick Sid Sedgewick is the best in the business. Why, you got a scam?"
"No, mate. Not a con artist. I mean an artist what draws and paints."
Spooner spluttered into his glass. "You gotta be jokin'! A paintin' artist around 'ere!"
"I just 'eard there was one, that's all."
"What is it, Dad? You wanna get yer portrait done 'n' hanged in the National bleedin' Gallery?"
"All right, all right!" protested Burton.
He and Penniforth swigged back the last of their gin and bid Spooner farewell.
"Good luck to yer!" he said as they pushed away from the bar and heaved their way through the throng to the door. They burst out into the alleyway hoping for a breath of fresh air and getting quite the opposite.
It was well past midnight. The atmosphere was thick, loathsome, and catarrhal.
"Wapping's about a mile away as the crow flies," said Burton in a low voice. "Probably considerably farther through this maze."
"Don't worry, guv'nor, I knows the way."
"Are you up for it?"
"In for a penny, in for a pound."
"Good man! And well done-the way you got information out of that Spooner fellow was admirable! Thanks to you, we now know where the loupsgarous are hunting."
"The what?"
"Men-wolves."
They resumed their trek through the hellish backstreets and, once again, were accosted every few minutes with varying degrees of pleading and promised violence. Only their pistols and Montague Penniforth's great size kept the knifemen, club wielders, and garrotters at bay.
Even those deterrents failed as they crossed Cable Street and entered the outskirts of Wapping.
They'd just passed along juniper Street and turned left into an unnamed alley when, from dark doorways to either side, a gang of men hurled themselves out and threw a large blanket over Penniforth, tripping him and, as he crashed to the ground, piling on top of him. He struggled and yelled but with five heavyset thugs applying their full weight, he was helpless.
Meanwhile, Burton found himself surrounded by three hard-eyed mentwo in front of him and one behind-each sneering, each waving a dagger threateningly.
He stood still, maintaining his guise as an elderly seaman, his back a little crooked, his eyes peering short-sightedly at the gang.
"W-what do yer want?" he stuttered, weakly.
"What 'ave you got?" replied one of the men, the apparent leader. He was tall, rat-faced, with a tangled black beard and lank hair.
"Nuffink."
"Is that so? Funny, 'cos I see a nice pair o' strong boots on yer feet, an' word 'as reached me that there's a pistol under that there warm-lookin' coat o' yours. Don't go for it if yer wanna live."
Burton heard the man behind taking a step forward.
Just one more, my friend, he thought.
"An' that bowler you're a-wearing on your 'ead will look just fine an' dandy on mine, I reckons."
"Ummph!" came Penniforth's voice from inside the blanket.