CHAPTER 12

THAT EVENING, I met briefly with Abraham Mendes and secured two favors from him before returning home for the night. The first was a bit of charity I dared not execute myself. I had not forgotten the good-natured Nate Lowth, whose cell had been adjacent to mine and who had graciously refrained from calling the guard during my departure from Newgate. I therefore gave Mendes a few coins and asked that he provide Lowth with food and drink as well as the companionship he had requested. The second request I made of Mendes I shall speak of more anon.

After returning to my rooms, I spent a few hours before sleep reviewing the political newspapers I’d bought that day, hoping to familiarize myself with the Tory cant. Despite Elias’s assurances, I had little confidence that a man as ignorant of politics as I could pass for an interested Tory. On the other hand, I knew well that my standing as a wealthy West Indian would compensate for any flaws I might display, and at least my ignorance was part of the character I was to portray. They might look at me and sneer and think, Who is this fellow to come here and pretend he can simply join our ranks? It is unlikely they would look at me and conclude that I was an escaped felon disguising himself to find evidence of his unjust ruin.

I arrived at the inn shortly before eight in the morning. It was on the east side of Covent Garden, and it afforded me a fine view of the electoral camp set up in the piazza. Though the election was not to commence for more than another week, already the grounds were astir as though it were a great fair, featuring all but fire-eaters and rope dancers. Men in the green and white colors of Melbury or the blue and orange of his opponent, Albert Hertcomb, paraded about, carrying placards and handing out leaflets. Pretty girls strolled to and fro, eager to canvass for this candidate or that. Peddlers pushed their carts through the crowds, and of course there was no shortage of the pickpockets and cutpurses that these gatherings attracted. The cold air smelled of roast pig flesh and oysters just turning foul.

I entered the inn and gave my name to a gentleman who sat by the door. He examined a roster that had been written in a neat hand and then urged me inside. I seated myself at an empty table, but it was soon filled as men of the prosperous sort filed in. Many seemed to know one another, but others were alone as I was. After the first few pots of small beer were served and some fresh loaves of white bread passed around, I began to feel myself warming to the proceedings.

The fellow who sat on my left was a corpulent man, an importer of oriental curiosities, he told me. He praised Melbury for his fairness, his dedication to the Church, and his willingness to speak out against Whig corruption. Indeed, I was able to hear these things for myself, for not long after we ate I noticed a handsome gentleman making his way toward the front of the room, greeting this man and that as he walked. I could not doubt but that this was Melbury, and I felt a kind of panic stir within me. Here was the man who had bested me in the contest I had considered most important. I had never laid eyes on him before, and while he struck me as somewhat ordinary in appearance, lacking any radiance or hint of the divine about him, he also struck me as inexplicably-worthy was the word that came to mind- and I felt small and insignificant by comparison.

I hardly even listened to his words as he first spoke, so intent was I on examining his shape and face and the way he held himself. But as I realized his talk was coming to a period, I forced myself out of my reverie that I might at least hear some of his remarks.

“I cannot say that all of the electors of Westminster should vote for me,” the candidate announced, by way of conclusion, “only those who disdain corruption. If any of you gentlemen relish that the House should take your money to line the pockets of thieving members and their creatures, if you take pleasure in seeing the Church gutted and weakened, and if you think small men of petty ambition should determine the course of this nation based on their own greed and acquisitiveness, then by all means vote for Mr. Hertcomb. No one here will resent you for it. I thank my Maker that I live in a land of liberty where each man may make this decision for himself. But if, on the other hand, you prefer someone who will fight corruption and Godless deism, someone who will do his utmost to restore the former glory of this kingdom to the days before stockjobbers and debt and disgrace, then I invite you to cast your vote for me. And if you are so inclined to vote that way, I will also invite you to have another glass of beer and to toast this great kingdom.”

After the speech, my importer friend lauded his words as though Melbury were a second Cicero. I admit that he proved himself eloquent and had a charismatic quality to him, but I was as yet unmoved to anything but envy.

“You must know,” said my companion, “he is ever more personable in conversation. It is a shame that each voter in Westminster cannot have five minutes with Mr. Melbury. I am sure the affair would be most easily decided that way, for if you have ever heard Mr. Hertcomb speak, you know he is little more than a blockhead. Melbury, on the other hand, cannot but show his wit and intelligence.”

“I will have to take your word for it,” I said, “for I have never met him.”

The fellow took most quickly to my hint and promised to secure me an introduction before the breakfast ended. And not a moment later he pulled me to my feet and led me to the far end of the tavern, where Mr. Melbury sat in close conversation with a very grim-looking young man.

“Excuse me, Mr. Melbury, sir, but there is someone I very much wish for you to meet.”

Melbury looked up and offered us his politician’s smile. I admit he managed it astonishingly well, for- if only for a single instant when I was off my guard- I found him an appealing man with strong cheekbones, a nose that was manly without being large, and vibrant blue eyes. Some men know themselves to be attractive and wear their looks with a sort of arrogance, but Melbury seemed at ease with himself and the world, and that comfort gave him a powerful charm. He had a fashionable bob wig and a handsome blue suit, but, more impressively, he had a fine white smile that radiated a friendship I resented most fervently. I admit that even I began to feel my loathing of the man recede, though I fought hard against these benevolent sentiments.

“Why, hello, sir,” he said to the importer, clearly having forgotten this man. No doubt they had once met in very much the fashion he was now to meet me.

“Wonderful speech, Mr. Melbury. Wonderful. Ah, yes. This, sir, is Mr. Matthew Evans, lately returned to this island from the West Indies, and he has now taken a most fervent interest in the Tory cause.”

Melbury embraced my right hand in both of his and shook it. “I am heartily glad to hear that, Mr. Evans. It seems to me that your name is now bandied about town, and I am happy to meet so celebrated a personage, particularly when he is a supporter of our party. The returned West Indian is nearly always a Whig, but I am glad to find you otherwise inclined.”

There was something of a coolness in his manner that I had noticed at first. His winsome smile and handsome face masked well a hint of reserve that I rejoiced in, for upon it I could place some measure of dislike and resentment. But my role was not to find fault with Melbury nor to delight in exposing a hidden stiffness in his manner- a stiffness not uncommon in members of old families. I was there to make him like me, to make him my ally, and to use his support when he won his election.

“My father was a Tory, and my grandfather fought in the war for the king.” Nothing wrong, I thought, in suggesting some Royalist blood. Just the sort of thing to make him take a liking to me. “As I have been in Jamaica most of my life, I have not, until now, had much opportunity to participate in politics.”