Chapter 7: The Runaway Coach

The Pig in a Poke Tavern sits at the junction of Brompton Road, Sloane Street, and Knights Bridge Road, as the Great Western Road is known in the area. Boris was already seated when I arrived. After a hearty handshake I sat down at the table and we enjoyed a convivial few hours of eating and drinking, besides catching up on what each of us had been doing since last meeting at Livorno in 1823.

The note written by Boris had included the information, ‘The Pig in a Poke does the best mutton chops and Pease pudding in London, and the landlord, a native of Maidenhead, has a tun of Old Peculiar Ale, which I know is a particular favourite of yours, delivered each week from the brewery in Marlow.’
Although I have nothing but good to say of Flanders’s cuisine, I had missed the English staples of roast beef, mutton chops, and Pease pudding. As for beverage, I was never a great one for wine, although I confess the Aglianco drank in Napoli holds a certain place in my heart. Flanders beer, like the landscape, is somewhat flat and uninteresting and I often dreamed of supping Marlow Old Peculiar, Meux porter, or Boddington’s superior ale, during time spent at Blanchards.

After my reacquaintance with the culinary and alcoholic delights of England I broached the subject that had been bothering me since learning of the fall of Missolonghi.

“Do you believe Missolonghi would have survived the siege if Byron had been in charge of the defences?” I asked. “I feel responsible for the loss of...”
Boris interrupted, surveying me with narrowed eyes. “Is this the real reason for our meeting? You think the fall of the town is directly attributed to you?”
I nodded, shamefaced. “If only I could turn back the clock...”

“Byron is dead, and Missolonghi is in ruins. Nothing can change what has happened.” Boris said. “As for Byron being the only person who could have prevented the fall of the town – balderdash and poppycock. Byron was a great poet, but was no more of a military genius than my mistress. Granted he was a figurehead the Greeks rallied around, and he brought international recognition to the cause of Greek Independence.”
He took a swig from his tankard before continuing.
“Byron spent a great deal of his own money bolstering up the Greek military. Souliotes are always ready and willing to slaughter Turks, but on their terms, and when and where it suits them. Byron wanted them to fight in formed battle lines, alongside foreign Philhellenes, units of the Greek Army, and those Greek volunteers trained by your team. The Souliotes demanded money to fight using the methods Byron desired. Their natural fighting tactics are similar to those guerrillas of Spain; appearing unexpectedly and butchering an unprepared enemy before vanishing into the mountains. It was propaganda, put about by Philhellenes, that these fierce warriors regarded Byron as a great military leader. In reality he had gained their allegiance by purchase. In any event, even if Byron had been present at the siege it would have made not an iota of difference to the end result.”

Boris let out a heartfelt sigh. “The Greeks at Missolonghi were doomed once the Egyptians captured the islands protecting the lagoon. It was then only a matter of time before the place was starved into surrender. The Greeks knew the truth of it, which was why they made the sortie to fight their way through the surrounding Ottomans. They might have succeeded had they not been betrayed by fellow Greeks, deserters who preferred ignoble self-preservation rather than the noble self-sacrifice of their comrades.”

I looked into my tankard, as if answers to my questions would come floating to the surface, but saw only bubbles.

“Aye, you are probably right, Boris. Nevertheless l have a sense of guilt, and believe Byron’s death, and the fall of Missolonghi, were due to my actions.”

“Byron was responsible for the death of Lord Castlereagh, and had been marked for relocation. Had you not done the deed, Elijah, then it would have been some other member of the Box Office.”

To take me from the melancholy I had drifted into Boris then gave me an in depth account of how the Xanadu Trading Company was doing financially; excellently, being the verdict.
A new Pleasure Dome was recently opened in Cheltenham Spa, and plans were afoot for one to be sited at Buxton. Money was flowing into the coffers in an increasing flood. The troupe of dancers from Cannes were a great success. Men would watch their uninhibited style of dancing, where shapely and lissome limbs were on full display, with the occasional flashes of bare buttock and hairy madge, and would be galvanised into hiring a harlot for the hour, or indeed for the night. The revolving table designed by Monsieur Roulette of Monte Carlo, where customers wagered into which numbered slot a small ball would fall, was also a money-spinner, if you will forgive the pun. Men who won sums of money during the evening were only too willing to expend their winnings on a companion for the night. Those who lost would use what remained in their wallets to forget their losses in a few moments of pleasure with a whore or bottle of alcohol.

The only negative item in Boris’s report was that no more Nautch dancing girls had been dispatched from India for over two years.

“Is there a dearth of girls suitable for training?” I asked.
Boris shook his head. “No, Lillian Skinner has other enterprises, more important than training girls to serve in our Pleasure Domes. She now assists the doctor fellow she has paired up with to train native girls as nurses and midwives, or so Paloma says. Lillian and she still exchange the occasional letter.”

“Paired up with?”

“Cohabiting with, in some fly blown village deep in the jungle by all accounts. I think the doctor fellow must be a John Company man gone native.” He belched, and then begged my pardon. “Fortunately, Paloma has drafted in some Batavian girls, who perform a more lascivious version of a Nautch dance. It raises even the most flaccid of our customers. If we could only bottle the actions of those girls we would make a fortune.”

I handed Boris the bottle of Callum Keane’s potion I had brought with me.
“This could be just as effective. The potion not only arouses the most supine of John Thomases but also extends the user’s vigour. Both Callum and I can vouch for the effectiveness of the contents. In fact Callum has often galloped three energetic sisters to exhaustion, thanks to his potion.”

“Has he, by gad! He is no spring chicken and must be feeling his age, not that I have seen hide nor hair of him for some time. I know he returned to MI5 when that fool Peel closed the Box Office. The last I heard he was the military attaché at our embassy in Berlin.”

“Callum was in Amsterdam until a year ago. I did not know he has since moved to Berlin.”

“Maybe he is galloping a trio of Prussian Frauleins even as we speak,” Boris said. He placed the bottle of greenish liquid in his coat pocket, a slight look of disdain on his face.
“I never look a gift horse in the mouth, so will accept this bottle, but fortunately Veronica, my present companion in lust, is skilled in raising the ardour of the most droopiest of men, which I definitely am not, and I require no love philtre to satisfy her.” He paused and smiled. “Although I always quaff a pint of Black Velvet before galloping her. She is a young actress, and the most vivacious, vociferous, voracious, and venal female it has ever been my pleasure to know. In fact, I had best get a pint down me before this afternoon’s meeting. We have been apart for a week, and Veronica will be expecting a right royal rogering.” He called for a serving maid to fetch him a tankard of the drink thought to be an aphrodisiac, and was copiously consumed by gentlemen of a certain age before attempting copulation with younger females.
His drink soon appeared, and Boris swallowed down the brew in minutes. He gave a satisfied belch after putting down the empty tankard.
We shook hands outside the Tavern, and agreed to meet again when next in London, which would probably be in September, when Mimi and I were due to travel back to Blanchards.

Boris walked west along Brompton Road, towards the residence of his mistress in Brompton. I had a choice of routes back to Monmouth House.
I could turn left and walk down Sloane Street to Sloane Square, cross Bays Water, and then make my way along Five Fields Road to Belgrave Place and Monmouth House. I could turn right, walk along Knight’s Bridge Road to its junction with Grosvenor Place, and then continue along Grosvenor Place to Five Fields Road and thence to Monmouth House.
I turned to my right.

The Great Western Road crosses the Bays Water over the Knight’s Bridge, the structure that gives the area its name. In summer, the Bays Water is a mere trickle, but in winter and early spring the flow is greatly enhanced by heavy rainfall and consequent overflow from the Serpentine River that wends its way through Hyde Park to the north of Knight’s Bridge. Because of the occurrence of flooding on the approaches to Knight’s Bridge the footway alongside the Great Western Road has been elevated, allowing pedestrians to keep dry shod, that is until a carriage splashes through the flood at the approaches to the bridge and drenches any pedestrian unlucky to be passing.
I had crossed the bridge, but was still on the elevated section of the footway, when I became aware of the sound of drumming hooves. Vehicles normally process along the Great Western Road through Knight’s Bridge at a medium trot, and any driver exceeding that pace is soon made aware of his wrongdoing. Pedestrians throw clods of earth or stones, and the contents of chamber pots are sometimes hurled from windows overlooking the street, at such aberrant coach drivers.