Words&Dirt

“‘The law is,’ he bellowed, ‘that thou shalt return from hence, to the Place whence thou camest, and from thence to Tyburn Cross, where thou shalt hang by the neck, but not unto Death; that thou shalt thereafter be drawn and quartered, till the body be Dead!  Dead!  Dead!  And the Lord have Mercy upon thy Soul.’

Those milling shades in the dimness behind the magistrate’s balcony must be those selfsame Powers, practically hopping from foot to foot in their eagerness to run back to Westminster and proclaim the news: Jack Shaftoe was broken by the peine forte et dure, he came to the court, he pleaded, and even now lies in chains in the Condemned Hold!  That was the preordained Moral of the Morality Play being enacted in this place, which looked more like a theatre the longer Jack stood here.  There were even extras, or, in Theatrical cant, spear-carriers.  For the Justice’s kind final words, and the Lord have Mercy upon thy Soul, were nearly drowned out by the humble-bumble of many boots on the stairs within the building, and before the audience could even consider launching a riot, they found themselves surrounded by a company of Guards brandishing half-pikes.

Some might welcome the new King with toasts, medals, statues, or concubines.  But there were men in London who could not think of any better party favor to present to their new Sovereign than Jack Shaftoe’s head on a platter.  At an earlier stage of his life he’d have strained his eyes to resolve the faces lurking back there in the shadows behind the balcony, perhaps shouted something of a defiant nature.  But he really couldn’t not care less about them now.  Truth be told, he hadn’t heard a word the magistrate had uttered (aside, that is, from the terrible Sentence) in the last quarter of an hour.  It was all because of the noise of the people who were down here in the dirt––the Court––the Old Baily––with him.  His people.

Something got crushed down atop his head.  His knees buckled in alarm for a moment.  But he was not being assaulted from behind.  Someone had bestowed a hat on him.  By the time he turned round, that someone had been chased back into the chanting rabble by a furious corporal of the Guard.  But the rabble were very pleased by what they saw.  A chant formed of the roar: ‘God save the King!  God save the King!  God save the King!’

The magistrate had stood up to make himself heard, his face was red, he was bellowing with such force that his wig was shuddering, but nothing reached the court.  A bailiff snatched the thing from Jack’s head and flung it down.  Before his boots crushed and treaded it down into the mud of the Bailey, Jack saw what it was: a makeshift crown, sporting a letter V in the middle.  Not that Jack knew much about letters; but he recognized that one, because the same symbol was burnt into the brawn of his right thumb, and had been there for most of his life.  For Jack had first been branded Vagabond when he’d been a young man.

It was a common designation.  King of the Vagabonds, however, was a high title indeed, and one that had not been attached to his name until he had, through inconceivable exertions, earned it.”

––The System of the World, by Neal Stephenson, pg. 763-4

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––This is Not a Game: A Guide to Alternate Reality Gaming, by Dave Szulborski, loc. 3061