Much Ado About Murder

“Nor could I,” said Fleming, with a grimace of distaste. “But methinks perhaps that what he saw in them in the beginning was something of what he wished to be himself, a sort of adventurer, a man of action and determination, a young gallant… not that they were any of those things, in truth, but I suppose that they believed they were, and spoke as if they were, and so Ben believed it, also. I attempted to dissuade him from their company, to convince him that they were a bad influence upon him and would bring him naught but trouble, yet ‘twas all to no avail, of course. When did youth ever credit the wisdom of their elders?”

“I do not recall that I ever did, myself,” said Smythe. “Well, save for my Uncle Thomas, to whom I always listened with respect. But for the most part, when I was younger, I did not find that my elders seemed to possess very much wisdom.”

“Amusing, is it not, how the older one becomes, the wiser one’s elders seem to grow?” said Fleming, with a smile. “Well, as you might imagine, the more I prevailed upon him to abandon this bad company, the more he sought it out. In the end, he drifted away from us. He found a position as apprentice to an armorer, which was just the sort of manly thing for a young gallant to be, I suppose, but then, he soon drifted away from that, as well. The rest you know. He saw how his friends paled in comparison to the genuine adventurers he met at his new master’s shop and ‘twas not long before he left them behind, as well, to make himself yet another life.”

“I do not believe they liked that very much,” said Smythe.

“Aye, that sort never would,” agreed Fleming. “When one leaves that sort of company, ‘tis often perceived as weakening the others, for they find their strength in numbers. But much more than their strength, methinks, they find their very identity in numbers. And so when someone leaves them, they feel threatened and betrayed.”

“I realize that they do, but I am not sure that I understand why they should,” said Smythe.

“Consider who they are and how they live,” said Fleming. “They are young and working class, though not yet old enough or, in most cases, skilled enough to work in their own right as journeymen or master craftsmen. Yet at the same time, they are old enough to consider themselves full grown, though again, in most cases, they have not yet acquired the wisdom of adulthood. And so they find themselves in service as apprentices, at the bidding of their masters and unable to achieve their independence until such time as their masters deem them worthy. They have no ability to determine the course of their own lives, no true feeling of worth, and no power of their own. In their masters’ shops, they labor hard and long and must do as they are told. But when they go out on their own and band together with others like themselves, why then they find within that company a strength of purpose and a sense of belonging to something that gives them worth and a feeling of respect. One becomes more than merely a lowly young apprentice; one becomes a Steady Boy, or a Bishopsgate Brawler, or a Fleet Street Clubman, or whatever other colorful appellation these gangs of apprentices choose for themselves. And this company thus becomes a band of brothers, in one sense a family, in another sense an army… not unlike your highland clans. And if you are a member of this clan, then you are someone worthy of respect, someone to be feared… for when one is young, fear and respect seem much like the same thing. If you should become the leader of such a band, why then you have importance, power, and position, all of which is yours by virtue of the men you lead. The more men, the more power; the more power, the more prestige.”

“So that if one of the men you lead chooses to leave your command, then ‘tis very like a mutiny,” said Smythe.

“Exactly so,” replied Fleming, nodding. “I could not have said it better.”

“Now I understand what transpired earlier today,” said Smythe.

Fleming looked at him. “What happened?” he asked, and briefly Smythe described their encounter with the Steady Boys while he and Dickens were on their way to the theatre.

“I just knew those two would be trouble,” Fleming said, when he had finished. “And now, regretably, you have become mixed up in it. You would do well to avoid them, if you can.”

“Did you expect me to run off and leave Ben to face them by himself?” asked Smythe.

“Of course not,” Fleming replied hastily. “I know you better than that, Tuck. But just the same, I wish you had not become involved. Ben knows what they are like, and he knows what to expect of them. And not meaning to slight your abilities in any way, Ben is also a trained soldier who has been to war. He knows well how to take care of himself.”

“Well, ‘tis not an army we are talking about, after all, John,” said Smythe, “just a few young malcontents and troublemakers.”