Chapter Twenty-three: Mother Rawton

 (It is early spring 1763. Sir James Wilbrahim's daughter has apparently run away to London, and Charles Huntingdon has followed to look for her)

   I woke to a morning of gloom and rain, reflecting my mood. After first visiting the stables to ensure that my long-suffering horse Alexander was receiving proper attention, I proceeded to the White Horse tavern where the Mulchester coach ended its journey, there to begin my search for Louisa.

   But I did not learn anything. I described Louisa to the landlord of the inn; not tall, with blue eyes, a clear skin and fair hair; but he shook his head, informing me that so many single young girls came to London seeking employment that he and his servants had no memories of any of them in particular. He appeared reluctant to answer my questions any further.

   I then walked to Lord Staines’s house. I had never foot there, but I knew where it lay: there was a slight chance that Louisa might have found her way there, or at least I could explain her peril to Staines and enlist his help.

   The door was opened, not by some dignified major-domo, but by a strange young personage with a painted face, dressed in what appeared to be Turkish costume. He regarded me with deep suspicion in his dark eyes, but became quite affable when I informed him that I was a friend of Lord Staines, and addressed me more in the manner of an equal than that of a servant. He regretfully informed me, however, that his lordship was not in town, nor was he expected to return for several days, for he was visiting a friend in Kent. My question as to whether a young lady had called at the house recently caused him not only to deny any such event but to raise his plucked eyebrows at its sheer improbability of any such event. His lordship, he gave me to understand, was not accustomed to receiving visits from young ladies at any time. He appeared positively shocked at the very idea. I did not mention Louisa by name. He then smiled at me and invited me into the house for refreshment.  Since there was nothing more to be learned there I declined the offer brusquely, turned on my heel and departed, which seemed to disappoint him.  I remembered Lord Teesdale’s denunciations of his son’s companions, and was inclined to sympathise with his lordship.

    I had made no progress in my searches, and I was close to despair. What if Louisa was no longer alive? I had appalling visions that she had been murdered by some footpad and her body, stripped of its valuable clothing, flung into the river. It would surely be the death of Sir James when he heard such dreadful news. There seemed to be no-one I could turn to: my closest friends were all out of town and Elizabeth Newstead, even if I had still been on speaking terms with her, could not have helped beyond expressions of sympathy. It was in desperation that I at last resolved to seek out John Wilkes as a last forlorn hope.

  I hastened round to his house in Great George Street, where I found him hard at work, no doubt producing what would be the next issue of the “North Briton”. He continued to work while I described my fears, explaining how the daughter of my neighbour had run away to London and disappeared. In response to my desperate entreaties for help, he pointed to Charles Churchill, who was seated nearby cradling an immense pot of ale and said, “That idle fellow has not contributed a word all this week, and now he is merely drinking my beer, under the pretence that he is composing a ballad; so he might as well stir himself and go forth to do something useful!”  Accordingly it was Churchill who set out to make enquiries, beginning at the White Horse coaching inn. “Good beer there!” added Wilkes as an encouragement, “But don’t pass all your time drinking it!” I was, with great reluctance, persuaded to remain behind, since Churchill was well-known throughout the town, and could ask questions without rousing too many suspicions.

   I became more and more agitated while I awaited his return. My mind was full of the darkest of fears of what fate might have befallen Louisa, and I ran through the horrid details endlessly. Each minute that passed seemed an hour, each hour a year. I began to pace backwards and forwards, muttering to myself. Wilkes, irritated by my constant activity and busy with his writing, first gave me some gin and water in an attempt to calm me down, and then suggested I should take the air outside for a change. Neither of these remedies having cured my anxiety, he finally abandoned the struggle and suggested I sit down and recount to him the full story of what had occurred.   I found it a useful distraction to describe my meeting with Black George, where Wilkes approved of my conduct. He was vastly amused by my encounter with Lord Staines’s servant, and by the thought that Staines should act so contrary to his nature as to write passionate letters to any girl. At length Churchill returned and made his report. 

   “At the White Horse I found an old decayed wretch called Richard Wainwright who frequents the place”, he told us, “After I supplied him with a quantity of spirits, he was persuaded to inform me that a young girl, clean and neatly dressed, and answering to the description of Miss Wilbrahim, had indeed arrived by coach a few days ago, and was met and conducted away by Mother Rawton”.

   The name meant nothing to me, but Wilkes drew in his breath in a hiss and shook his head sadly. Churchill continued, “He then pointed out to me a little imp of mischief lurking nearby, whom he said was employed by that personage. I collared this piece of Newgate-fodder, and by means of the promise of a shilling, combined with threat of a beating, I induced him to tell me the truth. He confirmed that the girl had said her name was Louisa, and that he had carried her box to Rawton’s residence off Drury Lane. He had then been despatched on the pretence of calling on Lord Staines, but was told to report that his lordship was not at home; and that this task he had carried out. Where the girl might be now he did not know, for he was never allowed up the stairs. I paid the imp his shilling, but instructed him, with more threats and inducements, never to breathe a word of this conversation to anyone”.

   There was an ominous silence. “Who is Mother Rawton?” I asked, “And why could the landlord of the White Horse not have told me this?”

   “She is the worst bawd in London!” Wilkes informed me, “She befriends young girls coming up from the country in search of work and attempts to gain their confidence. She then takes them into her brothel, or sells them on to gentlemen who are her friends and patrons. I fear this may have been the fate intended for your Louisa. And as for the landlord: he would have known about her activities for many years past, but doubtless he is well paid for holding his tongue.”

   I was smitten with horror.

                                    (A scene from the "Harlot's Progress" series by Hogarth)

   “But, please, let us rescue her if we can!” I cried, as soon as I was able to speak, “Or at least find out where she is now. Perhaps this Rawton woman is still holding her. We must search there immediately!” A law-abiding man would have taken the case before the magistrates, but this could hardly be done without revealing Louisa’s story: I was most anxious to avoid this, and my companions agreed that privacy was essential.

    Wilkes pondered. “Let us ask Mr Boswell”, he said at last, “That young Scotch rogue knows every whore and every brothel in the town! He lodges in Pall Mall. Well, it appears I must drop everything to help you. Let us seek him forthwith. There is not a day, not an hour, to be lost!”

   An enquiry to Mr Boswell’s landlady led us to finding him strolling in the Horse Guards Parade. He readily accepted our request to join us at a tavern. In answer to our queries, he told us:

 “I know a girl at the Rawton place. Her name is Sally: she is a pretty girl, and clean, though utterly wanton and abandoned in her conduct.”

   “She won’t be clean for long, if she lies with you!” Churchill exclaimed. He turned to me and confided, “Did you know that he once had a whore on Westminster Bridge? And he not only admits it, he boasts of it!” Boswell ignored him.

   Wilkes now suggested a plan of campaign, and instructed Boswell as to what part he should play. He suggested that my identity should remain concealed, and that I should go under the name of Mr Hartshorne. I was filled with apprehension as to what we might discover, but my companions appeared to relish the prospect of the adventure on which we were about to embark.

 

   It was only after night had fallen that the four of us knocked at the door of the celebrated bagnio. It was opened by a ruffian who recognised Boswell, but regarded the rest of us with suspicion and demanded that we surrender our swords. Wilkes and I complied: Churchill, being a cleric, was not wearing one. Once inside, Mother Rawton was more welcoming.

   “Mr Boswell! Back again so soon? How you must value our hospitality! And your friends? Mr Wilkes; Mr Churchill; or should I say the Reverend Charles Churchill; your names are well known to me, and this house is honoured by your presence. And Mr Hartshorne? A most handsome young man, I do declare! You too will always be welcome!”

   “Is my little Sally here?” Boswell asked, slipping a coin into the old bawd’s discoloured hand.

   “Indeed she is, and ever eager for your services, of which she speaks so highly!” A servant, her face disfigured by sores, was despatched to bring the girl, who soon appeared. I could understand why Boswell liked her, for she had sparkling eyes and a most mischievous smile. The two of them departed upstairs.

   “Now, you other gentlemen; what would be your preference? For we cater for all tastes here!” Mother Rawton enquired with a leer on her face, hoping for some lucrative custom, but we said that for the moment we would remain below, awaiting the return of our friend. We eyed the whores present and chaffed with them. I noticed birches and other strange implements hanging on the wall, together with pictures that were coloured engravings of very indecent scenes. My inspection of these caused the whores to giggle and nudge each other.

   It was long before Boswell returned. He collapsed on a chair as if exhausted and drew us together to whisper, “Sally told me that there was a room where a strange girl was being held and was heard sobbing, but the others were forbidden to speak to her. Such behaviour, she told me, was common with Mother Rawton’s new recruits, so she had thought little of it. I then persuaded Sally, by means of some silver coins, to conduct me to the room where the sobbing was heard, and in accordance with your plan I knocked discreetly on the door and enquired of the girl inside whether she was indeed Miss Wilbrahim of Stanegate. Her sobbing lessened when I told her to fear no longer, for her rescuers were on their way. Do we now free her?”

Mother Rawton could not overhear our whisperings, but she became very suspicious. Wilkes confronted her.

   “Madam”, he said, “We have certain knowledge that you have an innocent young girl imprisoned in this house. We demand that you do immediately set her free.”

   Mother Rawton responded by clapping her hands and crying “Help! Murder!” The ruffian who had admitted us now ran in, brandishing a cudgel; but Churchill, who had positioned himself behind the door, drew a bludgeon of his own from under his cloak and struck the villain a tremendous blow on the skull, which laid him out on the floor. Churchill now seized his body, cast it out into the street and locked the door from the inside. The whores fled upstairs with cries of alarm.

   “Now, madam”, Wilkes continued, “You must know that I am a Member of Parliament and that I have many friends in this city. Would you desire that we bring your case before Sir John Fielding at Bow Street? I doubt you should wish to find yourself in the Bridewell or the pillory as a common bawd. The girl we seek is of the Quality, and if a hair of her head is harmed, I promise to find you a seat on the next cart to the Tyburn gallows. Or then again, what if the mob learn how you have treated this poor girl, and take it into their heads to assemble here and tear down your house? Such outrages have been known to occur. I think, madam, you had best do as we say.”

   Boswell and Churchill remained below to guard the entrance while Wilkes and I drove the unwilling procuress shuffling and grumbling up the stairs to unlock the door. The room was very dark, but by the light of a candle in Wilkes’s hand I perceived the form of a girl, dirty and dishevelled, lying on a bed of rags. She gave a start of alarm.

   “Louisa!” I called, “It is I, Charles Huntingdon. You’re safe now, my darling!” She rose and fell weeping into my arms.

   I carried her down the stairs and joined the others; but before we could leave the house Mother Rawton sidled up to us.

   “And who’s to pay me for the food and lodging I provided for her, these past few days?” the shameless hussy asked. To my astonishment, Wilkes burst into laughter.

   “Oh Mother Rawton, you are irresistible!” he chuckled, and gave her some coins, which she immediately pocketed.

   “Well, thank you kindly, sir!” she replied, “You and your friends will always be welcome in my humble establishment!” and she dropped a grotesque little curtsey.

   As we left the house, I heard Boswell say, “I wonder why she left the girl untouched and then let her go so readily?”

   “Tush!” said Churchill, “At the start, she intended to use her as a whore, or sell her to some nobleman since she is so young and virginal; but when she discovered that the child really was the daughter of a man of influence and had noble friends, perhaps she next thought she could hold her for ransom. No, sir; in the end she knew she had bitten off more than she could chew, and so she spat out the child rather than bring about her own destruction!”

  
  (Charles Churchill as "The Bruiser": a cartoon by Hogarth)

    Louisa continued to sob as we took her away, leaning on my shoulder and not uttering a word. She stumbled along like one in a dream, and Wilkes had to support her on the other side. This strange little procession attracted ribald comments from passing idlers, but threats from Churchill and Boswell drove them away.

   What were we to do with her? I knew she could not be brought to my lodgings, for my landlady was the worst of gossips. Wilkes therefore suggested the use of his own home, where his daughter Polly was home from France. We were all weary and exhausted by the time we reached the door, and I could not imagine what was passing through Louisa’s mind. Polly, greatly to her credit, asked no questions but, assisted by a maidservant, put Louisa to bed and promised to watch over her.

   We four men then sank into chairs in relief. Wilkes called for bottles of wine, to celebrate the success of our venture, and soon after, for more bottles. I thanked my friends for the trouble they had taken to help me.

   “It was nothing, sir!” said Wilkes, “Why: rescuing an innocent damosel from captivity; it is worthy of an old romance! Churchill can write a comic ballad to celebrate our heroic deeds, and have the whole town laughing!” Churchill nodded and smiled.

   “Would Lord Staines ever have discovered where she was held captive?” I wondered.

   “Never!” replied Churchill, “For that fellow only frequents molly-shops!”

   Boswell sighed, “I suppose I shall never see my dear Sally again after this, and I hope the old baggage does not mistreat her in consequence; but heigh-ho: I am leaving for France next week, and doubtless I shall find many fine new birds in the bushes there!”

   He and Churchill then departed, and when I was left alone with Wilkes I asked, “Can all this be kept secret, to preserve Louisa’s honour? I fear the shame of it might kill her father.”

   “For London, I think it cannot be kept secret for long”, said Wilkes, “For even if we four hold our tongues, the whores are certain to spread the tale. But since her father so seldom comes to town, it may perhaps be kept from his ears”.

   My greatest apprehension, of course, was that Louisa had been debauched by some ruffian, and I whispered my fears to Wilkes.

   “Only she can tell us that”, he replied, “But do not press her on so vile a subject: let her tell you the truth in her own good time, should she so wish. For the moment, there is nothing more we can do”.

   It was approaching dawn when I returned to my lodgings and collapsed into bed. I had a disturbed sleep.