One day, a young Englishman hitched a ride to London on a wagon carrying the mail. It was the lad’s first visit to the big city where he planned to lodge with his sister and brother-in-law. The young man arrived in town late at night with only the Postmaster as a traveling companion. The night was dark and the city immense and the young man didn’t know the way to his sister’s house. He asked the Postmaster if he could sleep with the mail at his office by the Thames. But the Postmaster, responsible for the all letters and parcels in his possession, was a cautious and fastidious man. So he told the youth that he couldn’t remain with the mail, but, rather, should accompany him to his Aunt’s lodging, only a few blocks away. The old woman had a small bed chamber with two cots where they could spend the night. In the morning, the young man could venture out into the City to find his way to his brother-in-law’s place.
The Postmaster’s Aunt was pleased to see her nephew. She heated up some sausage for them and the Postmaster shared a couple of mugs of strong beer with the young man. Then, the two of them groped their way through the dark apartment – it was a maze of small rooms and corridors – to the chamber appointed for their use. After resting for a while, the young man felt the beer heavy in his belly and he asked the Post Master if there was a pot in the room that he could use. The Post Master looked under both cots but this convenience was lacking. “I’ll have to go outside,” the young man said. The Post Master recalled the intricate passageways that they had traversed to reach the bedroom and told the boy to go left first, then, right and right again to find a door opening onto the alley. “The Thames is only a few feet away, down the embankment, and take care that you don’t fall into the water,” the Postmaster said. A brisk wind was blowing and the walk to the house had been a cold one and so the Postmaster told the boy to wear his coat. “The door into the alley is a little tricky,” the Postmaster said. “The lock is broken and so you’ll have to slide the blade of my jack-knife between the door and its frame to dislodge the catch so that it will open.” The Postmaster reached into his trousers, extracted his knife, and handed it to the boy. “Be careful,” he said.
The room was pitch-black and the young man’s need was urgent and so he drew over his shoulders the Postman’s official jacket thinking it was his own coat. Then, he hurried out of the room, first turning left, then, right, then, right again to find the door with the damaged lock that he pried open to stumble into the dark alley. The cobblestones were slick with dew rising from the river and the boy fell down, scraping his arm and bloodying his nose. In England, beer is served warm and it heats the body and so the boy’s nose gushed blood profusely. Down the alley, the young Englishman heard the Thames rushing under its banks. The darkness and loss of blood and the whisper of the river all combined to cause the lad to fall over in a dead faint.
Back in the bed chamber, the Postmaster waited and waited for the footfall of the returning lad. But he heard nothing. Then, a dreadful thought occurred to him. In those days, the British navy and its merchant marine were in desperate need of able-bodied sailors and, so, it was the custom that roving bands of ruffians haunted the streets after midnight, plucking up men from pubs and inns and brothels. If the man was suitable, the thugs kidnaped him and, at dawn, he would find himself in the noisome hold of some sea-faring vessel rocking back and forth on the surge of the English Channel. This practice was called impressing seaman (or ‘pressing them). The Postmaster muttered to himself: “Surely the boy has fallen into the hands of one of these gangs and been ‘pressed.” So saying, he got out of bed, put on his boots, and, leaving the chamber, turned first left, then, right and right again, to find the door into the alley open to the outside. The Postmaster hurried through the streets, again turning left and right and making another right so that he fell directly into the hands of a gang of scoundrels who were roaming the alleys in search of prey. The Postmaster was a burly fellow with strong arms and back from hefting parcels and freight and the thugs, seeing that he was hale and well-built, knocked him over the head and hauled him down to the harbor. And the next morning, as light seeped through the bulkheads of the ship’s hold, the Postmaster felt the currents of the sea strong under foot and, climbing onto the deck, found that the ship was already far from the sight of land.
The lad lying senseless on the cobblestones, at last, regained consciousness. It was still gloomy, the skies grey and the pavement wet with dew. He staggered back to the house where the Postmaster’s Aunt lived and, finding his way to the bed chamber, in which it was still midnight-dark, fell asleep on the cot. At the Post Office, the workers were surprised that their boss had not yet appeared to help them sort and deliver the mail. Several hours passed and, then, the assistant Postmaster sent a boy to look for the missing man. The Postmaster’s wife said that her husband had not yet returned from his mission to collect the mail in the country but she said that, sometimes, when he arrived in town late at night, he stayed with his Aunt near the Post Office to which he had delivered his parcels and packages and letters.
At the Aunt’s lodging, the young Englishman was found still sleeping, his face and breast covered with blood, and wearing the Postmaster’s official coat. When the lad was searched, the Postmaster’s knife was found in the boy’s trousers and, in official’s coat, the authorities discovered the postman’s signet ring for impressing wax seals on letters, a heavy silver object dangling from a hemp lanyard. The boy was dragged before a magistrate. After a short interrogation, the young man was sentenced to be hanged that very afternoon.
Justice was swift and certain in London at that time, if a little negligently administered. There were so many scoundrels meriting execution that each midday, the criminals were hauled to their doom on a big, broad wagon like a hay wain. The men’s hands were tied and halters nailed to a crossbeam overhead were slipped under their chins and, then, the oxen were prodded to drag the wagon out from under the men leaving them flopping and kicking in midair. A spectator, and there were many, would have seen people darting out of the crowd and seizing the legs of the hanging men. The spectator might be excused for thinking that these interlopers were attempting to rescue the condemned, but, in fact, they were merely hastening their demise by pulling on their feet since the drop was short and men hanged weren’t killed outright but instead strangled slowly to death. Of course, the poor young man had no cousins or other kin to perform this kindly office and, so, he swung back and forth, his jaws and cheeks turning blue as the rope choked him.
Morbid curiosity drew onlookers to the spectacle. At twilight, a man and woman ventured down the lane to where the miscreants were hanging. The woman looked up at the gibbet and screamed: “That’s my brother hanging there.” She fell in a swoon to the ground. Her husband, looking up at the hanged man, saw to his horror that the boy opened his eyes and his blue lips moved slightly and the pupils rolled in his head. The lad’s brother-in-law was a decisive fellow, accustomed to bold action. He carried his unconscious wife into a tavern down the street and, then, distributing cash around the room, engaged several men to assist him in cutting down the man hanging from the gibbet. This was soon accomplished and the young Englishman, the noose still twisted around his throat, was hauled through the night by a hack to the home where his brother-in-law lived with unfortunate boy’s sister.
Warm and bitter English beer was applied as a medicinal and the lad regained consciousness. After spending a few hours in a delirium, the boy improved and soon was well. But the situation was perilous. The boy was under decree of death and, if the authorities discovered that he was still alive, he would find himself at the gallows again, probably accompanied by his sister and brother-in-law. And, so, it was resolved that the young man would be sent abroad, sailing anonymously across the Atlantic to America. The boy embarked on a vessel that made its way down the Thames and across the ocean, docking after eighty days in the bustling port of Philadelphia.
The youth stood on the pier among rum casks and bales of fabric and his heart was heavy. Despite the crowds around him, he felt very lonely. He thought: if only God would show me someone here whom I might recognize as a friend. And, even, as he considered how alone he was in this big city, he saw a wretched-looking fellow dressed in the miserable rags of a poor seaman. The seaman was eyeing him closely and, then, he approached and the boy saw that the man was the London Postmaster, now a mere galley-slave. The young man was happy to see a familiar face but the joy of this encounter was quickly diminished by the ragged sailor’s rage: “You lousy son of a bitch,” the former Postmaster cried: “Do you know that your nocturnal rambling got me ‘pressed into service at sea.” The English lad replied: “Goddammit, you big waste of space, on account of you, I got hanged.”
After this exchange, the two fellows found their way to a tavern near the piers, At The Three Crowns. They exchanged stories over some pints of beer, served cold on this continent. The young man had a letter from his brother-in-law introducing him to the import trade. He worked without rest for months, saving money so that he could purchase the Postmaster’s freedom. When this was accomplished, the Postmaster embraced the young man at the harbor and sailed back to London to his wife and children.
After Hebel
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