Devil Water (32 page)

Charles stopped in the middle of “So Molly’s a Whore” and stared at Tom Forster -- fatter and flabbier than ever -- who stood by the doorway with a tentative expression on his pasty face.

“D’you smell a new stink?” asked Charles of the company at large. “Can it be a polecat has got in with us?”

Mackintosh and his friends roared, while Forster colored. He walked over to Charles and said nervously, “I heard you were in her-re, Radcliffe. I wanted to see ye.”

“Well, you’ve seen me then,” said Charles. “Now go back to the Keeper’s lodging or whatever fine berth they’ve given you. Special guest of Newgate
you
are, my fine General!”

“Only suited to me rank,” said Tom defensively. “Mr. Pitts treats me as a man o’ rank, but that don’t prevent--” He swallowed. “M’trial’s coming up Saturday.” His little piggy eyes grew round with fear, his pudgy hand crept inside his waistcoat and seemed to be fingering something hidden there.

“ ‘Tis true,” said Errington. “He’s to be tried the first of us, and isn’t likely to get off.”

“ ‘And so another one’ll dance on Tyburn Tree, Tyburn Tree, Tyburn Tree,’“ sang the highwayman suddenly. “ ‘Wi’ a rope around his neck from Tyburn Tree . . . ‘Tis where all good rogues end!’“

Forster shuddered, and leaned nearer Charles. “I don’t know what to plead,” he said. “What’ll I plead in arrest o’ judgment?”

“Why, damn you,” said Charles. “Plead your belly, man! Plenty’ve got off that had not so large an excuse!”

Everyone except Oxburgh exploded into shouts of laughter. Old Mackintosh thumped his mug on the table in an ecstasy.

Forster stood silent. His mouth twitched, and then his right eyelid. “You all hate me,” he said. “ Tisn’t fair. I couldna help what happened at Preston.”

Mackintosh pushed over a bench and, jumping to his feet, shook a fist under Tom’s nose. “Don’t ye dare speak o’ Preston, ye bluidy dastard!” he shouted. Tom stepped back hastily.

“Oh, leave him be!” said Charles, his own anger fading. “It seems he’ll pay for Preston like the rest of us.” And if so, Charles added to himself, it would prove that there was no actual treachery involved in Tom’s surrender -- only cowardice and stupidity.

“Will ye not let bygones be bygones, Charles?” Tom said, with some dignity. “Dorothy’s here in London. She wanted me t’ask you that?”

“Dorothy?” Charles echoed in surprise. “Your sister, Dorothy? Ah -- she’s a loyal lass. I might’ve known she’d be here. Give her my love. Oh, sit down Tom. Have a drink!”

Forster nodded, and sat on the bench. Mackintosh and the Scots at once got up and moved to the far side of the room. Charles ordered a gin for Forster, who scarcely touched it. He seemed very nervous, and found nothing else to say. Ever and again he put his hand in his waistcoat, then snatched it out guiltily. Charles was a trifle puzzled but assumed that the imminence of trial would explain any strange behavior in a Tom Forster.

Just as the warder bawled out “Time, men! Time! Back to your cells!” Forster glanced at his silver watch and lumbered to his feet. “I must be off. Mr. Pitts is to have a night-cap wi’ me in m’room.” He looked at Charles as though he wished to add something else. His little eyes held a strange expression -- of sorrow, of apology, of pleading. But all he said was “Farewell” and Charles noted that his voice was unsteady, though not from drink.

“Oh, no doubt we’ll meet again,” said Charles kindly enough. “There’re some days yet before your trial.” And tomorrow, Charles thought, Betty’s coming! He went back to his cell, and after Muggles had turned the key, he indulged his excited thoughts, picturing Betty in his arms, her lips opening again under his, the smooth firm warmth of her body.

But Betty did not come on the morrow, because by morning Tom Forster had escaped from Newgate; Mr. Pitts, the Keeper, had been arrested; and the prison was barred, bolted, and guarded so that scarce a mouse could have slipped in.

It was thus for a week, during which time Charles was kept locked in his cell, as they all were. He did not see Alec. He saw nobody but Muggles, who was so frightened that even bribery could not move him to give any information. Then some of the precautions were relaxed. Charles was allowed the freedom of the Press Yard for exercise again, and he soon heard what had happened.

Someone had smuggled a duplicate key in to Forster. And of course it was this hidden key which Forster had been so nervously fingering on the night of his escape. Forster had put on his nightgown as though ready for bed. Then while he and Pitts were drinking in Forster’s room, Forster had suddenly expressed urgent need for the latrine. Pitts had continued to drink and wait, while Tom locked him in with the duplicate key, then threw off his nightgown and fully dressed beneath, scurried down the back stairs to the outer door, which the same duplicate key unlocked. The Keeper’s lodging opened onto the street. Tom had got off scot-free and, they said, was in France by now.

“And you know who Forster had to thank for
that
plan!” said Charles to Errington. “So simple and so ingenious. Who but Dorothy?
She
had the brains for it!”

“Aye,” said Errington gloomily. “Though I warrant there was connivance too! Why’d the Government arrest Pitts, then release him? Why was there no warder outside the door? It may be Lord Crewe’s money was more help than Miss Dorothy! It may be that the Crown didn’t want to see another Protestant in the dock -- which’ll not help
us!”

Charles was silent. His first flush of elation that any of them had escaped -- even Forster -- soon died. The fate of those left behind at Newgate was worse than ever for a while, and though Alec was presently allowed to come, and gave him news of Betty, no chance visitors were permitted in the criminals’ side of the prison. Particularly after there was another escape, on May 4 -- just before Charles’s trial.

Mackintosh engineered this one by cunning and brute strength. The old soldier bided his time, and each day when they were walking in the Press Yard watched for opportunities. He confided in nobody except his own Scots, yet some of the Irishmen got wind of the plan. Wogan was for including Charles, but Mackintosh forbade it. Essentially he trusted no Englishman, and Charles -- rash, impetuous, and a Radcliffe, against whom the Crown had special animosity -- would be a danger to them all. So it happened that Charles was not even in the Press Yard when the moment came. He had gone to see Jem Swinburne, who had plunged into another violent state and was chained in his cell.

Mackintosh waited until one afternoon when all visitors had left, and the warder on duty was a particularly small man and the sentinels were changing guard. Then he gave his wild Highland war cry, and fourteen men obeyed him in a desperate rush. Before the other prisoners understood what was happening, Mackintosh’s clan had knocked out the warder, overpowered the other guards, and unbolting the gates, fled into the street. By the time the other warders came running, and the hue and cry started, Mackintosh, the Scots, and Wogan had got clear away, hiding in the rabbit warren of alleys and skulking-holes which surrounded the prison, and protected, no doubt, by Jacobite sympathizers. But eight of the fugitives were recaptured, hauled back to Newgate one by one, fettered, and thrown into the Condemned Hold. Mr. Pitts was censured for his laxness, the prison was closed up again to outsiders, and Charles chafed mightily.

On May 7, Charles and the remaining Jacobites were taken in closed coaches under heavy guard and arraigned at the Exchequer Bar for High Treason. Charles contemptuously pleaded “Not Guilty,” and added a few insolent remarks of his own, as to the “person who is quite wrongly in possession of the British Crown for the nonce.” He was returned to his cell in Newgate to await sentence on May 18. Before that, at midnight on Monday eve, Charles heard the jangling of the execution handbell and heard too the bellman’s whining dirge:

“All ye that in the condemned hold do lie
Prepare ye for tomorrow ye shall die. . . .”

Next morning the great death bell tolled from St. Sepulchre’s and continued tolling while the execution cart rumbled west to Tyburn, where the prisoners were hanged. Colonel Oxburgh was among these prisoners, as were the elegant highwayman and the two robbers. Oxburgh, first of the Newgate Jacobites to be executed, was hanged and drawn and quartered, a medieval refinement inflicted only in cases of High Treason. He was cut down before he was dead, his bowels were burned before his eyes, his limbs were dismembered, and his head at last was impaled on Temple Bar. Much of London thronged to this show, and enjoyed it immensely. Charles, in his cell, first prayed for Oxburgh’s soul, then got very drunk on brandy sent in by Alec.

On the Friday following, Charles was once more conveyed to Westminster Hall. As the coach passed through Temple Bar, he saw Oxburgh’s head stuck up there -- decaying but still recognizable.

Charles’s stomach churned, bitter fluid rose in his mouth. He turned to Thomas Errington, who was wedged next him in the coach. “I trust
my
pate will make a prettier sight,” he said. “I’d hate to offend the ladies at my finish.”

“How can you be so heartless,” said Errington, covering his eyes with his hand. “When will they allow us a priest! Oh, Blessed Virgin, they
must
permit us a confessor!”

Charles was silent, uncertain whether they would or not. Then he began to speak very fast, pointing out that it was a fine sunny May day, that new buildings had sprung up along the Strand, that the girl by the coffeehouse had a neat waist and good upstanding bosom. He interrupted himself when their coach suddenly drew over to the curb and stopped. “What’s this?” he said to the Newgate guard who sat opposite. The guard peered out.

“Why, ‘tis His Majesty the King a-coming,” the guard said reverently and took off his hat. Charles did not uncover. In his mourning suit and his black cocked hat he sat rigid, while the guards and the heralds and the outriders went by. Then came King George’s two famous Turkish servants, Mohamet and Mustapha. They wore turbans and long skirts and carried scimitars. At last Charles saw the crowned coach, and heard the bystanders all huzzahing. The royal coach passed within two feet of them, and King George looked directly at Charles, who stared back, seeing the fleshy purple-veined face set above a thick neck and squat shoulders, the pop-eyes which gazed in astonishment at the defiant hatted young man. The King said something to the woman who towered beside him. Charles could hear a guttural German question. The woman, who was the King’s “Maypole” mistress, the Schulenberg, must have explained who was in the prisoners’ coach, for the muddy prominent eyes turned again on Charles with an expression of bland malignancy. The royal coach passed on towards the City.

“So
that,”
said Charles, “that vulgar swollen German hog is what is called a king.
That’s
what murdered my brother!”

“Mind your speech, sir!” cried the guard angrily. “Or ye’ll rue it!”

“Bah!” said Charles. “The rue
I
feel is quite beyond
your
ken!”

And this, as it was later reported by all the news-sheets, was Charles Radcliffe’s attitude throughout his extremely brief trial. It was in this spirit of mockery and impenitence that he watched the usher turn the sharp edge of the axe towards him, and that he received his sentence of death -- by hanging, drawing, and quartering for High Treason. It was said that he even laughed in the judge’s face.

Betty Lee heard of Charles’s sentence from her husband the next morning at breakfast. “A foregone conclusion, of course, my dear,” said Frank, motioning to the footman to pour him another cup of chocolate. “And they’ll execute this final batch of traitors at once, I understand. Get through with it.”

Beneath the table Betty twisted her hands in the folds of her skirt. She fixed her blind gaze on a silver dish full of mutton chops, and waited until the giddiness passed and she could control her voice.

“So
many
have been executed already,” she said at last.

“To be sure.” Frank speared himself a chop. “And too many have escaped. It’s shocking. I can tell you Walpole is gravely concerned about it. Our prison system is rotten, corrupt to the core. Why, at my coffeehouse Wednesday I was chatting with a Virginia planter named William Byrd -- quite a gentleman by the bye, for all he’s a Colonial -- and Mr. Byrd said . . .”

Betty did not hear what Mr. Byrd had said. She was desperately trying to think. The only hope was reprieve. Others under sentence of death had been reprieved several times. Like Lord Widdrington and Lord Carnwath, and Lord Winton. They were still in the Tower, but the first two would eventually be pardoned, everyone was sure of it. Not the Earl of Winton, though, for he had pleaded “Not Guilty.” As had Charles! Oh, the imbecile. The stubborn, reckless fool! Through Alec she had warned him, she had begged him to be humble at his trial, to admit his guilt, and throw himself on the mercy of the Crown, who might then be satisfied with having killed his brother.

“What ails you, my dear?” said Frank, wiping his mouth and staring at her across the table. “You look very pale. And thin, it seems to me. Why don’t you eat your breakfast?”

“I can’t,” she said. “Not hungry . . .” For a moment she had a violent desire to tell Frank everything, at least to ask him the best way to go about getting Charles reprieved. Frank would know, he had much influence -- if she could persuade him -- but before she gave way to the impulse, she saw his blue eyes harden, and coldness come into them. It was the look he gave an untrustworthy servant, or their little son when caught in a lie.

“Is it possible,” said Frank slowly, “that you still have an undue interest in Charles Radcliffe? Because if so, I feel the sooner that dissolute traitor is out of this world the better -- for your own peace of mind.”

Betty stiffened, and terror gave her strength. “What a monstrous suggestion!” she cried. “What interest could I have in Mr. Radcliffe! After the way he used me! After the terrible things he’s done! Frank, you know better than that!”

Her husband continued to eye her steadily. “I’m glad to hear you say so. But you’ve been a trifle distraught of late. It has occurred to me that you show strange discomposure when the rebels are mentioned.”