Devil Water (34 page)

She put her hand on Betty’s shoulder. “But vat can I
do,
Lady Elizabeth? The King vill not listen to me.”

“But His Royal Highness
will!”
cried Betty. “Oh dear madam, everyone knows how much influence you have with the Prince!”

Caroline raised her eyebrows and smiled. “Perhaps--” she said. “But there is no hope of pardon, you know that? Especially for
this
young man who vas an English ringleader and is a Catholic Stuart too.”

“Reprieve,” said Betty faintly, her mouth twisting. “If we could have time -- until --”

“Until?” repeated the Princess frowning. “I do not vish to know vat you mean by that, Lady Elizabeth. I vish to hear nothing more about this matter. It is forgotten.”

“Forgotten!” Betty cried in a panic. “Then I’ve failed. Oh madam, you mean I’ve failed?”

The Princess rose, pulled her nightrobe around her, extended a hand, and raised Betty from her knees. “No, you haff
not
failed,” she said quietly.

NINE

During the next weeks several of the Jacobites in Newgate, including Richard Gascoigne and Jack Hall of Otterburn, were hanged, drawn, and quartered. At each official summons to execution, Charles expected to be chained and thrown in the Condemned Hold with the others. Each time his name was not on the list. Muggles was loud and somewhat admiring in his wonder. “Saving ye fer dessert -- that’s wot they’re a-doing, sir! I never thought ye’d be ‘ere this long, stroike me dead if I did!”

Charles said that he heartily wished something
would
strike Muggles dead, and himself too, for this damned strain was getting intolerable.

The turnkey took this as a pleasantry. He was getting rather fond of Charles, who still tipped him well, and he said, “Don’t ye be getting nervy now, wile there’s life there’s ‘ope, I alius say, an’ wot you need is to see that ‘sister’ o’ yours agen -- ‘andsome figger of a trollop she was!”

Charles flung around in his cell, poured some claret, and did not answer. Muggles touched on a very sore point. Betty had still not been to see him. Some weeks ago, right after his death sentence, she had sent a strange little note by Alec, written in a disguised hand. It said, “My darling, you will be reprieved. Count on it. More of this when I can come. Dear God, let that be soon.”

But she hadn’t come. Alec said that she had left London, had been summoned to the sickbed of her father, the Earl of Lichfield. That the whole Lee household had left George Street, except the under-servants. And Charles -- uncertain what was really going on, ceaselessly brooding and magnifying trifles -- felt betrayed and deserted. It might be that Betty had helped him, at least he was still alive, though that might also be chance, since a few other condemned Jacobites had not been summoned. Tom Errington was of those spared so far, and one afternoon in August he met Charles in the dungeon called the “Castle,” the only common room where the condemned men were occasionally permitted. They no longer had the freedom of the Press Yard. “Did you see this?” asked Tom,

shoving an old dirty news-sheet at Charles. “The Earl of Winton’s got out of the Tower!”

“What!” cried Charles gaping. “But I thought he was beheaded! “Tis past the date for it!”

“Well, look,” said Errington. Charles, in the dim guttering candlelight, peered at several lines of print. It appeared that on August 4, George Seton, Earl of Winton, had contrived to saw through his iron window bars with a watch spring, being of a mechanical turn of mind and having pursued low trades like blacksmithing in his youth. Under cover of night he had somehow crept down the walls and swum the moat. Nor had he yet been recaptured.

“Ah-h-h,” said Charles on a long breath. The two men stared at each other silently. Charles looked around the dungeon, as he had many times. The stone walls were three feet thick, there were no windows, no ventilation but the fireplace (which was barred at the chimney breast), and a little grilled hole in the wall which gave onto the passage. A turnkey stood always inside the door, which was locked and bolted. Another turnkey was outside in the passage. Between here and the cells were many barred doors, with warders stationed at each of them.

“No use,” agreed Errington in a whisper, having followed Charles’s thoughts. “Nor in our cells.”

Charles tightened his lips and gave a discouraged grunt. Well he knew, from repeated investigation, how escape-proof Newgate cells were. If one did manage to saw the window bars nothing was gained, since no head could force through the five-inch-wide slit. As for the chimney in his cell, it was not only barred, but was too small to admit the tiniest of chimney sweeps.

“If they’d let us in the Press Yard again,” muttered Charles.

“They won’t. Not after Mackintosh broke out.”

“There’d be only one way then,” said Charles. He put his hand in his pocket and jingled the few shillings that were there.

“ ‘Twould take a fearful lot,” said Errington sighing. “And even then ‘twouldn’t work now. Pitts is scared, and the turnkeys too, they’d not risk it. Anyway I’ve not
got
it.”

“Nor I,” said Charles scowling. Ann’s hundred guineas, had been faithfully brought by Alec in driblets, since it would naturally be dangerous for any large amount to be kept here. The guineas were almost gone. Five months of food, drink, and tips, besides provision for Alec outside, had absorbed them. “I’ll have to write Ann again,” said Charles. “She can’t mean me to rot here on bread and water -- or is she waiting for Tyburn Tree to save her the trouble!”

“That’s unfair,” said Tom in his judicial way. “Her ladyship would send to you if she could. She has nothing but what her parents can give her, and
they
are much embarrassed now.”

“I know,” said Charles. And besides, Ann had borne her posthumous child -- a girl -- in May and was still quite ill. Charles rose abruptly and walked to the corner latrine. When he came back he sat down again on the bench beside Tom. “Did you know there’s a small iron door, over there?” he asked in an excited whisper. “Hidden in the angle behind the privy. I felt it, though it’s too dark to see. Where could it lead?”

Tom frowned in concentration. “Can it be the women’s prison? Yet, no, I think not. That’s further back beyond the Press Yard. This ‘Castle’ we’re in is the oldest part, though I don’t know what it adjoins.”

“Uh-m,” said Charles thoughtfully. “Move that candle to the edge of the table. Pretend to read. I must have more light in there.” Tom obeyed. Charles started back towards the latrine. The turnkey called out sharply, “What ails ye, sir? Got the gripes? For sure it can’t be the gleet, since ye’ve ‘ad no chance to pox yourself in many a month!”

This sally was greeted with laughter by the other prisoners, two well-dressed rogues who had been conferring in hoarse whispers.

Charles shrugged and grinned. “You’re quite a wit, warder,” he said. “But d’you wonder a man should leak a bit after this foul drink you sell us?” And he retreated again to the niche.

The turnkey, whose name was Black, dubiously watched him go. He had been warned to keep a sharp eye on Mr. Radcliffe, who was by far the most important of the state prisoners. A big swaggering young fellow he was too, tricky no doubt, and should be in leg irons, no matter his rank or pocketbook. Black was one of the new turnkeys, hired over Mr. Pitts’s head as a result of the escape scandals. He was eager to succeed at his job, ambitious to be Keeper himself someday, likely as not.

Charles came back and joined Errington, though as Black was obviously listening he said nothing until the turnkey was called to the door. Then Charles muttered, “It’s no good, of course. I could see a little. The door’s all rusted into the wall, bolted fast, I can’t budge the bolts, locked too -- and I suppose from t’other side -- wherever that is.”

As Errington did nothing but nod glumly, Charles got up again and walked over to the two ordinary prisoners. They looked up from their beer mugs in surprise. The short pock-marked one -- scarcely more than a youth -- quirked a sandy eyebrow at Charles. The older man, who was known as “Blueskin,” either from the denseness of his ill-shaven black beard or the tattooed anchors on his arms, said, “Damme, if ‘ere’s not one o’ the Jacks deigning to notice us common prigs!”

“Aye,” said Charles pleasantly, sitting down. “Why not? We’re all in the same boat.”

“Not
us,
mate!” said Blueskin tossing his greasy head. “We’ll be up at Old Bailey soon, then out o’ ‘ere, afore ye can sye ‘gammon.’ “

“How so?” asked Charles, fingering his remaining shillings and deciding to sacrifice one. “Have another beer?”

The offer accepted, and good will being thus engendered, Charles presently learned several facts about his companions. They were professional thieves, “gentlemen prigs,” as Blueskin asserted smugly. There wasn’t a house in London he couldn’t rifle, if he’d a mind to, said Blueskin, nor a watch, ring or snuffbox he couldn’t nab. This temporary inconvenience -- here Blueskin waved his dirty hand around the dungeon -- was the result of a little mishap. But they’d get off at their trial, no doubt of that. At very worst there might be a sentence of transportation to Virginia.

“How can you be so sure?” asked Charles enviously. Blueskin shrugged and winked and said it was a good thing to have a friend outside.

The turnkey, Black, listened to what he could of this conversation, though he was not interested in Blueskin’s boastings, which he knew to be true enough. These two prigs were of the gang run by Jonathan Wild, the “Thieftaker.” Wild would get them off, as he had so many. By bribery, false witness, and knowledge of loopholes in the law, Wild had built up an elaborate and lucrative machine. And yet he managed to present himself as the champion of the victimized public. Was a nobleman’s gold watch stolen? All that was needed was a plea to Jonathan Wild. Some days later the watch would be returned, and the Thieftaker rewarded for his good offices by a fee. Occasionally he produced a culprit to justify his title, but the victim, delighted to have his property back at small cost, seldom wished to prosecute. And if, as in the case of these two, any of Wild’s gang landed in jail, the subsequent trial was never in doubt. All of this was no business of Black’s. Nor could he see why Mr. Radcliffe should concern himself with members of the underworld. Black mulled it over and hovered near, but heard nothing suspicious. Charles uttered only encouraging grunts, while Blueskin told of his exploits. It was not until the turnkey had wandered to the beer keg to get himself a draught, that Charles casually brought out the question he had come over to ask.

“That wall,” he said, indicating the direction with his eyes, “would you know what’s on the other side? I take it you gentlemen are well acquainted with Newgate.”

“S’truth, mate,” agreed Blueskin. “I been in an’ out o’ the old Whit sence I was a tot. That’ll be the debtors’ prison, t’other side the wall. Me uncle was in there oncet.”

“Oh,” said Charles. “The debtors aren’t locked up as we are, are they?”

“Naw,” said Blueskin. “Lotta coming an’ going. Family and friends can visit any time. Like to change over, you sly young cat’s meat, eh?” Blueskin slapped Charles’s thigh, and chuckled.

“I would,” said Charles, and after a few more remarks he left the two alone.

From then on he thought a great deal about the little door. It prevented him from wondering, each time Muggles entered his cell, whether Pitts was surely behind with the summons to execution. It prevented him from brooding over Betty’s defection, and the whereabouts of Jenny. It almost prevented him from worrying over the state of his finances. But as Alec, who came every other day to shave him and bring him food, grew each time longer-faced and gloomier, Charles could not long ignore his poverty. They had already pawned Charles’s gold watch and silver snuffbox. Yet Charles was still in arrears to Mr. Pitts for payment of his private cell, and Muggles, untipped for a week, was growing surly.

One morning, Alec came in even more frowning and anxious. His woolen suit was shabby, his stockings darned, his dark brown hair tied back with tape. He put a basket of withered peaches on the table. “Got ‘em off a barrow in Covent Garden, sir,” he said shaking his head. “ ‘Twas all I’d pence for. I’ve been to Mr. Rodbourne, and he won’t advance anything. Says the Crown’s impounded all the estates, and if they
hadn’t,
each shilling must be saved for his young lordship -- and there’s the entail.”

Charles frowned. It was natural that Ann and the Webbs should fight for her children’s security, that all their concentration should be on the future of little John, now the titular fourth Earl of Derwentwater. Yet did they realize what the lack of cash would reduce Charles to? Leg irons, a handful of straw in a dungeon with some twenty vicious and diseased criminals, a crust of moldy bread from time to time, no drink except a dipperful of tainted slimy water.

Yes, they must realize this, since he had written it to them, but Charles guessed they had given him up for dead anyway. And that no pain this thought could cause them would be important after the pain of James’s death.

“Ye must write to Lady Mary Radcliffe, sir,” said Alec sighing. “ Tis the only hope. Mr. Rodbourne says he thinks she still has funds despite they’re stripping all the Catholics.”

“No use,” said Charles. “That old bitch ever hated me.”

“But you’re her nephew, sir,” Alex coaxed. “Her ladyship is strong for family ties. Pray, try it. I saved enough pennies for the post.”

“Oh Alec,” said Charles faintly, “you’re the only friend I’ve got. I dare not ask how
you
are subsisting now that I’ve failed to provide for you.”

“Never fear for me, sir,” said Alec with the ghost of his old jaunty grin. “Matter o’ fact, I’ve bedded in at Wapping wi’ Rob Wilson-- the lad from Northumberland. He’s got a job unloading coal at the docks, and has got me one. ‘Twill bring in a few shillings.”

Charles was stricken by this new proof of Alec’s loyalty. He thought of the old carefree days in London, when Alec dressed in dark satin suits, wore a tie-wig and discreetly laced hat, and was the perfect “gentleman’s gentleman”; when his hands were as white, his manner as debonair, and his amusements as sophisticated as his master’s.