Devil Water (81 page)

“Tell us, Mr. Bunting,” said the Attorney-General smiling, “how can you be so sure?”

“By that scar on his cheek -- aye, leuk har-rd masters, an’ ye’ll see it plain! I can from her-re! I mind the verra day he come back to Dilston wi’ the wound, arter some scrimmage he’d been in.”

Again the ripple through the courtroom was shushed. Mr. Ford leaped up and protested that anyone might have a scar, that this wasn’t evidence. Lord Hardwicke ruled that it was.

There was a pause, a consultation, then another stir and craning of necks as General Adam Williamson, Deputy Lieutenant-Governor of the Tower, was called up as a witness.

Williamson did not glance towards Charles, who stared at him with fury, yet not much apprehension, so fast had all this gone, and so obviously flimsy was the evidence.

After taking his oath, Williamson testified in a soft regretful voice, giving the impression that this was to him a painful duty. “The unfortunate prisoner,” he said sighing, “after some glasses of wine on October ninth the last, boasted to me of how he had escaped from Newgate prison, and when I addressed him as Charles Radcliffe he answered to the name. That is all, my lord.”

“And quite sufficient, General Williamson!” said the Earl of Hardwicke with a thin triumphant smile. “We have now established --”

“Stop!” Charles cried wildly, staring forward. “Why should you take this man’s word? Has he a witness to what he alleges? And what value is an oath to a man who himself has told me he believes in neither God nor devil!”

“Mr. Radcliffe,” said the Lord Chief Justice, “your insolence has tried my patience severely. If you persist in these outbursts, I shall have to put you under restraint.”

“I’m
not
Mr. Radcliffe,” Charles cried. “I’m the Count of Derwent!”

Again there was a stir throughout the crowded courtroom -- a stir of sympathy, Hardwicke knew. The justice near him, Mr. Foster, had even made a deprecating sound, as though he disapproved the proceedings.

“Prisoner,” said Hardwicke leaning forward, “Papist or not, you certainly represent yourself as a Christian. Will you tell the court something?”

Charles signified assent.

“Will you put your hand on this Bible, and swear by Almighty God and the future disposition of your own soul that you are not and never were Charles Radcliffe?”

Hardwicke waited in considerable anxiety during the startled hush which followed, knowing that if the prisoner
did
so swear, there was every chance he would get off, since the proofs against him were dubious.

Charles was silent. Dear Lord Jesus Christ, sustain me, he thought, for Thou knowest I
am
the man. He put his hand to his forehead in a groping way, then he lifted his chin high, squared his shoulders, and walked slowly back to his seat. Mr. Ford gripped Charles’s arm hard for a moment. “You’re a brave man, an honest gentleman,” he murmured. “But I fear we’re lost now.”

The Lord Chief Justice’s direction to the jury was so plain that even the scavenger understood it. They returned in ten minutes with their verdict. Then Mr. Justice Foster made an attempt to save the prisoner, he invoked the Act of Pardon which had been passed in 1717, by which all the condemned rebels in the ‘Fifteen were released. Why should not Mr. Radcliffe profit by that too?

Hardwicke definitely, and with annoyance, said that this prisoner could not so profit, since he had already escaped and was in France when the Act was passed.

“It is therefore, Mr. Radcliffe,” said Hardwicke hurriedly forestalling more interruptions, “incumbent upon me to pronounce the original sentence of death for High Treason, which was passed on you May 18, 1716. ‘That you, Charles Radcliffe, return to the prison from which you came, from thence you must be drawn to the place of execution; when you come there you must be hanged by the neck, but not till you are dead, for you must be cut down alive, then your bowels must be taken out and burned before your face, and your body divided into four quarters, and these must be at the King’s disposal.’ And God have mercy on your soul.”

Charles did not move. It was his lawyers who were affected, and Ford got up to plead brokenly, “My lord, this is the harshest of the commoners’ sentences. My client has noble blood, can we not commute some part of -- ”

“The prisoner is not a peer,” Hardwicke snapped. “And by his treasonable actions he has twice put the Government to a great deal of expense and annoyance. The execution will take place this day fortnight on December eighth.” He turned to Williamson, who stood near the courtroom door. “Lieutenant of the Tower, take the prisoner from the bar!”

Since noon on that day, Jenny had been waiting for Alec to come with news. Every half hour she slipped out to the market square and looked for him. The singing birds twittered in their cages, housewives, stewards, and innkeepers haggled for vegetables as usual, but there was never a sign of Alec.

At five Mrs. Potts sought her out, and for the first time broke the rule she had made and which Jenny had never transgressed. Anyone who took in a morning paper as the Pottses did, would have known that the Radcliffe trial had taken place today; Mrs. Potts knew, and despite her stern endeavors, she discovered that she shared some of Jenny’s anxiety about the outcome. “M’lass,” she said to Jenny, “I knaw weel, why ye’ve been running to the square. Ye’ve heard naught?”

Jenny, flushing, shook her head.

“Ye may run out agyen,” said Mrs. Potts, “arter ye serve some new customers. Quality they are, and they want ye to sing ‘Cease Your Funning’ fur them.”

“I’ll do so, ma’am. Thank you,” said Jenny faintly.

She found the customers at the best table in the taproom -- three elegant beaux in satins, periwigs, and ruffles, all taking delicate pinches of snuff from a gold filigree snuffbox they were passing around.

“Ecod, ‘tis a comely wench,” said the smallest and oldest of the three, surveying Jenny as she dropped a curtsey. “I’ll wager she knows better sports than
singing!”
And he ran his hand down her neck onto the top of her breasts.

Jenny eluded him with practiced ease, and said coldly, “What will you drink, gentlemen?”

They ordered various complicated and remunerative drinks, a sherry-flip, porter cup, rum booze, which took Potts and his drawer some time to prepare. When Jenny started back bearing the tray, Bella Potts came along behind her to inquire from these lavish customers if all was to their liking. Both women paused instinctively at the door as they heard the small man cry with relish, “So that’s the end of the jape that Radcliffe tried to foist upon us!”

The other two leaned forward, questioning.

“You haven’t heard then?” said the small man. “Radcliffe was condemned again today. It’ll be a special fine hanging, what with the drawing and the quartering. You don’t get many of those now!”

“I’ve never seen one myself,” said the youngest man. “Have you, sir?”

The small elderly gentleman smiled. “To be sure. It gives you an exquisite thrill that one doesn’t get from bear-baiting or an ordinary hanging -- they choke the fellow just a little, then they slit his belly most carefully, it’s an art to keep them alive as long as possible, then they draw out yards and yards of those blue guts to burn, and they start lopping off a leg here, an arm there -- what the devil!” he cried jumping and turning around.

Jenny’s tray had clattered to the floor, which ran with different shades of liquor amid a welter of jugs and broken glass. Jenny herself was clinging to the doorpost, her face white as the plaster wall.

“Go to your room, lass,” said Mrs. Potts quietly. To the customers she said, “My apologies, kind sirs, the wench slipped. We’ll soon fetch ye a new round.” She stooped to pick up the broken glass; the drawer came running with a mop.

In a few minutes, Bella Potts mounted to Jenny’s room and found her lying on the cot in the darkness and panting as though she had been running miles. The landlady had brought a candle and she set it on the chest. “Sit up, my dear,” she said briskly. “Here’s some hartshorn to drink. ‘Twill calm ye better’n any o’ the stuff Potts sells.”

Jenny’s unwinking, dilated eyes remained fixed on the ceiling beams.

“Did you hear?” she panted. “Oh, my God, ma’am, did you
hear!”

“I did,” said Mrs. Potts. “And if it is any comfort to ye, that’s precisely how m’first husband died. Come now, drink this!” She pulled Jenny up and forced her to drink.

Jenny choked down the fuming hartshorn and water, gasped, and buried her face in her hands. “I can’t stand it,” she whispered. “Can’t stand it . . .”

“Oh, aye, but ye can, lass. ‘Tis wondrous what a body can thole. Forbye, I’m a-thinking the time’s come for ye to help him.”

“How?” cried Jenny raising her head. “How can I?”

Mrs. Potts hesitated. Though she had said nothing to Jenny, nor even wished to think of it herself, she was as avid a reader of the news-sheet as her husband, and she had foreseen this tragic outcome. Moreover, she was shrewd and knowledgeable -- a successful innkeeper must be -- and she had kept her ears open.

“I divven’t mean to raise your hopes,” she said at last. “And there’s none at all to get your faither free, why should there be? He’s guilty o’ treason. But I divven’t think it reet for him to suffer quite so cruel. Ye might go to the Earl o’ Chesterfield. He’s in power now and from what I hear he
might
use influence for mercy.”

“Oh ma’am -- oh dear Mrs. Potts!” Jenny cried, transported by a wild hope. “Do you think Father can yet be saved, kept in the Tower until there’s another Act of Pardon, as maybe there will be?”

Mrs. Potts did not think so, yet she gave Jenny an encouraging maternal smile. “Ye can try,” she said.

TWENTY-ONE

The following morning, Mrs. Potts finally met Alec, who came to the kitchen door sadly inquiring for Jenny. Potts had gone off to Smithfield to buy meat for the inn, and his wife, having committed herself to Radcliffes once more, was not a woman for half measures. So she welcomed Alec, fetched Jenny, and took them both into the private parlor.

Alec had aged very much during the sleepless night. His eyes were sunken, his hands trembled. When he saw Jenny, he broke down and choked into his handkerchief. “I feared it --I told ye, madam, I feared this in Virginia -- yet I didna believe it -- an’ o’ late there seemed to be such hopes!”

“How is he tak’ing it?” asked Bella Potts in her matter-of-fact way.

“I don’t know! That blackguard Williamson, God blast him, he’s moved his lordship to the Byward tower, to an upper dungeon where he put Lord Balmerino, an’ they won’t let me in again. Holy Blessed Mother, that there should be no one nigh him, for him to face alone what’s coming -- the degradation and the agony -- Tyburn and the tortures. Sweet Christ, they’re treating him worse than the basest murderer what ever slunk outa the brothels o’ Dockside!”

“Aye,” said Mrs. Potts quietly. “Matters do seem bad. There may be a way t’ r-rectify them a bit.”

She picked up her knitting, and explained to Alec the plan she had conceived. He listened dully at first. He knew nothing of the great London lords any more; he had never heard of Chesterfield. The mighty noblemen who had tried to save James, Earl of Derwentwater, they were dead. Lady Betty, the Earl of Lichfield, and Queen Caroline, who had actually saved Charles thirty years ago -- they were dead too. Yet Alec had seen enough of the world to know that influence was the only hope left, and as he listened to Mrs. Potts, his grief-numbed wits began to clear, and he grasped the points which she was making.

The Earl of Chesterfield after a long career of diplomacy had recently returned from a brilliant administration in Ireland as Lord-Lieutenant. There he had made himself beloved, even by the Catholics, whom he treated with extraordinary leniency. During the Rebellion he had not even closed their churches, as had been done in the ‘15. Chesterfield was a man famous for his wit, his moderation and urbanity. He was a dedicated aristocrat, believer in the privileges and superiority of birth. And he had the reputation of a gallant. A lovely face would not cozzen him, though it might certainly facilitate a hearing. Chesterfield had been out of favor with the King, but was in high favor now. On October 28 he had been appointed Secretary of State for the Northern counties, while the Duke of Newcastle administered the Southern ones.

He was therefore, said Mrs. Potts, along with the Duke of Newcastle, the most powerful minister in the country at present.

“Why, then,” asked Alec slowly, “wouldn’t Miss Jenny try appealing to the
Duke,
which is what his lordship’s kept doing?”

“Because,” said Bella Potts briskly, “the Duke is a timid shillyshally fusspot. They call him ‘hubble-bubble’ behind his back -- an’ he niver did aught to help Mr. Radcliffe, did he?”

Alec shook his head. “Not to speak of. I see you’re right, ma’am, and I know a deal about the means needed to approach a great lordship. It’ll take money.”

“I have some,” said Jenny, who had been following all this intently. “I’ve not spent a penny of my wages. Though surely you don’t mean Lord Chesterfield could be bribed!”

“Not by any pound or so
you’ve
saved, lass!” said Mrs. Potts with a faint smile. “What’s the money for, Mr. Armstrong?”

“She must be dressed proper, like a ladyship,” said Alec. “She must be carried in a chair, wi’ me alongside as her steward. She must have several guineas for fees to the porter and footman, or she’ll never pass the front door.”

“Aye,” Mrs. Potts nodded in complete agreement. She had respected Alec on sight, aside from her own natural predisposition towards a fellow Northumbrian. “I’ve a guinea or two put by,” she added and forestalled gratitude by snapping, “No more palavering, we s’ould all get to wark.”

It was Thursday morning before Jenny started out for Lord Chesterfield’s mansion in Grosvenor Square, since it had been impossible to get ready sooner. First there were the clothes to be hired from a mantua-maker who specialized in secret aid to needy peeresses. The gown was of sapphire taffeta and had a Watteau panel in back, all embroidered with golden vines. The lemon satin petticoat was brocaded, the wide hoops were enormous, as was now fashionable in London. This elegant gown, when tried on in Jenny’s room, needed letting out. “I
am
getting fat,” said Jenny frowning, as she stood in her shift and Mrs. Potts deftly began to rip the bodice seams open.