Bedlam (22 page)

But that wasn’t the half of it. Once I’d regained sufficient control of myself to extend my attention beyond the poor bare stinking weave of Phippard’s blanket-gown, the first thing I noticed was Urbane Metcalfe. Metcalfe is an obstreperous little complaining lunatic, a roaming pedlar who says he’s heir to the throne of Denmark, a delusion that could explain his chronic weakness for royal trespass, mentioned above. He was crossing toward the window, which stood wide open. Outside, a freezing rain cascaded down, and from Metcalfe’s ensuing pantomime I understood he could see a female patient standing drenched in the yard and was attempting to alert The Schoolmaster, so she might be brought in before she contracted pneumonia.

But The Schoolmaster being horn-locked in debate with Bill the King, Metcalfe’s exhortations were going unheeded. Nothing short of plucking The Schoolmaster by the sleeve (something even Urbane Metcalfe would hesitate to do) was likely to draw his attention, and I begun to fear Metcalfe, who has a stiff importunate beard and the penetrating black eyes of a water-rat, would come after me to do something, for those eyes had taken note of where I was. But just when Metcalfe seemed ready to make
enough commotion to get himself thrown in chains for a month, the mysterious third man broke from Bill and The Schoolmaster and walked over to the window to see what Metcalfe wanted. And that was how, to my utter amazement, I saw who it was, and this was none other than the individual who first overturned everything I ever believed in, my former tutor, mentor, lodestone, and friend, that sometime-noteworthy man of light and leading, the celebrated republican and revolutionary, David Williams.

First Bill the King in Tuke, now David Williams in the company of Bill the King. Has anybody during one brief crouch behind a lunatic experienced in such rapid succession two conjunctions so astounding?

Not only that. As soon as David Williams saw what Metcalfe wanted, he called out to Bill and The Schoolmaster to come and see. This was a reflex of his goodness. Him of course they immediately heard and went over. After that there was nothing to be done but The Schoolmaster must send Metcalfe to find the keeper Davies to bring her in. Except, the bustle of these arrangements impinging on Phippard’s nautical reflections to a degree my use of him as a human screen had not, he give a sudden start and shouted out, “Glory be to his Majesty’s Navy! May the blood of a thousand Frogs turn the Channel to ketchup!”

For Phippard this was a normal sort of thing to say, and The Schoolmaster and Bill the King never even bothered to look around, but David Williams did, and that’s how he come to see me. Only, then he looked away, and I was struck to the heart to think he’d pretend not to know me, until I considered I must be too altered by time and illness for immediate recognition, even by a former intimate. I appreciate my actions in both London and Paris had caused him no little embarrassment, but for all his faults
he was a bigger man than to cut me. And I was right. If his first impulse was to look away, he soon enough looked back, and when The Schoolmaster and Bill the King, still arguing, begun to move down the gallery, he broke from them and crossed the floor to me.

So it was in a wash of bliss I witnessed the approach of the dear, slight figure of my once beloved friend. But as he drew on, his wan features and grey, thinning hair and seedy coat caused me to ask if this could be the same firebrand I knew seventeen years ago, when we was shining-eyed young Turks together, knee-to-knee over tea in my parlour as he tutored me in the philosophy we so fervently believed would change the world. Was this the man who travelled to Paris in ’92 to help the Girondin faction frame a constitution worthy of the true republicans they were puffed up like turkey-cocks with calling themselves? Was this the man I followed there to learn first hand what he’d been teaching me, for those were desperate days: If France went down in chaos again, who could say English liberty would not go with her? Was this the man I followed because he was the first I ever knew to embrace the good of all humanity, who first taught me love and freedom in universal fraternity?

David Williams never trumpeted his egalitarian principles. Instead he was satisfied to argue with quiet lucidity that if humankind is ever to deliver itself from bloodshed, then every person must understand they have the same worth as the next and each a free and full say in the common good. Estimate another’s worth as greater than your own, and it follows that another’s is less. From inequality it’s a slippery slope to intolerance and from intolerance to resentment and resentment to oppression if you can and slaughter if you can’t, so why make that first mistake? Until this primary human principle has been understood, how can the future not be perfect mayhem?

This was the innocent philosophy of youth that flooded back as I stepped from behind my sailor to reach out trembling hands and feel once more the press of my sometime boon companion’s. Like Margaret’s and Jim’s, their touch put me in mind just how much sanity and goodness there yet exists beyond these walls. Like theirs, it turned me a sponge, and when his fingers squeezed mine, the water gushed from my eyes.

“Alas,
mon compère,”
he murmured, “that it should be in such a place we meet again.” As he spoke he meant to illustrate his regret with an eye-roll round the gallery, but it snagged on Phippard’s ecstatic swagging. From the grimace on Phippard’s face you knew it was a glorious day at sea, all blazing sun and salt spray.

“None, Mr. Williams,” I assured him, “join you in that emotion so ardent as myself. But even as I was busy serving my country, I was flung in here.”

“You made too-great demands on yourself, my friend. Superhuman demands.”

Did I?
a voice inside me retorted.
Was that the only error made, then, David?

Now more than our old philosophy came flooding back. All of a sudden it was February 11th, 1793. This was the day after we declared war on France in response to their starting the month by declaring war on us. In my own carriage I had driven David Williams, fresh back from Paris, to meet the British foreign secretary, Lord Grenville, at an interview I’d personally arranged. The plan was Williams would deliver a letter and oral message from Grenville’s French counterpart, Lebrun. The letter was Lebrun’s sincere apology for the French declaration of war and a moving plea for peace. Considering war had only just been declared, this was an extraordinary thing for a foreign minister to do. When
Williams explained to Grenville’s under-secretary, Mr. Aust, that the purpose of our visit was nothing less than a French overture for peace, Aust looked at him in wordless astonishment.

“The French government,” Williams repeated into the silence, “is prepared to make great sacrifices to preserve peace.”

But having said this, he pretended to accept at face value Aust’s coldly formal expression (once he recovered himself) of regret that Grenville was at the last minute unavailable to meet with us. Instead of objecting to such treatment, Williams merely left his name and address and walked out. They could contact him for the letter when they were ready to read it.

As soon as we were back outside on the pavement, I importuned him, saying, “David, for God’s sake why didn’t you give Aust the letter, as you’ve travelled all the way from Paris to do?”

“Because,” came the agitated reply, “it’s too evident our government’s as intent on war as France is. If I deliver this letter, Lebrun will go to the guillotine. This is collaboration with the enemy.”

“But he won’t if the letter brings peace!” I wailed. “And it’s now the only hope for that! David, you can’t go by the behaviour of a man’s under-secretary! Aust knows nothing! Give the letter to him now! Believe me, it’s not too late! He’ll pass it direct to Grenville, who, don’t you remember, is the Prime Minister’s cousin! You know as well as I do his Lordship’s up there and will take it direct to Pitt, who will want to see you, which will give you a chance to deliver Lebrun’s oral message!”

But Williams refused, declaring that nothing could persuade him to place a human life in danger for a hopeless cause.

“David, listen to me! How many more lives will be lost if you don’t act now? I assure you, Grenville won’t disappoint us, but it’s
imperative that he see the letter! Please, I implore you! If you would only exert yourself, you could prevent the war!”

But Williams laughed at this, and however much I pleaded, he remained adamant. This behaviour was owable in part to genuine concern for Lebrun, who after he was apprehended in a hayloft, disguised as a farm worker, did in fact go to the guillotine, in December of that year, singing “La Marseillaise.” But mostly Williams was a timid man. Not every republican is cut out for revolution. In his view, politics should proceed like Nature, by degrees. He’d attended the French king’s trial in December and was as horrified at it as at the Paris chaos. Back in London he was doing his best to appear calm and reasonable, even as he was trembling so wildly he could hardly speak. What terrified him was the prospect of Government prosecution as a traitor, for communicating with his Majesty’s enemies. We both knew what they’d tried to do to Tom Paine. David didn’t want his next book suppressed; he didn’t want to be gaoled for sedition. He didn’t want to be half-hanged and his entrails removed and burnt while he was still alive, as required by the
Traitorous Correspondence Bill
that Pitt had rammed through. Who in those days wasn’t afraid? Yet in his case, any fear was groundless, for I had already placed French money in British hands to ensure, among other things, his safety from prosecution in this country. I could have told him that, but he wouldn’t like it.

When he continued refusing to give Aust the letter, I was left no option but to feign a sudden resolve to settle in France, dropping to my knees to beg letters of recommendation to the French ministers. These he absolutely refused to provide. Refusing then even to climb back into my carriage, he turned on his heel and walked away.

And that was the last I saw of him, until now, when I thought,
And how staunch a defender are
you,
David, of what
you
believe in?
Aloud I said, “I apologize, sir, if my behaviour when we knew each other ever caused you inconvenience.”

If he suspected irony in this (as well he should), he didn’t show it, only shook his head. “There’s nothing to forgive, my friend. You were not in your right mind.”

Oh, was I not?
And how right in your mind are you, a republican fart-catcher to an enterprising Quaker?
“May I ask, sir,” I said, bowing, “how it is you come to be here with Bill—ah, Mr. Tuke?”

“Oh, I’m on The Retreat’s board—” came the reply, so offhand you’d think being caught bare-faced in the company of Bill the King counted for nothing. But then, did he even know it was him? “It’s long been Mr. Tuke’s hope,” he continued, “to discuss treatment with Mr. Haslam, whom he views as one of the nation’s most enlightened providers.”

“And how have you found him yourself?”

“A more compassionate warder than he wants us to know. His gruff wit’s most exhilarating, don’t you agree? I always did appreciate a man unafraid to stand up for his convictions. With a clientele so many and brutal—worthy exceptions notwithstanding—” and this time I bowed so low and long the blood filled my head like a butcher’s calabash—“I should think you’d learn pretty quick to be brusque.”

These statements I could make nothing of.
Clientele?
So we were customers now? Yet if this was a business, what quality of service did he think naked beggars queue to receive? And what was this about appreciation of a man ready to fight for his convictions? A gracious compliment or a self-damning gap of memory?

“You look excellent well, James,” he next threw out. This one so
nonplussed me I was tempted to spin round and flap my shirt-tails to give him an
excellent
whiff of my abscess. It was now apparent he had no intention of acknowledging Margaret’s visit to him. Having done nothing for me, he considered the matter dead and buried. Why else did he not fear I’d wonder at his shocking silence? “After everything you’ve been through, James,” he went on, “hospital life evidently agrees with you. I never saw you half so collected in Paris, nor the last time we spoke in London. Mr. Haslam, I daresay, is doing something right.”

Before I could blast away at this wretched drivel, a call echoed down the gallery. “Mr. Williams, will you catch us up, or do we wait?”

Even at this distance you could smell Bill’s fury: fumes of nightshade and hellebore. I’m the last person he’s going to want David Williams talking to.

“Coming, Will!” David called out—
Bill
I heard at first and give a shudder—and with a brief glance at Phippard, as if politeness might enjoin a farewell there too, he pressed my hands once more. As he did, he dropped his voice to utter words that though they resembled specious babbling and as such failed utterly to qualify as the apology he owed me, did offer grounds for hope: “I pray the next time we meet, my dear Matthews, it’s someplace more congenial.” And adding, louder (the public part, the former for my ears only), “Keep well, old friend—”

And so, as I watched my hero canter down the gallery like a grateful dog to a new master, I said to Phippard, “Well, Midshipman, what was that about? Could it be my old friend is now a craven pawn of Air Loom instigation?”

The exclusively naval nature of Phippard’s concerns precluded any actual reply.

“Or is he a great man yet?” I murmured, after watching the three of them pass single-file through the gate in the wall of iron bars and disappear from view.

Again Phippard gave no sign he understood, but I think he did. His world is full of great men.

O
LD
C
ORRUPTION

S
EPTEMBER THE
29
TH
, 1809

My Beloved Wife,

Can you guess who’s just been to visit? Bill the King—in William Tuke! And if that wasn’t enough, who did he bring with him? Brace yourself:
David Williams.