Devil Water (27 page)

It was at that moment James gave up hope. His small proud face grew masklike; thoughts like jagged rocks plunged down and clogged his soul. All false had been the certainty of Jemmie’s landing -- a delusion, a chimera. The truth instead was as it had always been. Bungling incompetence. Betrayal. Cowardice. The Devil Water. Why had God allowed the devil to prevail? Why?

James’s hand dropped from the bridle. He lifted his head and walked past the horse, not looking at Oxburgh. Very slowly, his steps dragging, he continued down the street.

On December 9 the chief Jacobite prisoners, under heavy guard, neared the village of Barnet in Hertfordshire, eleven miles from London. James rode in a rickety coach with Lord Widdrington, to whom he had scarcely spoken during all the days of their slow marches down from Preston. There was nothing to discuss with Widdrington, who had been the foremost in urging Forster to surrender. Widdrington, Oxburgh, and Patten, these had been their general’s sole advisers during the hour of panic in the Mitre, when Forster first received news of General Carpenter’s arrival. Forster had consulted nobody else, had skulked in a locked and guarded room, until the moment next day when he had handed his sword to General Wills, and thereupon received Government protection.

Forster had reason to be terrified of his own troops, James thought, staring out the coach window at the soft falling snow. The Highlanders had been ready to kill him when they learned of the betrayal. Young Murray had actually taken a shot at him. And Charles . . .

Through the despair in James’s breast came always a fiercer pain when he thought of Charles. Charles was safe enough at present -- riding somewhere a quarter of a mile back, his hands loosely pinioned, his horse’s halter led by a dragoon. James had glimpsed him often during the marches, and night stops. But Charles would not come near him.

One of the coach horses stumbled in an icy mudhole, the coach careened sharply. James could hear the cursing of the coachman and their four dragoon guards outside, and did not heed any of it. His mind presented to him yet again, as with a sick compulsion, pictures from that fatal Sunday, November 13. The return to the Mitre to find that Charles had disappeared, and Alec in the stableyard, crying, “Oh, what ails my master, my lord? He ran in like a madman, shouting for General Forster’s blood, then my lord Winton joined him and they spoke together. Like stags at bay they was -- both of ‘em -- wild-eyed -- panting.”

James, unable to bring himself to tell Alec all that had made Charles wild, said only, “I fear we are undone,” and as he said it saw Ann’s tender face -- sorrowing, waiting, hoping, at Dilston. “Alec Armstrong,” he said solemnly, “if you take Monarch,” he gestured to the stall where his stallion was stamping, “d’you think you could somehow get out of town and back to her ladyship at Dilston?”

“Aye, trust me, my lord. Fisher Gate to the north’s not blocked, or wasn’t an hour ago -- oh, your lordship, is’t that bad?”

James bowed his head. “Tell her to hide Dilston papers quickly, get them to Capheaton. Tell her -- tell her to be brave and that I love her dearest of any earthly thing.”

Alec had set off at once on Monarch, and must have either got through or been shot, since he had not returned.

Other pictures of that dreadful day. The bewilderment of half their troops, the relief of others. The twenty frenzied Scots rebelling when they heard of the surrender. Charles and Lord Winton trying to lead these Scots in a charge, and being stopped by Brigadier Mackintosh himself, backed by Forster’s men. Charles had been bound and locked up overnight for safety. But this incident angered General Wills, who now contemptuously demanded hostages, until the negotiations should be complete. He demanded Lord Derwentwater, and a Scottish leader. James had gone to pass the night in the enemy camp. For what use now was resistance which would lead to slaughter? The Rebellion in England was finished. They were powerless. All in reason that was left was to get the best terms possible. And fair trials in London. Charles did not agree, James knew. The most hurtful memory of all was of the look in Charles’s eyes when the Jacobite officers handed over their swords to General Wills, while General Carpenter looked on, sneering at the defeated.

In Charles’s gray eyes when they met James’s there had been implacable accusation, bitter reproach. And since then complete avoidance.

The old coach lurched into the village of Barnet, and at once a yelling crowd collected on the road. “Down with the Pretender!” they shouted. “Death to the Jacks!” “Long live King George!” And someone banged a warming pan against the coach window crying, “Look traitors, here’s where your fine Pretender popped from!”

James and Widdrington remained imperturbable. This reception they had had in every town since leaving Lancashire. The fools, James thought wearily. If they could see the king who was a Stuart in every feature, and as like his father as two peas, this canard that he’d been smuggled into Queen Mary’s childbed in a warming pan would cease forever. If they could but
see
their rightful king!

Spurred by miserable anger, James broke the silence in the coach. “This mob -- like every mob we’ve come through!
Where
are the High Church Tories who promised to join us! And you’d think one cheer on this dreary march might have been raised for King James!”

Widdrington grunted. His peevish, sickly face showed some surprise at being addressed by Derwentwater. “Self-preservation is the first and strongest law of nature,” he answered with a shrug.

“Yes,” said James. “It has ever been clear that you think so.” He turned his back on Widdrington and gazed through the snow at the many-gabled inn, where they were apparently to stop, because their guards were dismounting. On each night of their journey since leaving Preston the seven lords among the prisoners had been given relative comfort in their lodgings. The two English peers -- Derwentwater and Widdrington -- and the five Scottish ones -- Winton, Kenmure, Nithsdale, Carnwath, and Nairn -- had been sequestered from the commoners, who were lodged in churches, stables, or any shelter available.

Tonight, the last before London, and the weather being most inclement, Brigadier Panton of the Royal Dragoons did not bother to maintain nice distinctions. Accordingly, James found himself and his fellow peers all herded into the inn’s cramped common rooms, where the rest of the prisoners were presently stuffed as they arrived. Tom Forster came soon -- with Patten. James did not greet them, though they both bowed to him. James noted that Tom was pasty-faced and shrunken, that Patten’s chin was bruised and his clerical suit badly torn. Both men’s wrists were bound together, and the guards showed them no special favor. And yet, the suspicions James had felt on the day of surrender were not allayed. Forster might be too stupid and befuddled for actual treachery. But Patten! Had the curate really been honestly mistaken when he announced the withdrawal of General Wills’s troops? He had later shrilly and passionately averred so.

Oxburgh was next shoved through the door into the taproom. He looked at nobody. His head was sunk forward on his chest as it had been the morning of surrender. Brigadier Mackintosh came stumbling through the door, and was followed by the Swinburne lads and a dozen others -- the Claverings, the Wogans, Jack Thornton, and Tom Errington. With these last, James exchanged across the room a sad half smile of greeting, but was too sick at heart to speak. The inn became so crowded that soon all the commoners must stand, with barely room to lift the mugs of small beer which they were given.

The outer door opened once again, and Charles, prodded by the butt end of a musket, walked in, his handsome young face glowering. James stiffened and rose, with a great thump of his heart. Charles did not glance his way. He pushed over to Ned Swinburne, and stood by him silently, while the dragoons posted themselves at the door.

The lords were offered seats near the fire on settles and stools. Brigadier Panton, their particular guard, stayed among them. He directed a frightened inn servant to bring October ale for his noble charges, then turned courteously to James, whom the King’s generals considered by all odds their most important prisoner. “I regret, my lord, that your lodgings tonight should be so incommodious, but I pray you sit down.”

James inclined his head. “I’ve been sitting all day. I prefer to stand.” His somber gaze again sought out Charles’s tall figure with the tousled fair hair, the old cheek scar showing white on the rigidly averted profile. “Tell me, Brigadier,” James said, turning back to Panton, “where we will be lodged
tomorrow
night, in London? That seems to me of interest.”

James’s clear quiet voice penetrated through the silent rooms. Everyone had wondered about this, and everyone waited for the answer.

The Brigadier showed some embarrassment. Unlike the Generals Wills and Carpenter, he had no hatred of his prisoners, and found his duties distasteful, but he spoke decisively. “You, my Lord Derwentwater, and your fellow peers,” he glanced at Widdrington and the Scots, “will be lodged in the Tower, as befits your rank. The other rebels will be imprisoned at Newgate, at Marshalsea, and the Fleet in accordance with their quality.”

They all heard this. Charles too, for he put his hand to his head and looked dazed, suddenly realizing, James knew, that after tonight there would be no chance of talk between them. There was a stir by the bar and Tom Forster lumbered towards the Brigadier.

“What about
me?”
he cried. “I’m for the Tower, ain’t I? I was told so. I’m a general, and M.P. for Northumberland, don’t forget that! And m’Lord Crewe, Bishop of Durham, is me uncle.”

“You will be jailed at Newgate, Mr. Forster,” repeated the Brigadier with stony calm.

Forster gasped. “‘Tis a damned outrage! ‘Tis an insult!” he shouted, his pendulous unshaven cheeks suffusing. “I’ve friends in London,
you’ll
see! You’ll rue your wicked treatment o ‘me!” He flailed out with his arm, forgetting that it was pinioned to Patten, who was thrown off balance. The guards by the door snickered.

James made a harsh sound in his throat. “There is one sort of prison which would hold us all comfortably,” he remarked.

“What is that, my lord?” asked the Brigadier astonished.

“Bedlam Hospital,” said James, and walking to a tiny window he stared out onto the snowy, littered stable yard.

Charles, at those bitter words, felt the hardness loosen a little in his breast. He watched the small erect figure at the window, and for the first time it occurred to him that James might be suffering as much as he was himself. Possibly he had been so blinded by his own rage at the Preston disaster that he had imputed to James many of the craven motives which had ruled Forster and his tribe. In any case, James was his brother, and it looked as though they would not meet again for some time. And Charles perceived that, though the long nightmarish days of marching were over, arrival in London would not end the humiliation and defeat -- as he had somehow expected. It would augment them.

Charles tightened his mouth and made his way slowly to the privileged portion of the room. He spoke to the Brigadier. “May I have a word with his lordship of Derwentwater, sir?”

Six weeks later, on the nineteenth of January, in the Tower of London, Ann, Countess of Derwentwater, was in James’s prison apartment in the old Beauchamp tower. She was alone there, kneeling on the stained torn rug which the Tower Lieutenant had provided to cover the filthy stone floor which so many imprisoned feet had trod. Ann’s eyes were shut as she prayed, her fingers trembled on the Rosary beads. “Holy Blessed Mother,” she whispered as she kissed the crucifix. “Help him! Make them listen to his answer! Move King George’s heart to clemency. For the sake of Thine own Dear Lord and Son.”

Ann, raised her head, hearing a distant flourish of trumpets, and rising clumsily -- she was now five months pregnant -- went to the barred window. From it she could see beyond the walls of the outer ward and the icy moat, a glimpse of Tower Hill and Tower Street. And she could see, gleaming in the dusk, the state coach which held the seven impeached Jacobite lords who were returning from Westminster Hall. She recognized the coach by the twenty yeomen warders of the Tower -- the Beefeaters -- who marched with raised halberds on either side the coach, which presently disappeared behind the walls as it approached the outer entrance of the prison. Ann stood a moment staring into the leaden sky. It was bitter cold. The Thames had been frozen over for days. In the King’s menageries across the moat, the lions no longer roared, as they had done at Christmas; they huddled in their dens and slept. Would that I could too, Ann thought. It had been a month of nights since she had truly slept. Not since Alec Armstrong had come to her at Dilston -- his ears frostbitten, the great stallion Monarch limping and badly saddle-galled. She had been up in Dilston’s old turret, lighting the cresset to guide James home, as she had promised. But it was not James who came.

Only Alec and the dreadful news of defeat. Of her hardships after that -- the agonizing journey south through snowbound roads with the priest, Mr. Brown, and Alec -- she remembered little except brief rejoicing when she saw James and was allowed to share his imprisonment.

Ann turned as she heard footsteps on the hollowed winding stairs. She put her hand to her throat and waited. A Beefeater unlocked the door and ushered James in. Ann dared not speak, until she had scanned his face. It was weary, haggard, but not entirely cheerless. “ ‘Tis done, my love,” he said when they had heard the key turn and the bolt shot in place on the door. “ ‘Tis done as you begged me, as the lawyers told me, as your parents and Mr. Brown advised. May God forgive me.”

“But dear heart!” Ann cried. “Did they
listen?
Will they now show mercy? James, James -- how did Lord Chancellor Cowper look?”

“At the ceiling,” said James with a shrug. “I have been as abject as I can be. I have pleaded guilty of treason and thus denied my rightful king. I have apologized for my misguided actions. I told them that as my offense was sudden, so my submission was early. I have pleaded for pardon and thrown myself on the mercy of the Hanoverian-- as you besought me to.” James drew off his gloves and warmed his hands at the fire. Ann drew a quivering breath. She touched her crucifix. “When is the trial?” she asked. “In a month, I believe.”