Devil Water (79 page)

“What’s this! What’s this!” said the Governor staring at Jenny. He was a spare, elderly, catlike man, a gray-faced man whose eyes were a pale stony blue. “What’s
she
doing here?” he asked angrily of Hobson, pointing at Jenny.

“I thought no ‘arm, sir,” answered the warder staunchly. “She’s some actress ‘oo used to know ‘im hintimate, ye might sye.”

“Oh, a trollop,” said Williamson with a curt laugh. “You forget, Hobson, I’m not the easygoing Governor that Colonel D’Oyley was. You’d no business letting her in!”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” said Hobson.

Williamson, outraged by this flouting of his authority, nevertheless reflected that he had given no positive orders excluding chance females since the prisoner in eleven months had seemed to have no friends. Also, Hobson had a very long record of faithful service, and had obviously remained on guard in the cell, as he should. The

Governor therefore fixed his hard blue eyes on the warder and said, “Well, did you hear anything useful to us pass between them?”

“No sir,” said Hobson truthfully.

Williamson gave a snort and turned back towards Charles. “I came to do you a favor,” he said in a voice he strove to make pleasant. “A letter’s come for you, the messenger said it was of great importance. I thought you’d want it at once.” He held out a folded and sealed white square; he even walked with it to Charles and put the letter in his hand.

Charles took the letter, and moving stiffly towards the candle, squinted at the superscription. “This letter’s not for me,” he cried. “ ‘Tis for a Mr. Charles Radcliffe.”

Williamson stopped smiling. His sharp nose quivered. “Oh, for God’s sake, fellow. When will you stop this farce!”

“I’ll thank you not to call me ‘fellow,’ “ said Charles. “You’ll give me my title, as I know His Grace of Newcastle has enjoined you to. And I find it interesting that you should mention God, in Whom, I understand you’ve no belief.”

Williamson saw red. From the beginning, the insolence of this man had infuriated him. “You bloody Papist traitor, God or the devil’s all the same to me!” he shouted. “So long as justice is done and I get you hanged as you should be! In the old days we had the rack for such as you, there’s
still
a gentle ‘questioner’ or two in the dungeons,” he stopped, knowing that he had gone too far. Torture was no longer permitted in the Tower, and even threats were frowned upon in these namby-pamby times. He glanced back quickly at the warder, and his two officers in the passage beyond. All three stood at attention, erect, expressionless, their eyes fixed straight ahead on space.

Williamson took a breath and achieved control. “You don’t want your letter, Mr. Radcliffe?” he said smiling again. He had thought of another plan.

“I’m not a Mr. Radcliffe,” said Charles. “It is not addressed to me!” And he flung the letter at the Governor’s feet. Instantly Hobson stepped out, picked up the letter and handed it to one of the officers, then returned to his stance.

“Well, well,” said Williamson, pleasantly. “There’s been a mistake made, I suppose. I see you’ve been having a glass of wine with your young woman. An excellent idea. I believe I’ll sample some, if I may, your lordship. Hobson, get a chair from the upper cell. Dear, dear -- you do have rather scanty furnishing in here, don’t you, my lord! We must rectify that.”

Charles was wary, though nonplused. The Governor had never been civil to him before. It might be that on seeing his trick had failed he had given up the effort. Or it might be because of Jenny, Charles thought, looking at his beloved, who stood there silent and pale in her barmaid’s gaudy dress, her golden curls falling on her shoulders.

This must be so, for the Governor turned to her most courteously.

“My dear,” he said, “I’m sure your company is very charming, and I quite see why his lordship enjoys it, yet I must regretfully ask you to leave. The Tower soon will close for the day. Outside it’s quite dark, and I think it unwise for so handsome a woman to brave the streets when it’s getting late.”

“ ‘Tis true, darling,” cried Charles, instantly alarmed. “You must go! I hadn’t thought of that; but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She hesitated, uncertain, mistrustful. She knew that her father had had enough wine to fuddle him in his present state of health, she remembered that when one of his quick tempers was over he quickly forgot the cause. She went to him and kissed him on the cheek, whispering “Be careful” in his ear. He nodded and hugged her.

She put on her cloak, then curtsied to the Governor and Charles. “Good night,” she said, her eyes downcast. Hobson stood back from the door, and she went through past the officers, one of whom gave her a quick approving pinch on the buttock. She went downstairs and out towards the Bloody tower, where Alec was patiently waiting, as they had agreed. They left the Tower together.

In the Beauchamp cell, Williamson and Charles sat down. “A tasty jade,” said Williamson of Jenny. “I too always like the fair-haired ones myself. Have you known her long?”

“For some years,” said Charles, with a tender reminiscent smile.

“Does my Lady Newburgh object to these -- ah, little affairs of the heart?” asked the Governor casually.

Charles laughed. Silly old man, he thought, to think of catching me like that. “Who is my Lady Newburgh?” he said.

“I’m inclined to think that you know,” said the Governor, also laughing, though the hard eyes examined Charles intently. “I see the bottle’s empty,” Williamson continued, “and it’s just occurred to me that we might broach some fine old brandy I have in my cellar. Hobson, go fetch it!” The warder bowed and disappeared.

“To what do I owe this honor?” asked Charles, who was enjoying himself. He could hold his own at this game or any game the Governor wanted to play. “You’ve not, so far, shown a desire for my company!”

“I believe I’ve misjudged you, my lord,” answered the Governor apologetically. “I find the rigors of my office make me irritable at times. As a matter of fact this is my birthday, which induces a certain mellowness. I trust that past disagreements won’t prevent you from joining me in a toast to my birthday?”

“Not at all,” said Charles. “I’m very fond of brandy, and the leanness of my purse makes indulgence in it difficult.”

“Unfortunate,” said the Governor sympathetically. He filled in the time before Hobson’s return with tidbits of Tower gossip. Lord Traquair had suffered an attack of bloody flux and was confined to bed. There was a probability that Flora MacDonald, the Highland lass who had sheltered the young Pretender, would soon be imprisoned at the Tower. Lord Lovat, despite his great age, and the virtual certainty of his execution, constantly brawled and played indecent tricks on his warders. “But what would you expect of the Scots?” said Williamson shrugging. “And now I realize that as you are the only Englishman of rank imprisoned here, I
should
show you special favor!”

Charles almost let that pass, so gratified was he by the change in the Governor’s tone, which seemed to augur better things; as had the happy meeting with Jenny. He caught himself, however, and said with mocking reproof, “My dear Governor, you forget that I’m a French subject, and a Colonel in the French army.”

“But you were
born
here, weren’t you?”

“Why, that’s an event I don’t remember,” said Charles grinning. “And one mustn’t rely on hearsay.”

Williamson gave a dry cackle.
“Touché.
You’ve a pretty wit. Ah -- here’s our brandy!” He gestured for the bottle which Hobson put on the table. The Governor poured some into each glass.

“Stay a moment,” said Charles. “If you’d really do me a favor, will you for once dismiss those men?” He pointed towards Hobson and the two officers. “At least let us be alone awhile, I’m weary of watching eyes, I’d like to feel for a few minutes that I am as other men, simply drinking with a friend.”

The Governor hesitated. This did not suit his plan, since he wanted witnesses for what he hoped to accomplish. On the other hand if he refused, he knew that Radcliffe might suddenly go surly and even decline to drink at all. “Very well,” he said. “Hobson, you may wait in the passage with the others, and shut the door.”

“Now we’ll toast your birthday!” said Charles, much pleased. He could make the old boy do
anything.
He wasn’t such a bad fellow, it seemed. The brandy was delightful, smooth as cream. So smooth it had no effect, Charles thought, except that the pains vanished from his knees, and he found himself telling ribald stories at which the Governor laughed and slapped his lean shanks. Charles’s glass stayed full, he did not particularly notice why, nor notice that the Governor’s stayed full for the opposite reason -- because it was never emptied.

The Governor waited until he judged the time was ripe, when Charles’s speech had thickened and he started tales which rambled, then forgot what he had been saying.

Williamson introduced the topic of escapes, escapes from the Tower like Lord Winton’s and Lord Nithsdale’s, thirty years ago.

“O-ho!” said Charles, conspiratorially, now regarding the Governor as his bosom friend. “They were sly ones, those two! Musht’ve been a bit o’ cash changed hands too, don’t you think, old boy?”

“Possibly,” said Williamson. “That was before my time, of course.”

“And a bit o’ cash might help now? Eh?” said Charles winking. “Thash what you mean, old boy?”

“Don’t be a fool!” Williamson spoke loudly, distinctly and with just enough calculated anger to touch off Charles. “You wouldn’t have the brains to carry out an escape, not
you!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t, would I!” Charles cried. “Thash where you’re wrong -- you old simpleton. I had the brains to get out of Newgate!”

“Did you indeed,” said Williamson softly. “Then I’ve misjudged you again. Was it on December tenth that you escaped?”

“Dechember eleventh,” said Charles. “An’ a raw, cold day it was.”

“Thank you,
Charles Radcliffe”
said Williamson.

“What’re you thanking
me
for?” asked Charles, bewildered.

“For your diverting company, Mr. Radcliffe,” Williamson rose and picking up the half-empty brandy bottle, tucked it under his arm.

Charles quivered. He stared at the Governor, whose image shimmered and wavered. What had he said, what had they been saying? Charles wasn’t sure, but there had been mention of Radcliffe, and tears came to his eyes. “Why do you keep saying ‘Radcliffe’?” he asked in a hurt, reproachful voice. “I thought we wash friendsh. I’m Comte Derwent, you know that, ol’ boy.”

Williamson walked to the door, and opened it. “Come in, Hobson,” he said. “You can put him to bed. I’m well satisfied.”

Six weeks passed before Charles’s arraignment on November 21. During that period Lieutenant-Governor Williamson inflicted on his prisoner every tyranny that was legal. There were no more visitors of any kind, not even Alec. There were no more airings on the battlement, except one in mid-November, during which Charles was marched back and forth on the narrow walk by two warders, while hostile eyes -- brought here by the Government -- peered and spied at him from the adjacent Bell tower. An extra warder was assigned to guard him inside his cell, so that he was never left alone an instant. His diet was restricted to the coarsest prison fare, and all wine, beer, and spirits were forbidden him completely. The latter prohibition was partly because Williamson knew it would cause Charles suffering, which it did for a while, but was chiefly from fear that drinking would kill him and thus rob the hangman and the London populace of a well-merited pleasure.

Charles spent his time in misery and in writing letters -- to Jenny, to the Duke of Newcastle. The letters were discreet, there was no liquor now to fuddle his mind, and they bored Williamson, to whom they were immediately carried, and who tossed all except a couple to the Duke into the fire. Naturally there were no answers.

Still, Charles did not give up hope. He knew he must have said something foolish to the Governor, whose subsequent behavior showed how false the show of congeniality and favor had been, but he thought himself a match for Williamson. Also, Hobson, his only friendly contact with the outer world, said that he believed the Government’s bloodthirstiness was sated, that in some quarters “Sweet William,” the Duke of Cumberland, was not quite the hero that he had been. Many people, no longer panicked by fear of invasion, were tired of executing the captured rebels. So said Hobson, partly out of pity, for he thought the Governor’s behavior shocking, though as usual Hobson obeyed orders.

The days crawled by, and Charles’s health improved. His joints ached less, his paunch dwindled. He had appetite, even for the gruels and boiled salt beef the porter brought him. One day, after pacing his cell for some time, he took to examining the inscriptions on the walls. It was a crudely carved little word “Jane” that first awakened his interest. Jane was Jenny’s real name, and Charles lovingly darkened the letters with his pencil. Hobson said the name probably referred to Lady Jane Grey, that most unhappy nine-day Queen, but Charles continued to view it as a link with Jenny.

Then he discovered, as James once had, that someone called “Eagremond Radcliffe 1576” had been imprisoned here, though that memento Charles thereafter avoided. There were two inscriptions made by Arundel, the sixteenth-century Duke of Norfolk who had died a prisoner in this cell. Hobson told Charles about it and added that the Duke had been a Papist; whereupon Charles mustered his feeble memories of Latin, and finally deciphered the writing: “The more suffering with Christ in this world the more glory with Christ in the next. Thou hast crowned him with honor and glory, O Lord! In memory everlasting He will be just.” And the other said, “It is reproach to be bound in the cause of sin; but to sustain the bonds of prison for the sake of Christ is the greatest glory.”

Charles pondered these words, which were the only spiritual comfort he had. They had taken away his crucifix and rosary when they captured him and thought him the Pretender. He had been allowed to see no priest, nor, to be honest, had he much wanted one.

He read Arundel’s inscriptions again, and began to think about James. The brother who had suffered here before him, the brother he had sworn to avenge. Heretofore the thought of James had brought such pain that he had kept it at bay with bravado -- with drink. Now he began to question Hobson, though never admitting the relationship. The warder understood, and reminisced freely. “ ‘Is lordship ‘ad a big crucifix ‘anging there on the wall. ‘E used to pray to it somethink beautiful. The Gov’nor then ‘e wasn’t so strict abaht Papacy as this ‘un.”