The Price of Glory (16 page)

C
AN
YOU
STILL
SEE
HER?”
demanded Nathan, struggling to pull off his boots.

“No. I think she has gone under the arch,” announced his mother as she peered into the darkness under the bridge. “Hurry,” she implored the boatman, “or she will be gone.”

“Which I am doing the best I can,” this worthy assured her, manoeuvring to position himself for the mill-race in the centre of the arch.

“Let me take an oar,” Nathan urged him. “We will be quicker.”

“I doubt it, guvnor,” the boatman replied disrespectfully, “'less I was to lose an arm. But if the lady was to sit down we would stand a better chance of not ending up in the water wiv the other wench.”

Nathan instructed his mother accordingly and they shot through the arch at an impressive pace. He saw their quarry at once, floating face down in the water on the far side of the bridge.

“Hard a starboard,” he instructed the boatman, who despite his confident assertion that he could manage better alone, was struggling against the turbulence beyond the bridge. Nathan saw that they would be swept well past the drowning woman, and heedless of the boatman's strenuous advice, he shrugged off his jacket and dived into the water, all but upsetting the boat.

It was a great deal cooler than he had imagined for the time of the year and he was shocked by the strength of the currents. But he was a powerful swimmer, having spent much of his early life in the Cuckmere or the waters off the Sussex coast, and he set off in a vigorous crawl towards the spot where he had last seen the inert figure. It shortly became apparent, however, that she was no longer there. Nor could he see where she had gone. He tried to raise himself in the water to look for her, but it was useless and the tide was carrying him into the darkness on the other side of Putney village. He had entirely lost her. He began to strike out for the nearest shore, but now he was caught up in so many back eddies and currents it was difficult to make any headway and the weight of his clothes seemed heavier by the minute. He reflected on the irony of being drowned in the Thames after his far more dangerous adventures in the Bay of Quiberon. It would not look good in the newspapers, he thought. Drowning in an attempt to rescue a woman who had thrown herself off a bridge might normally be expected to win the approval of the populace, even posthumously, but the woman in question being Mary Wollstonecraft, it would almost certainly detract from the value of the sacrifice, at least in the view of the more conservative journals.

He flopped over on to his back and let the tide take him as it was clearly useless to battle against it. He examined the night sky for a sympathetic star but it was entirely clouded over. Then he saw it—a solitary star. Without others to guide him, he was unable to place it but he was glad it was there, all the same. It was some comfort to him, though he wished he could have named it, his last star. A familiar voice jolted him out of this reverie.

“'Ere you are, guvnor, cop ‘old o' that!” And an oar was thrust almost into his face. He rolled over and with some considerable effort, not unhindered by the attentions of his mother, he was hauled into the boat.

“I am sorry,” he confessed as he lay panting in the thwarts, “but I fear we have lost her.”

“No, but I think she is saved,” his mother assured him, “for we saw another boat pulling her out of the water.”

“Couple of fishing-men,” the boatman elaborated for Nathan's benefit, “but I'd not go so far as to say ‘saved' for she looked like a goner to me. But we'll find out soon enough.”

He pulled them across the river to the Fulham side of the bridge where a group of boatmen and other interested parties had congregated to discuss the incident. But when he returned from interrogating them he had the sombre, though satisfied look of one whose worst predictions have been realised.

“They pulled her out, right enough,” he announced, “but she was drownded. Kickerapoo. Dead in the water,” he added for fear of being obtuse.

“Oh my poor Mary!” Kitty mourned. “Where have they taken her?”

“Duke's ‘Ead Tavern,” the boatman pronounced firmly, pointing to the lights of the inn, a little way downriver. “'Op back in and I'll ‘ave you there in two shakes of a rat's tail.”

“But why have they taken her to a tavern?”

“As good a place as any if you're a goner,” replied their cheerful Samaritan, “an' I expect they needed to wet their whistles.”

Having conveyed them thither, he graciously accepted two sovereigns from Nathan for services rendered and took his leave. They ran up the stairs to the inn. And there face down on the floor of the taproom, in a pool of Thames water, lay the body of Mary Wollstonecraft.

A man in his shirt sleeves was bent over her performing some bizarre ritual with her arms while a number of spectators gave encouragement or observed that it was a waste of time, mate, ‘cos she was clearly beyond saving.

“Oh God, what is he doing to her?” demanded Kitty. “He is not a medical student, is he? This is just what she most dreaded. Please make them stop,” she begged Nathan.

“I think you should leave her now,” Nathan advised the man as he stepped from the shadows, and though his voice was moderate it had enough authority in it for the crowd to draw back a little and regard him attentively, marvelling at his waterlogged appearance, as if he were a species of river god come to claim her. The man on the floor continued with his exertions regardless.

“Just give ‘im another minute or so, if you would, sir,” implored one of the spectators, a be-whiskered gentleman in a waistcoat with a face like an otter. “'E knows what ‘e is about. ‘E's got certificates.”

“But what
is
he about?” Nathan demanded, for the possessor of certificates was lifting the victim's arms above her head and bringing them down to her sides in a repeated action that appeared to be as bizarre as it was futile.

“'Tis the method taught by the Royal Humane Society,” declared the Otter, impressively, “authorised by King George hisself. “

“Well, I do not call it humane to treat a poor, drowned creature so,” insisted Kitty, “whatever King George has to say about it. You are to stop it at once. Nathan, make him stop. It is disgusting.”

“But ‘tis the method they teaches ‘em, ma'am, for the saving of lives. ‘E calls it Hartificial Resuscitation—don't you, Jim?” The latter remaining intent upon the business in hand, the Otter took on the burden of explanation for himself. “It works like a pump, d'you see?”

To give credence to this description, a small deluge of water gushed from the dead woman's mouth and she began to retch violently.

The lifesaver continued to pump until he was satisfied there was no water left and then sat her upon a chair and recovered the beer that had been waiting for him on the bar whilst modestly receiving the plaudits of the crowd, his only detractor being the woman he had saved, who sat wrapped in a blanket shuddering violently and complaining to anyone who would listen that she had been better off left in the river.

“We will get you home now,” Kitty soothed her, “before you catch your death of cold.”

The general advice being against the river as a means of transport, given what had occurred, one of the customers offered to drive them back in his chaise which served the community in the nature of a hackney carriage: though he required ten shillings for going so far out of his way which would oblige him to lose a great deal of custom, he explained, as he was not allowed to pick up a return fare in the city. Nathan cashed another guinea at the bar, desiring the landlord to keep the change as recompense for any damage to the furnishings, and gave five more, which was all he had left in his purse, to the lifesaver, tactfully proposing it as a donation to the Royal Humane Society.

It had been an expensive evening.

“Do you know Imlay's address?” he enquired of his mother when she had returned from putting Mary to bed with several hot-water jars and Izzy to watch over her in case she contrived some other means of destruction.

“Why do you wish to know?” she enquired warily.

Nathan took Mary's letter down from the mantelpiece where it had been left. “Because we have this to deliver.”

“But … I would have thought it was meant to be delivered in the event of her death,” she pointed out.

“Even so, I think he should be informed of what he has brought her to.”

“Nathan, you are not going to fight him.”

“Would you object greatly if I did?”

“Well, that would depend on how certain I was that you would win,” she confessed. “Would it be with swords or pistols?”

This was a reasonable enquiry for when she had been in funds she had paid for Nathan to be instructed in swordsmanship by Henry Angelo, a maestro of the Italian school whose fencing establishment in Soho was patronised by some of the most accomplished and aristocratic blades in England.

“The person challenged has the right to choose the weapon,” Nathan explained, “but it is regarded as dishonourable in England to choose anything but a pistol.”

“Well, how ridiculous! I never heard of such nonsense. Why would anyone make such a rule?”

“Because the sword, or knife, is the weapon of choice on the Continent,” he replied, reasonably, “and deemed suitable therefore only for fops and assassins. But do not fret, I have no intention of fighting him. I much prefer him to be disgraced. Surely you would not wish him to remain in ignorance of the event, or to escape the calumny for it.”

“Well, no,” she replied uncertainly, “but as to calumny, you must remember, my dear, that if this became widely known Mary would suffer the consequence, and not only in terms of her reputation. Attempted suicide is against the law, I believe, in England. It is possible she might be imprisoned.”

“I know that. But given the circumstances, I do not suppose the incident will go unreported, and I do not see why Imlay should be kept out of it and walk away scot free with not a stain on his character, which is his usual way. I am going to tell him what I think of him, that is all, and find out what recompense he is prepared to make. At the very least he can pay me back the ten guineas I have laid out in expenses this evening.”

“Well, he took a furnished house at number 36 Charlotte Street,” she told him, “but I am not sure if he lives there himself. Or whether it was for Mary—or his actress.”

It was no more than a five minute walk from Soho Square to Charlotte Street and number 36 turned out to be a respectable-enough dwelling about halfway up. It was mostly in darkness save for a light in the basement and Nathan rang for some time before there was a response, if only it was the sound of the brass cap removed from the spy-hole. He smiled reassuringly. A female voice desired to know what he wanted.

“Mrs. Imlay ?” Nathan enquired politely, though not without a degree of mischief.

A pause. Then: “Mrs. Imlay is not at home.”

“Ah. Well, as a matter of fact it was with Mr. Imlay that I wished to speak.”

“Well, Mr. Imlay is not at home, neither.”

“I see.” He had an inspiration. “Well, I am come from the Admiralty with an urgent message for him,” he said, “which I must deliver this evening. To him personally. I assure you it is very much to his advantage.”

He still wore his uniform jacket, which had avoided a ducking, with the gold epaulette clearly visible on the right shoulder.

“Well, he was planning to dine with some gentlemen at the Star in Covent Garden,” she revealed doubtfully, “but I don't know if you will still find him there.”

Nathan thanked her and took his leave. He suspected he was off on something of a wild-goose chase and not for the first time in the history of his dealings with Gilbert Imlay.

What Nathan knew of him came from a number of sources, none entirely trustworthy, including Imlay's own account which was probably the least reliable of them all. He was born in Philadelphia, he said, though his family was from New Jersey: Scottish immigrants who had prospered in business and bought land there. As a youth he had sailed to the West Indies and engaged in the rum trade, a euphemism, Nathan gathered, for smuggling. At the start of the American War he had volunteered to serve in Washington's army only to desert a few months later and return to New Jersey where he was suspected, even by members of his own family, of being a British agent. After the war he claimed to have been a frontiersman and explorer in the territories west of the Appalachians, though “land speculator” would probably have been a more accurate description of his activities as Nathan understood them. Facing arrest for debt he had fled to Spanish Louisiana and subsequently appeared in London with a book he said he had written—an account of the western territories aimed at encouraging immigration—which was published by Debrett with some considerable literary success. Another book had followed, less literary, less acclaimed, which was vaguely pornographic, modelled on the novels of the Marquis de Sade. Finding the air in England suddenly become rather chill, he had moved to France, where he had established himself as a raffish man of letters.

Nathan had first met him in Paris during his brief stay there at the time of the Terror when both of them were obliged to conceal their true vocations. Imlay had by then set himself up as a shipping agent, running goods past the British blockade, but he had been willing to aid the British in smuggling millions of forged
assignats
into the country with a view to causing rampant inflation and ruining the French economy. At the same time he maintained excellent contacts in the Committee of Public Safety, the true rulers of France during the Terror, and appeared to be on good terms with Robespierre himself, though this had not prevented him from playing a key role in toppling the dictator.