Devil Water (84 page)

At six Hobson was due for the evening guard duty. He was several minutes late, which Cox, whom he was replacing, commented on acidly. “I’ve been delayed at the Lodgings,” said Hobson referring to the Governor’s quarters. He said nothing else to Cox, but his broad honest face was beaming. He quivered with excitement.

“He’s wild today,” Cox said jerking a shoulder towards the cell. “Been shouting out and pacing like one o’ them lions, ever since that bloody little priest left. Watch it, mate, he don’t do ye harm.” Cox departed, and Hobson unlocked the cell door.

Charles shouted, “Go away! Leave me alone!”

“Not yet, m’lord,” said Hobson softly.

Charles was startled by the title which he had not heard from the warders since the trial. He turned his haunted eyes on Hobson. “Why do you call me that?”

“Because, m’lord,” said Hobson with a deep breath, “you are to die like a lord. The sentence ‘as been commuted. Naow, naow --” he said as Charles staggered, putting his hands to his face. “ ‘Old up! Or mebbe ye’d better sit down.”

Charles sat down. His knees were too weak to support him. “I don’t believe you --” he whispered. “ ‘Tis a trick.”

“ ‘Tis true, m’lord,” said Hobson. “I was there, reporting to the Gov ‘nor wen the messenger come with the horder. ‘Is Excellency was fit to be tied. ‘Opping mad ‘e was.” Hobson paused in reminiscent relish. Williamson had actually let loose a spat of barrack room oaths, and when his first rage died he had been indignant at the lack of consideration for himself in this chuckleheaded new directive. There was no time to build the proper scaffolding on Tower Hill. He’d have to hire carpenters who’d work on Sundays. He himself would have to work on Sunday, to insure the requisite ceremonial procedure for the beheading of a peer. He had still been expressing his views on the unparalleled trouble Radcliffe had caused from the beginning when Hobson left to report at the Byward tower. “ ‘Tis true, m’lord,” Hobson repeated gently. “Ye’re to be spared the ‘anging -- and the rest.”

For another moment Charles did not stir. Then his wondering gaze traveled slowly to the little statue of the Virgin, which the priest had left on the table. She stood there so quietly, clothed in her translucent blue and gilt, the serene yet pitying smile on her tiny mouth.

“Forgive me, Blessed Lady -- ” Charles whispered. He pushed the chair aside and fell to his knees on the rushes, his hands clasped. “I am unworthy of this great gift,” he whispered to Her, “unworthy of the Grace Thou showest me,
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”
He knocked his breast three times, and bowed his head on his clasped hands.

Jenny had spent the agonizing days in work. Mrs. Potts kept her busy every instant, cooking, cleaning, laundering, and serving in the taproom. She did not require that Jenny sing. She explained to disappointed customers that the wench had temporarily lost her voice.

On Saturday morning Jenny set out again for the walk to the Tower. When she got to Tower Hill, she stopped, clutching at one of the guard posts along the sidewalk. There was no traffic on the Hill, and in the center a dozen carpenters were hauling timber, hammering away on planks.

So it has come! Jenny thought. Thank God! And yet she could not be entirely sure -- there were other prisoners in the Tower. She crept up to one of the carpenters. “Who is the scaffold for?” she asked faintly.

“Earl o’ Darntwater,” said the carpenter, grinning at her. “And an ‘ell of a rush we’re in ter be ready for Monday. Ye comin’ to watch, miss? We expect a big crowd.”

Jenny murmured something and continued walking down the hill, towards the Lion tower. Her request for permission to enter was at last granted. “Radcliffe” or “Derwentwater,” the warder really did not know what to call him now; it was confusing. At any rate, that prisoner might see anyone he chose -- today and tomorrow.

Charles was writing letters when Cox let Jenny into the cell.

Charles had been given a larger table and several candles, which stood grouped on either side of the little statue of the Virgin. The silver rosary and crucifix were arranged at Her feet.

“Welcome, my darling!” cried Charles, rising and smiling at her as though they had had a happy meeting yesterday. “I knew you’d come this morning!” He kissed her warmly on the mouth. “This is a cramped and stinking place in which to receive you, but no matter. I won’t be here long!” And he laughed, with genuine amusement.

Jenny swallowed. She did not know what to say. Rejoice that he was so buoyant, that his voice had the old hearty ring, that he looked well -- dressed by Alec in the yellow velvet suit, his gray bag-wig freshly curled, immaculate ruffles at his throat and wrists. Yet how to rejoice, when plain to be heard through the slit of window were the hammerings and shoutings of the carpenters who were building the scaffold.

Charles followed her involuntary glance towards the window. “Oh, I don’t mind them,” he said. “I think of the excellent company who’ve preceded me on Tower Hill.” He ceased smiling and crossed himself, though his voice remained strong and calm as he added, “I think of James. I dreamed of James last night, and you know, darling, in the dream he told me I
had
kept my vow to avenge him, and he said he was pleased with me now. He even laughed, I think.”

Jenny tried to smile, she sat down upon the cot. She looked at the statuette of the Virgin.

“Yes,” said Charles resuming his own chair. “You resemble Her a little, Jenny. The face. And She worked a miracle for me, through you.”

“And through Lord Chesterfield,” said Jenny earnestly.

He nodded. “I’m grateful to you, sweetheart -- yet I believe the human agencies were directed by Those Merciful Ones above us, and that He Who marks it even when a sparrow falls, was moved despite my grievous sins to accord me the Gift of Grace.”

“I’m so glad for you,” she murmured. She could not share his exaltation; the Catholic symbols and the Catholic way of reaching towards the Spirit were still alien to her. Yet her heart was convinced that a Spirit existed, that there was Something outside one’s self which could be called upon for help, and which did help, in no matter what Name it was invoked.

“I’m writing to my King,” Charles announced, matter-of-factly. “To King James and the Prince, for whose cause I’m going to die. You know,” he added in a musing voice, “I think I have a sort of right to believe that I understand loyalty, and to teach it to others.

I am saying so to His Majesty -- do you think me presumptuous?”

“No,” said Jenny. “It is true. And you are fortunate, Papa, that your loyalties have never been divided,” she paused, “as mine have been.”

He started a little, looking at her with attention. “You mean your husband, Jenny?”

“Yes . . .” she said, looking away. “Rob, and the other life. The moors, the peel tower, and all that from which Meg Snowdon came.” Even as she spoke she felt a feeble fluttering in her belly, like a bird imprisoned there. It had happened last night too, but she had given herself some other reason for the sensation.

Charles noted that her lovely voice dragged, he noted too that there were dark hollows beneath the fearing eyes, that she was very pale. She had been suffering for him, he knew. Now for the first time in their relationship he realized his selfishness. He had despised and resented all that part of her she called “the other life.” He had repeatedly tried to pretend that it did not exist, and thereby added to her suffering.

“Jenny,” he said, “do you still love your husband? When I’m gone you will go back to him?”

She did not answer for a moment, then she spoke very low. “He doesn’t want me.”

The blackguard! Charles thought, his ready anger roused. That yokel, that peasant, who had dared to sully his treasure, and then repudiate it. “Alec will take care of you!” Charles cried. “He’ll take you to Anna Maria. Unless you’d rather return to my wife?”

“Dearest Papa,” she said sadly, “I wish to live neither with Lady Petre nor Lady Newburgh. I couldn’t.”

Charles drew back, seeing something else he had never seen before. Not in features, nor in voice; yet, subtly hidden in the brooding eyes, the set of the full mouth, there was a resemblance to her mother. To Meg Snowdon. And on seeing this an image rose in Charles’s mind. The town moor at Newcastle, the little brown girl behind him on the horse, the clinging of her arms about his waist. And then the Faws -- the gypsy tinkler’s camp. The old crone saying that she saw the white rose wither and turn black, and that in his palm she saw an axe -- a bloody axe. What else had the Faw woman said? Something at which he’d laughed impatiently, but Meg had been frightened. What was it the Faw woman said? That the royal blood in his veins was accursed. “True love cannot flow in it. No sweetheart need hope for true love from thee.”

And no sweetheart had ever got it -- only Jenny. And what had he ever really done for Jenny except entangle her in doom?

“I couldn’t help it, darling,” he said aloud. “I believe I could not help it. A Faw woman saw the future coming long ago, and yet my sins are none the lighter for all that. I shall pray now, Jenny, for your conversion, and I shall pray for your happiness. If prayers are permitted me, wherever I am going, I’ll pray for you there.”

“Oh, my dearest Father,” she whispered. She went to him and knelt beside him. He put his arm around her, and they stayed so in silence until the priest arrived bearing the objects necessary for the celebration of the Mass, which Charles had asked for.

TWENTY-TWO

The following evening, Charles finished his last letter. It was to his wife in France, and it said:

From the Tower, 7th Decr. 1746,
The best of friends takes leave of you. He has made his will. He is Resyned, to morrow is the Day. Love his memory. Let his friends join with you in prayer: ‘tis no Misfortune to die prepared. Lets love our Ennemys and pray for them. Let my sons be men like me. Let my daughters be virtuous women like you; my blessing to them all; my kind love to Fanny that other tender mother of my Dr Children.

Adieu! dear frien,
DARWENTWATER.

Charles folded and sealed the letter. There was nothing more to be done, until the priest came again at dawn to celebrate the Mass.

Jenny had supped with Charles earlier. Her farewell visit, though this neither of them stressed. They had drunk from a bottle of excellent madeira, they had eaten a portion of the rabbit pie and boiled capon the Governor sent in. Charles told her that he had not made provision for her in his will, because there was nothing to leave beyond what Lady Newburgh had given him, and she would be justifiably upset if he left anything outside of her family. But Charles had insisted that Jenny take fourteen guineas, the only cash he had on hand, except what must be saved to pay his executioner -- as was the custom. Jenny at first refused. Then she gave in, her shimmering eyes strained, saying that she took the money not for herself, she knew well how to fend for herself, but for someone else, someone weak and helpless who might be in need.

Charles did not question her. There was so little time for questions, and he had no wish to probe the secret places of her life, if they did not concern himself.

He spoke once quietly about his funeral. He would be buried at St. Giles-in-the-Field, but he wished his heart conveyed to Dilston to be put with James. At her expression, he shook his head. “You do not see, Jenny, what joy this prospect gives me? How in a way it is the sealing of the vow I took? No more of this. Drink your wine and let us be gay for a while!”

He had meant to let her go tonight -- forever. To free her, as he would himself be freed. To protect her from more anguish^ to leave her with the memory of a merry and gallant father who had no slightest apprehension of what would happen on the morrow. Yet just before she left him, when the bell clanged for the shutting of the Tower, he faltered in his resolution.

That was when she took his hand and said “Papa?” in the old sweet childish way. “Papa?” she said, her eyes fixed on him steadily. “Would it comfort you if I were there -- tomorrow?”

His hands had trembled as he thought how much he did want her near him at the end. The heavenly consolation, in which he confidently believed, was as yet only a pale thing beside the love he felt for her. And there would be no one else there of his own flesh. True, his niece had remained in London. She and Lady Primrose and the lawyers had arranged the details of what must be done with the senseless carcase when all was over. But Anna Maria would not be on Tower Hill, nor did he wish her to be.

“I’d not ask it of you, darling,” he said, and Jenny instantly took his real meaning as she always had.

‘I’ll be there,” she said. “Standing where you can see me.”

They parted silently, clinging to each other for a long moment, while Hobson stood waiting to usher her out, blowing his nose, and more overcome than either of them. “She’s a brave ‘un -- your little love, m’lord,” he said, shakily, when Jenny had gone. “Ye don’t see many sweethearts, nor yet wives like that!”

Charles realized then that Hobson had never known that Jenny was his daughter, nor did Charles tell him now. It did not seem important.

The following morning at eleven o’clock, the Middlesex sheriffs came to demand of Governor Williamson that: Charles Radcliffe be delivered to them for the execution of his sentence. Charles left the Tower and was transferred to a mourning coach drawn by four black horses. Hobson and Cox walked on either side. There was a further escort of sixty men, a company of Foot Guards who marched solemnly, their bayonets fixed, their heavy footfalls thudding through the muffled rolling of a drum.

The crowd waiting behind the surrounding ring of Horse Guards was not as large as had been expected, though it was a clear sunny day. On the tiered stage erected for the comfort of officials and any lords and ladies who had tickets, there were many empty benches. The rooftops and windows disclosed few spectators. A surprising number of the London populace, eager as it was for gory spectacles, signalized its disapproval by staying away. This was an unpopular execution.