The Highwayman's Daughter (17 page)

She put her hand on his shoulder, and only then did he turn, with empty eyes and a distant smile on his lips. ‘My lady,’ he said and inclined his head regally although he did not get up, ‘to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

Cora bit her lip. It was worse than she feared; prison had indeed robbed her friend of his sanity. ‘Uncle George? It’s Cora.’ She whispered in case the guard was still listening.

‘Cora …’ He nodded slowly as if tasting her words. ‘But of course you are. A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.’

‘Cora Mardell. Ned’s daughter.’

A shadow passed across his face and reality returned to his eyes. He gripped her hand and squeezed it. ‘Cora? Little Cora? Can it be?’ His gaze ran over her, searchingly, until it seemed he had drunk in all her features and was satisfied with what he saw. Then his face lit up. ‘It is you! And in a fine lady’s clothes. How can that be? And why have you come to see an old man die? This is no place for you.’

‘You’re not old, Uncle George,’ she replied and squeezed his hand in return, then quickly stopped as he winced in pain. He looked terrible. One of his eyes was badly swollen, his bottom lip had split, and underneath his torn shirt he was covered in cuts and bruises, some of them oozing yellow pus. And he stank. Gently Cora peeled aside the shirt to reveal a large bruise on his side with a peculiar protrusion under the skin.

A broken rib,
she thought.
Perhaps several.
Uncle George had taken a severe beating.

‘Who did this to you?’ she asked, seething with rage. ‘The guards?’

George groaned unintelligibly.

‘Who?’ Cora insisted.

It was a while before he answered. ‘There was a man … can’t remember his name.’ George exhaled. ‘Maybe he didn’t give it. I … I don’t remember things so well these days. The mind … is not what it was. But he was a nobleman.’

Cora’s thoughts flew to Jack. If he possessed the intelligence she credited him with, he would have surmised that highwaymen were likely to be known to each other. Who better to question than a man who had no means of escape?

She looked down at her old friend, at his beaten-up face, once so kind and gentlemanly, and clenched her fists. Jack couldn’t have done this, not the Jack she knew, but if she ever found who had reduced a beloved friend to this pathetic state, she would … well, she would rip him to shreds.

‘Whoa,’ croaked George and looked at Cora with a twinkle in his good eye. ‘I know that face. Doesn’t bode well.’

‘Can you describe this man to me?’ Cora asked and moved aside so he could get comfortable.
Please, God, let it not be Jack. I couldn’t bear the thought.

‘It seemed like an age ago, though I don’t suppose it is. You lose all sense of time in a place like this.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘A young man, a dandy. Your own age or thereabouts. Fine clothes, exquisitely crafted wig, a patch here.’ He indicated a point beside his mouth. ‘Or maybe it was real, I dunno. You can never tell with these types.’

‘A gentleman,’ George continued, ‘but only skin deep.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘There was something nasty about him, lurking beneath the surface.’ George narrowed his eyes. ‘And he wanted to know about you specifically. Have you crossed this man?’

Cora shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.
He sounds wholly unfamiliar.’ But as soon as she said it, the image of a gentleman with a patch beside his mouth came to mind; Jack’s companion on the night of the robbery. But who was he and what did he want from her? She had robbed him, certainly, but was that enough to induce a man such as he to enter a notorious prison to visit a highwayman? And how had he made the connection between herself and Gentleman George?

Cora stilled as dread rose in her chest. ‘What did you tell him, Uncle George?’ she asked, articulating her words with care.

‘Nothing!’ he said, drawing himself up in indignation. ‘Absolutely nothing. Although—’ He stopped, and his face drained of colour so suddenly that Cora feared he might collapse.

‘Although?’

‘I might have said something – inadvertently, mind – about your father’s cottage in the forest. I don’t exactly recall. I’d had a few, you see. He’d brought a bottle of fine brandy, and, well, with one thing after another …’ He trailed off, imploring her wide-eyed to forgive his indiscretion.

Dread turned to abject horror and Cora glanced at Martha, who shook her head imperceptibly as if to say Ned would be safe for the time being. Her father had been right in urging them to flee immediately, and since they hadn’t left any trace of where they’d gone, it was very unlikely that anyone would suspect them of being but a mile away.

Still, the sooner she and Ned were on their way, the better. There must be no delays. Today the authorities would be concerned with keeping order at the hanging; tomorrow was a different matter.

She patted George’s hand. ‘It’s all right, Uncle George. My father and I left yesterday. You needn’t concern yourself. We’ll be fine.’

Gentleman George nodded, then sent her a curiously detached smile. ‘Did you know that Jack Sheppard was held in this very cell before he was hanged?’ The effort of sitting up had given his skin a waxy sheen and his eyes shone feverishly.

Naturally, Cora had heard of Sheppard, an infamous pickpocket and highwayman – what person hadn’t? But she worried about George’s sudden and seemingly random reference to the man; was he close to losing his mind? Perhaps the suppurating sores had brought on a real fever. Even if he was contemplating breaking out of prison, like the illustrious Sheppard had, she doubted he would make it in his condition.

‘No, I didn’t know that,’ she replied. ‘Is that what you’re planning to do?’

Smiling sadly, George shook his head. ‘Nay, my girl, I have no such plans. What a man has done will catch up with him in the end. That’s the way of the world. I’d rather it was here, on God’s green Earth, than in the afterlife, if you get my meaning. It’s just that …’ He trailed off, and his shoulders sank.

‘What, Uncle George?’ Cora prodded gently.

‘I wonder if it’ll take a long time to die.’

Cora’s stomach clenched with sudden horror. She had been so determined to help him go to the gallows with dignity that she’d forgotten hanging could be an agonisingly slow death, and that even the bravest person would struggle when dangling from a rope by his neck.

‘You’re a big man, Uncle George. I’m sure your passing will be quick.’ She swallowed hard, and then said, ‘But if it’ll help, I promise I’ll pull down on your legs when you … when you …’ Unable to finish the sentence, she looked away.

‘Bless you, Cora, but I’ve already paid the hangman handsomely to do that for me. As long your lovely face is the last thing I see, it’ll be enough. Then I’ll know what an angel looks like when I meet one.’

‘I can promise you that,’ she said and fought hard against her tears. It wouldn’t do to show weakness; for Uncle George’s sake she needed to be courageous. ‘Can you stand?’ she asked. ‘I have a present for you.’

‘Aye, I reckon I can.’ George gripped the arms of his chair and with what seemed like superhuman effort forced himself upright. ‘A drop of brandy would be darned welcome right now. For medicinal purposes, you understand. To ease the pain a little. I don’t suppose you have any on you?’

In response to his imploring look Cora shook her head. She hadn’t thought of that, much to her chagrin; she knew that when a man drank to excess the way Uncle George had done, depriving him of liquor would do more harm than good.

‘I might be able to help you,’ Martha said and stepped forward. For the first time George seemed to realise that there was someone else in the cell with them. ‘Mind you, it’ll be gin – that’s all the likes of me can afford.’

Martha reached inside a deep pocket in her dress and produced a small silver hip flask. Cora raised her eyes questioningly, but the older woman shrugged. ‘Belonged to my dear departed, that one, though Lud knows what poor soul ’e robbed to acquire it. Never could bring meself to part with it, not even when there weren’t enough to eat.’

Gentleman George took the proffered bottle and drank the contents greedily, like a babe at the breast. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said, although his prison pallor didn’t improve. ‘Clears the cobwebs. Now, where were we?’

‘I brought this for you,’ Cora said. She handed him the soap and pail of water and produced one of Ned’s shirts from under her petticoats.

‘And this.’

She handed the waistcoat to George. Admiring the exquisite embroidery, he remained silent, but when he finally spoke, there was a catch in his voice.

‘Thank you, Cora Mardell. Thank you for restoring a man’s dignity. You don’t just look like an angel, you are one, bless you.’

At ten o’clock, shortly after Cora and Martha had said goodbye to Gentleman George, the ox-carts conveying the condemned prisoners left Newgate Prison. Six men were to be hung, two to each ox-cart, and each of them travelled the route with a noose about the neck and their elbows pinned back. Only Gentleman George was handcuffed, being considered a particular security risk, although he sat in the first row in the cart, a place of honour reserved for highwaymen and those who robbed the mail.

Cora and Martha followed the carts, together with countless other people, some of them relatives and acquaintances of the condemned, others merely spectators. With each step taking them closer to Tyburn, Cora felt an agonising ache in her chest.

The procession stopped at St Sepulchre’s, where the condemned men heard the bellman’s final proclamation and received a floral wreath. Then they journeyed along Holborn, St Giles and Oxford Road, stopping at various alehouses, where the prisoners were offered wine.

London was always
en fête
on hanging day, and the huge crowds lining the route bombarded the popular prisoners with flowers and nosegays, but hurled mud, stones, excrement and dead cats and dogs at those whose crimes they disapproved of. Cora was relieved to see that her father’s old friend received only flowers.

All too soon they had travelled the three miles to the Tyburn Tree, and Cora’s insides revolted in earnest. This was the end; after today she would never see George again, never hear his raucous laughter or look upon his friendly face. Squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her fists to get a grip on herself, she felt Martha’s hand on her arm.

‘It’ll soon be over, dear. Then we can say a prayer and hope for a safe passing.’

Unable to speak, Cora merely nodded.

By the gallows outside Tyburn village a carnival atmosphere existed. There were all manner of street vendors hawking their wares: food, drink, trinkets. Entertainers, doomsday preachers, pick-pockets and beggars mingled with the spectators, and the noise from the crowd, the shrillness of the cries and the howls, was a feverish jangling sound. Cora witnessed no emotion suitable to the occasion. No sorrow or seriousness, only ribaldry, debauchery and drunkenness.

Hanging days were public holidays, and the enterprising villagers had wasted no time in erecting spectator stands around the hanging tree and extracting an extortionate fee for a seat. On a rare occasion the spectators stands collapsed, killing and maiming hundreds of people, but today they looked quite sturdy.

Cora squeezed through the crowds to get as close to George as she could. She had promised him that she would be the last person he would see, and she intended to keep that promise even if it meant attracting stares and sneering comments about pushing in and not keeping her place.

Finally she managed to get close to George’s ox-cart.

‘There you are!’ he said and his face lit up. ‘I couldn’t see you. Thought I’d lost you.’

‘I said I’d be here, and so I am.’ Cora lifted her veil so he could see her face.

‘My dear. This is no place for you.’

‘It’s exactly the place for me,’ she replied firmly despite her unsettled stomach, ‘and this is where I’m staying.’

The Ordinary was reading a prayer, and despite the noise from the crowd his voice carried loud and clear on the summer breeze.

‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ he recited. ‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’

Cora wasn’t listening; her eyes were on the hangman, who was fastening the nooses to the Triple Tree: three wooden posts set out in a triangle, with crossbars running between them. All the prisoners would be hanged at the same time, and the hangman was moving steadily closer to George. Cora’s chest ached so hard she could only gasp.

‘Uncle George …’

‘You’d think today was your hanging, not mine.’ Chuckling, he beckoned her closer and Cora clambered up on the cart. ‘I pray you won’t share the same fate as me. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll put in a good word for you with Him upstairs, shall I?’

Smiling through tears, Cora hugged him. It was so like George to jest in the last moments of his life.

‘Wish me luck,’ he said as the hangman fastened the rope above him. ‘Pray that I go to the right place and not to eternal Hell and damnation.’

‘You won’t,’ she whispered. ‘You’re a good man. I’ll always remember you.’

Testing that the noose was sound, the hangman glanced at Cora. ‘You’d best get yourself down, little lady, lest you get tangled with the cart.’ Of George he asked, not unkindly, ‘Are you ready?’

‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’ George’s eyes bore into Cora’s. ‘Goodbye, my dear.’

After that it seemed as if time had somehow slowed down. The ox-carts were driven away, and the six men suddenly dangled from their necks. Instinct took over, and each of them kicked out and bucked against their restraints, groaning and gagging. Even George, who had been so stoic only a moment before, looked to be panicking.

Surrounded by the jeering crowds Cora watched the horrifying spectacle, unable to do anything, wishing it would stop. But she knew it could take a person as long as fifteen minutes to die. She had become separated from Martha, and without the older woman’s reassuring presence she stumbled towards George’s jerking body, not knowing if she had it in her to do what must be done.

The hangman pre-empted her. ‘’Ere, let me.’ He stopped her with a strong arm, hoisted himself up George’s body and kneeled on the dangling man’s shoulders while holding on to the rope. With a gruesome, final rattle in his throat, George was gone, and Cora covered her face with her hands.