Devil Water (83 page)

“That line won’t do, madam,” he said. “I think that I’m tolerant enough. People may believe any folderol they like for all of me, but it’s no use your sentimentalizing about Christianity, nor any form of mawkish piety -- leave that to the preachers.”

“Then there is this!” She went on swiftly, having accepted his rebuttal. “Charles Radcliffe’s father and brother were English earls. The latter the Hanoverians murdered. It is not forgotten, either. You may think the counties of Northumberland and Durham unimportant to your own administration;
I
think they are not, and they have made a hero out of Derwentwater.”

“Indeed,” said the Earl with a slight smile. “Go on.” She was now showing a subtlety which amused him.

“Charles Radcliffe is of noble blood,” said Jenny vehemently. “He is of
royal
blood. The people know it. He is by birth a member of your aristocracy, and his wife, Lady Newburgh, is a countess in her own right. Are you then not degrading all your class, and weakening it, if you allow one of your body to be -- ” She paused and swallowed, went on steadily, “To be hanged, drawn, and quartered?”

“Now,
you argue shrewdly!” said the Earl. He lifted a jeweled snuffbox from the marble table next to him, took a pinch, and inhaled thoughtfully. There was truth in what she said. There had been rumblings lately, criticism in many quarters at the harshness of the sentence. Criticisms also of Hardwicke’s handling of the trial. There had not been sufficient legal proof of identity, even though there was no doubt of the fact. The Duke of Richmond had protested to Newcastle, and been met by the usual waverings and timidity. Newcastle was afraid of Hardwicke, afraid of the King. But I am not, thought the Earl, and I can manage the King.

“Oh -- ” cried Jenny, her voice breaking. “This is an
Englishman,
your countryman, and you persecute him worse than you ever did the Scottish lords. They were not given such a sentence, they are not tormented in the Tower the way
he
is!”

“What do you mean?” said the Earl sharply. He had scant use for the Scots, and it displeased him to think that they might have been favored.

“The two Scottish lords already executed were not kept in solitary confinement as my father is,” she cried. “They saw their friends, relatives, and servants. My father’s faithful valet is not even permitted to tend him.”

“He isn’t?” cried the Earl deeply shocked. “That is outrageous! Surely not Newcastle’s orders,” he added frowning.

“His grace doesn’t seem to concern himself about the Tower Governor’s restrictions,” said Jenny.

“Then I will!” cried the Earl, rising. “My dear madam, you have brought to my attention a state of affairs which I confess I would willingly have ignored. Yet I am not inhuman, and you are quite correct in saying that a man of noble birth -- whatever his crime -- should
not
be treated like a commoner. That has ever been our English precedent. No,” he said as he saw her face transfigured, and the flare of hope in her eyes. “He will not be pardoned. You must not expect that. But his few remaining days in the Tower will be somewhat eased, and I believe that I may promise you that he will be beheaded like a peer -- not hanged.”

“Oh, my lord --” She sank to her knees and took his hand. She kissed it and held it against her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I had not really dared hope for pardon, but I prayed for this -- that he should die with dignity, and that I might see him again.”

He felt her tears on his hand, and his cynical heart was touched. “When you see him, madam,” he said, “tell him that, miserable as he is, he is fortunate in that he has for advocate so devoted and so persuasive a daughter.”

Governor Williamson did not receive the Duke’s orders concerning the lifting of restrictions on Charles Radcliffe until Monday. These orders said that the prisoner was to be permitted the daily attendance of his valet, he might receive relatives alone, he might even have a priest. It was understood that the Lieutenant-Governor had moved the prisoner to the Byward tower dungeon for greater security, and this move was approved. It was requested, however, that all the comforts possible should be provided in that dungeon, and the prisoner, in general, should be treated like a peer.

Williamson was infuriated, he cursed the ever-wavering Duke of Newcastle, but he did not dare disobey. There was no accompanying hint that the death sentence might be commuted, and there was no precedent whatsoever for treating a man like a lord when he was to be killed as a commoner. One more week, Williamson thought angrily, and I’ll be rid of this nuisance -- a more troublesome prisoner I never had! He stamped off to rescind some of his commands in regard to Radcliffe, but no more of them than he could help.

Thus Jenny was still forbidden to see her father, though she was the only person Charles asked for. She was
not
a relative, said Williamson. Charles said that she was, she was his daughter. The Governor snorted and said, “A likely story! Mr. Radcliffe, your inventiveness continues to amaze me!”

Until Saturday, Jenny had again to rely on Alec for news of Charles, though she walked every day to the Tower, and stood across the moat and waved to the grated slit of window in the Byward tower, sometimes waiting a long while before a white handkerchief waved there in response.

Charles’s new cell was a horrible place, even with the improvements Williamson had reluctantly ordered -- a cot, a chair, and table, a fire, candles, and rushes on the dank stone pavement. The cell was so small that three people could hardly squeeze in at once, and the slit in the window wasn’t big enough to get one’s hand through. There was stench from the moat beneath, and a peculiarly noxious odor which seemed to come from the ancient stones, doubtless from the excrement of all the condemned prisoners who had been confined here since the fourteenth century.

During the week in this dungeon, in cold and virtual darkness, Charles had spent much of the time lying on a straw pallet in stupor, not from drink -- he was allowed only water -- but from a willful drugging of the mind to blot out the fate in store for him. Sometimes in this stupor he whimpered like a child, sometimes cried out as nightmares seized him. The warders came and went, though now they usually stood outside the door; there was no possibility of escape from
this
cell. They forced him to eat; Governor Williamson wanted his prisoner kept alive. Charles was scarcely aware of them -- even Hobson.

Then on the Monday when his conditions improved and he saw Alec again, he roused himself a little, he drank some wine and ate of the fowl Alec brought him. Yet his apathy continued. Even when Alec told him of Jenny’s visit to Lord Chesterfield and the promise that the Earl had made.

“Promises from statesmen,” Charles muttered. “Would you have me count on
them?”

“To be sure, my lord,” said Alec heartily. “See how much better you’re treated now!”

Charles glanced indifferently around the gloomy cell. “The order’s not come to commute my sentence. I’m still off to Tyburn on Monday.”

Alec was silent, and grew each day more apprehensive, since no further word came from the authorities. And he had trouble rousing Charles even to wave to Jenny through the window. “I am sure ‘tis better she forgets me,” Charles said. “She must never let anyone know it is her father who dies so shamefully.”

On Thursday afternoon Charles at last had visitors. The head warder ushered them into Charles’s cell, and remained outside with Hobson. Charles gazed blankly at a small dark lady in mourning and a chubby man also dressed in black.

“Oh, my poor uncle,” cried the lady, staring around the cell and at Charles in horror. “Don’t you know me? Anna Maria Petre! Your brother James’s daughter.”

“Why yes, niece -- ” said Charles after a silence. “ ‘Tis kind of you to visit me. I see you are affrighted. ‘Tis too bad you are affrighted.” He gave her a dim vague smile, returned to contemplation of a flea which was hopping zigzag up the damp stone wall.

Lady Petre shook her head dolefully. She had rushed to London when she heard of the sentence. Since then she had been staying in Essex Street with Viscountess Primrose, who was an open and influential Jacobite. The two ladies had brought to bear all the pressure that they could on Charles’s behalf. Lady Petre had even gone to the Duke of Newcastle. The Duke hemmed and hawed, he was excessively polite, he apologized, he regretted, his hands were tied, he understood the pain the prisoner’s family must suffer, but the King was adamant. The subject could not be reopened. Lady Petre knew that she had failed, and from bitter experience she knew that her religion, and Charles’s, contributed to the failure. As it had also been a factor in her father’s execution, here from this very Tower.

It had cost Anna Maria a great deal of misery to come and say farewell to her uncle, and now that she saw him -- hopeless, dreary, not quite clear in his wits -- she wanted to get away as fast as possible. But first she must discharge her duty. “I’ve brought you my chaplain, Uncle Charles,” she said. “He’ll lodge nearby, and has permission to visit you. At this dreadful time you must turn for comfort to the only Source of comfort. Go to your Saviour, Uncle, ask Him to forgive your sins. Think on the agonies that He endured for our sakes. Shut your heart up in His, and pronounce with Him the great words, ‘Father, Thy Will be done!’ “

Charles looked around at her earnest frightened face, her solemn brown eyes like her mother’s. “The Saviour,” he said, “did not suffer such a dreadful death as I will. They left
His
body in one piece, so that there was something to rise at the Resurrection.”

Anna Maria recoiled. She looked helplessly towards the priest, waiting for him to rebuke this blasphemy. He was a well-fed portly little Frenchman whom she had brought along when she returned to England and married Lord Petre. To the few Catholics at the Petre seat in Essex he was known as Mr. Dupont, not his own name, but one they could pronounce. He had always led a comfortable chaplain’s life in great houses. Nothing had prepared him for the ordeal he saw here awaiting him. He cleared his throat and said,
“Ecoutez, mon fils,
there must be penitence, there must be humility. We shall pray together that the Blessed Virgin may bring you by Her grace to a better state of mind.”

“You
pray, Father, if it amuses you,” said Charles. “Leave
me
alone!” He returned to the contemplation of the flea, which had got stuck in a tiny crevice and was struggling.

Anna Maria and the priest exchanged despairing looks. She stooped and kissed her uncle on the cheek. He did not move. They went out, Anna Maria weeping, the priest’s cherubic face very grave.

The next day, Friday, December 5, the priest came again and found Alec in the cell, about to leave. Charles was sitting as before, staring at the wall.

“Any news?” Father Dupont whispered to Alec, who shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

The little priest sighed. He went to Charles and gripped his shoulder, shaking it slightly.
“Mon fils,”
he said with all the sternness that his squeaky voice could muster, “bestir yourself. You were born and raised a Catholic. You know that you are steeped in sin, for which you must repent, and ask forgiveness before it is too late.”

Charles gave an angry shrug which displaced the priest’s hand.

Father Dupont bit his lips, his pink cheeks grew redder.
“Doux Jesu et Sainte-Vierge, aidez-moi!”
he prayed. He had never seen a Catholic who was not devoutly penitent, nor ever seen anyone approach death without a holy resignation. He tried again.

“I understand they’ve deprived you of the symbols of our Faith. I’ve brought you them.” He tendered a silver rosary and crucifix, put them on Charles’s knee, when he didn’t move. “And here is something else,” said the priest, more sharply. He held out towards Charles a porcelain statuette of the Virgin, an exquisite French piece; the sky-blue robe and gilt hair were translucent, every detail of the tiny face under a starry crown was clearly modeled, the downcast eyes, the slightly smiling mouth, the expression of serenity and pity.

Charles did look at the statuette, he looked for some moments. “ ‘Tis a bit like Jenny,” he said.

The priest was shocked. He snatched away the figure and put it carefully on the table. “I do not know who Jenny may be,” he cried, “and I assure you that irreverence will only compound your sins! Has it not occurred to you that you are to die on
Her
feast day, the Feast of Her Conception? That She might therefore hold you in especial tenderness, that Her ears might open to your prayers, if you will only say them.”

Charles made a furious gesture, he turned at last towards the priest. “No prayer of mine has ever been answered. And I’ve lost the habit. Father Dupont, damn it -- will you
go!
Leave me be! I’ve enough to bear without your pesterings!”

The little priest flushed again, feeling helpless and incompetent, trying to subdue dislike for this rude, obdurate man he was trying to help.
“Bien”
he said in a trembling voice. “I will go, though not until I ask you what your noble brother must think of you, as he looks down from heaven! What despair he must feel!”

The priest whirled and banged on the door for the warder to unlock it.

Charles bowed his head when the door clanged shut and he was alone again. Despair. The word reverberated in his ears, like the toll of a passing bell. Des-pair. Des-pair. Des-pair. Beneath the tolling of the bell, and louder than the bell could ever be, he heard another sound that was like the rush of water. Devil water flowing, flowing, rising ever higher, swirling now inside the cell. The swirl of inky fetid waters, waters that would drown, yet not
quite
drown, only suffocate a little, so that through the waters one could see and smell one’s own burning flesh, could feel the wrenching agony of the disjointing knife on arms and legs, while the jeering, evil faces watched and laughed and cheered for the Devil water which flowed around, yet did not touch them.

“Stop it! For God’s sake, stop it!” Charles shouted to the waters which were roaring through the cell. He got up, the rosary and crucifix fell to the rushes, he did not heed them. He strode back and forth from wall to window, back and forth, the ice-sweat dripping from his forehead.