Devil Water (85 page)

Ever since the trial sympathy had been building up for Charles, who was an Englishman, who had once so cleverly escaped from Newgate, and was to be killed on a charge made thirty years ago in a different reign. When Charles emerged in a stately way from the mourning coach those hundreds who had come to view his ordeal let out a sympathetic cheer. He was dressed in his scarlet and black regimentals trimmed with flashing gold buttons and lace; his quilted waistcoat was lavishly embroidered; he wore white silk stockings, diamond buckles on his shoes, and the dashing black Spanish hat was topped by the jaunty white ostrich plume. He held the silver rosary in his hand.

Charles, smiling slightly, bowed to the officials and graciously acknowledged the cheers. He took a polite indifferent leave of Governor Williamson, who delivered him to the sheriffs and then immediately drove back to the Tower.

Charles looked up at the high scaffold, which was draped with black serge. It was not yet time to mount it. They had built a small, black-lined booth at the foot of the steps. Here Father Dupont waited. Charles went inside with the priest to receive the last rites. Alec stood outside the booth, tears streaming down his face. He had arranged a spot for Jenny to stand, where her father would surely see her. She stood on a doorstep of a house near the corner of Catherine Court. Her green cloak showed up vivid against the oaken door. Alec had accepted without question her desire to be here, as he was. He did not think of her at all. He thought of his master -- and so it had always been.

The crowd was silent while Charles and the priest were in the black booth. There was no movement except the occasional stamping of the guards’ horses. They waited.

At eleven o’clock as Charles left the Tower, Bella Potts was sitting in the empty taproom of the King’s Head polishing already spotless pewter tankards. Potts was ensconced in their snuggery, and she did not want his company just now. She polished and sighed, and sighed again, her florid face set into doleful lines.

She looked up angrily as a great dark hulking man walked in.

“We’re closed,” she snapped, then added “sir” because the intruder was dressed like a prosperous merchant.

“ ‘Tis not that,” said the man, in a heavy voice. “Are you the landlady?”

“Aye, I’m Mrs. Potts. What d’ye want?”

“I’m Robert Wilson,” he said. “Jenny Wilson is my wife.” Bella Potts set the pewter tankard down with a clatter. “Wuns and begock!” she whispered, her black eyes popping. “Ye don’t mean it! What’re ye doing in London?”

“I’ve been here a month,” he said. “I took the first ship I could from Virginia.”

“Then why, i’ the name o’ Gawd, ha’ ye not come to see her?”

“I was ashamed,” he said, clenching his hands, then letting them fall open. “Ashamed o’ the way I treated her, and yet more ‘shamed when I got here and found out --”

“Found out what?” asked Mrs. Potts sharply, since he seemed to have forgotten she was there.

“The money,” he said. “The three hundred and sixty pounds that bought my freedom and started me afresh. ‘Twas never mine. ‘Twas hers. Lord Lichfield never sold the house on Wigmore Row for -- me.

“Good Lord, man!” she cried impatiently. “I diwen’t knaw what ye’re speaking of, but if ‘tis hur-rt pride ye’re nursing, I’d remind ye that at times in life we mun all accept help fra’ others and that nobody stands by himsel’.”

“ ‘Tis true,” he said. “I know that now.”

“How did ye find Jenny?” asked Mrs. Potts. “How did ye knaw she was here?”

“A man told me where Alec Armstrong lodged. I had but to follow Alec to your market square, and then see where Jenny went.” Rob stared at the sanded floor. It was Willy Turner who had told him where Alec lodged, told him that and much more on the miserable day when Rob had returned from the mountains sober yet still crazy with resentment, certain that Jenny had left him for a glittering life of ease and aristocracy which her father would provide. Certain too that the Jacobites had won. Willy corrected him. He told Rob of Culloden, and he told him of the real danger Charles Radcliffe was in. Willy Turner lost his temper; he became a furious gadfly, he buzzed at Rob continually, until at last Rob saw that, far from having deserted him for a pampered life, Jenny herself might be in want and danger. Jenny whom he loved and whom he had tried to injure.

And he had sailed. Uncertain, suffering, often calling himself a fool. When he landed, he soon found how fearsome, how sternly-tragic Charles Radcliffe’s predicament really was. That, and the discovery of what he himself owed to Jenny, had prevented him from approaching her. Particularly as the first sight of her in the market square had stricken him. Her proud little head, her drawn, anxious face, the way she walked, the shabby old brown cloak, all these hurt him. He longed to rush towards her, to ask forgiveness, to protect and guard her from the lewd looks he saw men giving her. He did not dare. They had parted in hatred; and once, when she raised her left hand towards Alec, Rob saw that she did not wear her wedding ring.

Bella Potts broke the silence. She too had been thinking. “Ye’re afeared to come nigh Jenny, it seems, Mr. Wilson. An’ wi’ some reason I believe. Like most men ye thought only o’ yourself, and not o’ her. I’d like to knaw why ye’ve finally come terday?”

“Because her father is to be executed this morning and I thought that I must find out at last -- if as a friend -- as a friend, I could help her. She may not want to see me, but would you ask her?”

“I canna ask her,” said Mrs. Potts grimly. “She ha’ gone to Tower Hill.”

“What?” He stared at her. He moistened his lips. “What did you say?”

“That Jenny’s gone to Tower Hill to be near her faither when they -- they do it. He wanted her there, and naught I could say ‘Id stop her. ‘Tis wicked -- wicked. Forbye, Rob Wilson, here’s an-other-r thing ye divven’t knaw! Jenny is quick wi’
your
bairn, the poor lassie!”

“She is quick with child?” He gaped at Mrs. Potts. “Aye. Pull your wits about ye, man! And gan to Jenny! Ye may be sur-re she needs ye!”

Rob ran from the King’s Head. He sped through the London streets as he had not raced since he was a running footman. In the alleys and lanes through which he ran, he attracted scant attention. One sight was like another to the apathetic gin-soaked dwellers in the East End.

He ran down the Minories, and turned west for Tower Hill. On the black scaffold there was no one as yet, except the masked executioner, who stood waiting by the block and leaning on his long-handled axe. Rob pushed and shoved through the silent crowd behind the ring of Horse Guards. Still he could not find Jenny.

Rob had shouldered his way through half the circle towards the far buildings on the square, when the crowd stirred. They made a strange collective sound, part groan and part exultance. Charles Radcliffe had walked out from the booth and started to mount the scaffold, the priest following behind.

Rob paused. The brilliant scarlet figure climbed up on the scaffold. Rob’s keen farsighted eyes could see the features plain, the slight smile on the lips, the look of youth and swagger.

Charles saluted the executioner and said something to him, then turned and surveyed the crowd. Rob saw the smile broaden into one of relief and recognition. He followed the direction of Charles’s gaze and at last saw Jenny, her face, white and glistening like a candle, outlined against a house door.

Again Rob pushed and shoved, heedless of the curses and angry looks he produced. Still he did not quite reach Jenny.

Charles paid the executioner ten guineas, saying that he was a poor man, regretted there wasn’t more, and trusted that the axe was sharp. The coffin, covered with black velvet, stood open and ready on the scaffold. The sheriffs stood beside it.

Charles held up his hand almost as though in blessing, and he called out in ringing tones, “I’ll not weary you all by a harangue. I’ve but one thing to say -- I die a true, obedient, and humble son of the Catholic Apostolic Church, in perfect charity with all mankind, and a true well wisher to my dear country that can never be happy without doing justice to the best and most injured of kings -- James the Third. I die with sentiments of gratitude, respect, and love also for the King of France -- Louis the well-beloved . . . I recommend to His Majesty my dear family. I heartily repent of all my sins, and have a firm confidence to obtain pardon from Almighty God, through the merits of His blessed Son, Christ Jesus our Lord, to whom I recommend my soul.”

Charles kneeled down beside the block in prayer; all those on the scaffold, including the executioner, kneeled too. It was while Charles rose and the two warders started to divest him of his hat, wig, coat, and waistcoat that Rob finally reached Jenny.

She did not see him. Her face was a silver mask. Her breathing was like the tearing of silk. Her two hands were clamped tight around her throat, her unwinking eyes stared at the scaffold while the executioner rolled down the collar of Charles’s shirt.

Rob jumped to the step beside her. He grasped her head in his arm, his hand on her cheek, he forced her face against his shoulder.

“You shall
not
look!” he cried fiercely, and held her face pressed downward on his shoulder.

She made no sound. She went limp against him, nor tried to move.

It was Rob who watched the execution of Charles Radcliffe. He saw Charles cross himself and kneel down with composure, stretching his bare neck across the block. He saw Charles’s hand move in the signal. He saw the flashing of the axe under the sunlight as it descended. He saw the fountain spurt of crimson blood, the undertakers running with a red baize cloth to catch the head. He saw the still-quivering trunk stowed in the waiting coffin, the head also carried to the coffin. He saw the hearse draw up beside the scaffold and receive the coffin. The Horse Guards parted to let the hearse through, and it drove away towards Great Tower Street.

“ ‘Twas well done,” said a man who stood smoking a clay pipe near Rob. “A good death. I’ve seen ‘em falter, whimper, and shake like leaves on the scaffold.”

“Much better sport when they do,” said his companion in a fretful voice. “This is too soon over.” The men sauntered off. The square was rapidly clearing.

“Can you walk, Jenny?” said Rob bending down. “Just until I find a hackney.”

She raised her face from his shoulder. “I think so,” she said. She showed no astonishment at seeing the anxious, tender hazel eyes peering into hers. She felt no astonishment. She felt nothing.

They walked a block and Rob hailed a hackney. Soon they arrived at the King’s Head. Bella Potts was waiting. She took one look at Jenny and said, “We’ll get her to bed!”

Limp-jointed as a puppet, Jenny let them undress her. She swallowed the dose of laudanum Mrs. Potts gave her. Rob put her in the bed, and she shut her eyes when he told her to. She went at once to sleep.

“I’ll stay nigh her till she wakes,” said Rob.

“It may be hours,” said Mrs. Potts. “I hope it is.”

Rob nodded. “I’ll stay nigh her.” He sat down beside the bed.

All that afternoon and all of the night Rob kept vigil. Mrs. Potts brought him food and beer. Several times she examined Jenny, and each time sighed in relief. “She’ll do,” whispered Mrs. Potts. “She and the babby, as well. There’s na sign o’ tr-rouble. Ye’ve the sturdy North Country stock to thank for that. What Jenny’s been through’d kill any o’ your finicking, wambly fine ladies.”

“Aye,” said Rob. “My North Country lass.” He looked down at her as she slept, her golden hair spread out on the pillow, her face so young and fair -- a rose flush on the cheeks. “She’s the oak and the ash and the bonny ivy-tree all together,” he said.

Mrs. Potts grunted in some astonishment, and left the room. Rob bent over and kissed Jenny on the forehead.

The sun was struggling through the December murk when Jenny finally awoke. She lay still for some moments, idly watching a flickering ray of sunlight on the plaster wall. It was warm and snug in the bed. Peaceful. Delicious to be awake after the bad dream she’d had, to awaken and find that one need not fear the ghastly phantasms of nightmare. She yawned, and turning a little saw that someone was sitting by the bed. A man.
Rob!

She struggled up. “What are you doing here!” she cried.

“I’m here to take care of you, Jenny.” He spoke calmly, without emphasis. “You’re my wife and I love you. You once loved me and shall again.”

“It’s true then, what happened today -- ” she cried in horror, clutching at the quilt. “I thought I’d dreamed it. I thought it was nightmare!”

“It happened yesterday,” he said with gentle firmness. “It is over. I wish you not to talk about it yet. Right now you must eat.” He gave her a bowl of bread and milk Mrs. Potts had left on the table.

“I don’t want it,” she said piteously. “I can’t eat.”

“Aye, but you can. Start in and see.”

She obeyed him as she always had when he used that quiet assured tone. And he was right. She found that she was ravenous. She finished all and leaned back on the pillow. “Rob, did I see you behind me in Saint Paul’s?”

“You did, hinny. I’ve followed you often.”

“Why did you come to London?” She added with sudden realization, “How could you leave the plantation! What’ll happen to it!”“

“It must take its chances,” he said smiling. “Willy can run Snowdon very well. As to
why
I came, I’ve told you. For love, I followed you across the ocean, as you once did me.”

“Oh, Rob -- ” she whispered. She hid her face in her hands, and gave a convulsive sob.

“Weep then, my lass,” he said tenderly. “ ‘Twill do you good.”

She cried then, though not hard. He waited silently until she had done.

“When you’re able,” he said, “you should get up and make ready whatever is needful for departure.”

“Departure,” she repeated, her eyes gone frightened. “What do you mean, Rob?”

“I’ve passage for us both on the
Carteret,
which sails from London tomorrow. I took it last week. I had little hope that you’d be with me, but now I think you will.”

“Rob -- I can’t go -- not now!” she cried. “I must go north. To Northumberland, to Dilston!”