Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 .. (39 page)

"My own sweet!" he murmured through tears.

A discreet knock made him turn. Young Joe brought in some prisoners to remove the tub and its dirty contents. Ram told him to set out food and wine and then to go to the surgeon. "What he gives you, bring me secretly," he whispered. With studied formality, he poured two brandies and proffered one to Carla. " 'Twill revive you," he urged and she took it gladly.

When they were alone, he led her to the table and watched how her eyes sparkled at sight of the food. "Come, madam, no ceremony, I beg." He refilled her glass. Laugh! Keep her thoughts off tomorrow! Talk of the past—anything! Pray for the reprieve! . . . But if it fails? . , . Where's that laudanum? . . . Would it be wise to use it? . . . Suppose chance comes to escape? No, best not use it.

When she'd eaten—he himself pecked like a bird—he made her sit on the bed and drew up a chair beside her. He talked, airily at first, then urgently as he prepared her for the idea of escaping.

"No," she refused. "No, to flee would be but to live hunted and afraid. Let me go in peace."

"We'll escape together!" he cried. "There's safety for us somewhere."

She shook her head. "Time enough for you to flee should your name be on the Report. Even if 'twere possible, do ye think I'd ruin your life by going with ye, I, a common whore and you a fine gentleman?"

More rapping. He went impatiently to open the door. The ordinary stood in the threshold, smiling unctuously, a writing tablet in his hand. "Sir, your fine humanity is vastly praiseworthy," he began, "yet the poor doomed creature needs the comfort which only a man of God may provide." Slipping past, he went to Carla. "My poor sinning sister, time draws nigh for ye to seek the Almighty's for-

giveness." Ignoring her revulsion, he took out an inkhom and quill. "As I've already told ye, you can find Redemption only by confessing."

"I'll not have ye writing a broadsheet on me!" she cried. "I know ye, with your foul 'Dying Confession of the Notorious Whore and Murderess Carla Rowton, Sixpence a Sheet!' Begone, I'll make my peace with my Maker my own way!"

"My poor erring sister—" But then fingers gripped the cleric's throat.

"Go! Priest or not, go or—!" Ram was quivering. Faugh, a man of God fattening on such things! "Here!" He dropped gold into his hand and pushed him out, just as Young Joe returned.

The lad gave him a small bottle. "Not too much at a time, sir, the surgeon says," he whispered.

"Leave me, I need nothing more. Go home and return tomorrow." If escape had to be made, he didn't want the boy in it.

"Can't I help, sir?" the lad muttered. "I've sharp eyes and perchance I could drop some o' that stuff in the turnkey's grog."

Ram was tempted. "Come back later," he conceded. If he could change Carla's mind, perhaps she could be smuggled out in Joe's clothes.

But when, alone once more, he reverted to the plan, she refused almost angrily. "Lad, I've had no easy life and I'm weary. What matters a rope and no ground below? I've seen men die as often as you. Some went hard, in fear and pain. I'm beyond both. I want only rest." She smiled wanly. "For the likes of me, the Book says Hell awaits. But I'm in Heaven now, as I never dreamed to be. Oh, Ram, why did we have to grow up?"

He thought she welcomed death because she had loved her husband, but when he asked her, she cried bitterly: "That pimping prig! I hated his soul! He sent me on the streets when I thought by marriage to escape such things. A sly cove, he was, who posed as a gentleman the better to steal and cheat!" She was so stirred he hurriedly gave her more brandy. "I'd ha' left him long since," she went on, "but he never gave me a farthing I could keep. That's why I fought him. We'd gone to a masque to prig the pockets of the gulls. I spotted one dressed like a Turk, with real jewels and—"

"Was that you?" he gasped. "Oh, my God!"

"You—you the Turk?" She stared at him, horrified. "And I prigged from you!" Sobs racked her. When at last she could speak, she went on woodenly: "I knew the spray was real and I tried to palm it and say I'd missed it when the Turk—you!—was so quick shoving a pistol in Jack's belly. After I'd fenced it, I was going away—anywhere. But he found it on me and beat me sorely. I hit back and—he fell."

He was half crying, half spitting oaths. If only he'd recognized her instead of Annie! He put his arm around her. 'Toor Carla, poor Carla!" he comforted, as if they were children still.

Her head rested on his shoulder and for a while both were lost in the past. But there came a handbell ringing in the press yard below and a man chanting dolefully: "You prisoners who for wickedness and sin, after many mercies shown you are now appointed to die tomorrow in the forenoon, give ear and understand that tomorrow morning the greatest hell of Saint Sepulchres shall toll for you in form and manner of a passing bell as used to be tolled for those who are on the point of death, to the end that all godly people may pray —"

They both shivered and she put fingers over her ears. "Give me brandy." She gulped it down.

Once more there was knocking. This time it was Flint. "Guv'nor regrets no reprieve's possible." He looked Ram full in the face. "An' there's an armed watch outside here." He locked the door after him.

Not even bribes! Ram steeled himself. He must treat her now as a dear friend who was about to die peacefully abed. But the laudanum—at least that!

It was growing dark and he lighted candles. She lay back on the bed watching him.

"Tell me what ye've done all these years. 'Twill pass the time most pleasantly."

He forced himself to tell of India and of his adventures there, and she listened, entranced. "Now it's your turn to tell," he ended, crossing to the brandy bottle. His back to her, he dripped a little of the drug into her glass.

Meg had died—of a pox in some German state—she said. For years she herself had wandered across Europe, following the only trade she knew. She, too, had become infected, she admitted, but was cured by an Italian doctor, who then made her his mistress. Chance came to travel to Britain. "Wasn't I Welsh Meg's brat? It was my home

—besides I hoped to find you." She'd even gone afoot all the way to Dalesview. "But when I saw that great house and all the fine horses and cattle, I was afeared ye wouldn't want to see me." Returning to London, she had gradually sunk into the depths.

"But I swore I'd stay clean. That's why I married. I'd never have looked at another man but Jack, if he hadn't drove me to it. All it got me was his blows and a month in Bridewell to 'correct my morals' —I still bear lash scars on my back. Love, give me more drink." Her speech was becoming slurred.

This time he added a larger amount. Carla! Carla! Her name was throbbing in his brain. Even without the laudanum, the brandy was potent. Soon she'd sleep and he'd watch over her. A death watch!

Wlien he brought the drink, her eyes brightened and she took his hand. "Do you remember how last we met? Ye saved me then, as a gallant knight should. Did I reward ye well? 'Twas all I could give."

He dropped on his knees and put his arms around her waist. "Dear heart, I remember well."

She hid her face against his shoulder. "Ram," she said in a small voice. "Will ye take me again? I'm sound, as God's my judge. Oh, lad, I love ye so!"

If it was hard for her to undress with the fetters around her ankles, neither knew it. It was as if they were back in the cart, with Meg and Scotch Nan washing shirts outside and old Dobbin munching grass near by. Time for bed!

She began to giggle as he undressed in turn. " 'Tis most immodest of me to wear iron abed to my lover. I trust 'twill not discommode ye?"

She wore only the fetters and their connecting chain. No, something else. The strange stone on its thin silver chain around her neck.

"You still have it!" he pointed, and she laughed.

"Aye. Many's the time an empty belly's tempted me to sell it, but 'tis of small value. Besides, I loved it." Her arms went toward him. "Oh, Ram, it's so right to be with ye now!"

During the night he gave her more drugged brandy, until he felt she was really no longer aware of anything. Yet later she rallied and sat up, fumbling with the silver chain.

"Help me," she mumbled. "Wear it always f'r Carla."

Gently he transferred the thin chain and its stone to his own neck.

"rm glad," she whispered, her eyes glazed. "Now gi' me more brandy and love me once more. The night passes—fast."

Once she began moaning and muttering of things long past, some of them terrible; yet constantly she reverted to Cart, Dobbin and Regiment. He himself had drunk so much that even without laudanum he could barely remain awake. We all must die, he kept reminding himself. She'll know little about it. But don't let her fear. God, if she'd awaken, I'd give her more of the stuff! He tried to pour a strong mixture of drug and brandy down her throat but her gagging lost most of it.

Then his eyes closed and he seemed to have slept only a moment when he was being shaken. Dull light streamed through the window.

It was Flint, leering down at their nudity and so obviously thinking the "Capting" was one of those strange coves.

Tight-lipped, Ram dressed. There was movement in the doorway. Young Joe was peering in anxiously. Ram beckoned to him. Only his own people should touch her now.

"Help me dress her." Together, they pulled her shift over her head, drew on her gown and laced her stays. Her head lolled and she muttered broken words.

The ordinary ventured in, wearing his canonicals. He wanted to be officious, but the guineas Ram had given him—far more than he could have made by printing Carla's "Dying Confession"—made him nervously servile.

"Others need you—go!" Ram bade him, and he obeyed.

She was ready.

"Joe, take her other side." Ram's voice had taken on a military harshness. "Precede us, gentlemen, we'll not delay."

Slowly, her feet dragging, the chains clanking on the floor, they half carried her into the passage and down the stairway. They entered the Stone Hall, which was now crowded by officials and curious prisoners. The four condemned men had already gone.

Kane came up, scrutinized her carefully, nodded and turned to Ram. "A mourning coach awaits. She'll not be aware of anything. Bring her to the stone."

The Newgate bell was tolling, answered by St. Sepulchre's. At the stone, the Four Partners were waiting with tools.

"This way," Flint beckoned, and Ram and Young Joe brought her to it. One of her feet was lifted upon it and a partner began hammer-

ing out the gyve's rivets. Then the other was freed. Ram looked at her face. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing stertorously.

"Stand away." Flint took one of her arms, while his fellow turnkey took the other. They half carried her toward the lodge.

Ram gazed after her, willing himself to remain without thought.

Her legs buckled. Flint's confrere grabbed her arm so roughly that she moaned.

Something snapped in Ram's brain.

"Carla!"

"Escape! Escape!" voices yelled. "Watch him!"

Red danced before his eyes.

"CARLA!"

His head burst and the red turned to black. Black . . . !

There was no trial for Ram that day. Suffering from a brain concussion—for which the Partner who had flailed him with Carla's gyves was demoted back to being a mere felon—he lay for weeks near death; even his lucid moments tortured by imaginings of Carla's pitiful end. But at last, thanks to Joseph and Kane, he mended.

Kelton came with mixed news. The trial would now come up in Trinity Sessions, late in May. The cutpurse Ram wounded had named four accomplices, but these were now all on their way to India.

"An H.E.I.C. trick!" Ram groaned. "No news of the Morgans?"

"None, though we found the half-built house in Wales. But don't fret over those kidnaped rogues. We've still the important one safe."

"Where is there that's safe?"

"Here in Newgate. 'Twas easy to have stolen goods 'found' on him. He'll make a good witness. If we win, his 'accuser' will fail to appear against him. If we lose—well, he's small loss to the world." Kelton added that he was keeping Sir Joel and Murray informed.

A letter from Will made Ram hope the Dalesview folk had read of his peril and were offering sympathy, but Will merely wrote again of the fortune to be made in mining lead. So Ram sent him a draft for 2,000 guineas and said nothing of his danger. He had Kelton draw up his will. His uncle was his heir and—one never knew.

During the next weeks he walked daily in the Press Yard, received friends and worried about Annie. Had Fred murdered her—or what?

Trinity Term began. Two days before Ram was to appear, Murray

came bleakly. Sir Joel, it seemed, was suddenly ill and couldn't plead. Further, every other leading barrister the Scot had approached was also ill, out of town or on another case.

"You've a terrible enemy," he warned. "Mind, I'd welcome facing the Crown's counsel alone, but I've never before pleaded a murder case."

"What can we do?" Ram felt his neck depended upon the answer.

"Let Mr. Murray defend ye, he'll save ye!" Kelton insisted. "Nor have I been idle. Every news sheet speaks of ye. Too, I've a list of your friends and in your name I've invited 'em to attend."

Ram had no knowledge of law, but he did know that missing witnesses, an unfledged counsel and the H.E.I.C.'s grudge made poor odds.

On the morning of the trial, Pitt arrived with his minions. He apologized that the accused must be fettered and that Ketch must go with him, carrying a fine cord to tie his thumbs should the senior judge put on the black cap.

Ram shivered as the gyves were riveted on. Would they be knocked off in the Stone Hall, with the cart waiting? He stared loathingly at Ketch, who had put the noose around Carla's neck.

His chain clanking, he was led out through the Press Yard. The street was crowded—Hilary's doing—and a ragged cheer went up.

"They ain't agin ye. Captain." Flint gauged the mob with a practiced eye. "No dead cats ner nothink." He pointed ahead. Outside the Old Bailey sessions house, coaches and chairs were disgorging modish people. The cheering grew louder.