shoving an old dirty news-sheet at Charles. “The Earl of Winton’s got out of the Tower!”
“What!” cried Charles gaping. “But I thought he was beheaded! “Tis past the date for it!”
“Well, look,” said Errington. Charles, in the dim guttering candlelight, peered at several lines of print. It appeared that on August 4, George Seton, Earl of Winton, had contrived to saw through his iron window bars with a watch spring, being of a mechanical turn of mind and having pursued low trades like blacksmithing in his youth. Under cover of night he had somehow crept down the walls and swum the moat. Nor had he yet been recaptured.
“Ah-h-h,” said Charles on a long breath. The two men stared at each other silently. Charles looked around the dungeon, as he had many times. The stone walls were three feet thick, there were no windows, no ventilation but the fireplace (which was barred at the chimney breast), and a little grilled hole in the wall which gave onto the passage. A turnkey stood always inside the door, which was locked and bolted. Another turnkey was outside in the passage. Between here and the cells were many barred doors, with warders stationed at each of them.
“No use,” agreed Errington in a whisper, having followed Charles’s thoughts. “Nor in our cells.”
Charles tightened his lips and gave a discouraged grunt. Well he knew, from repeated investigation, how escape-proof Newgate cells were. If one did manage to saw the window bars nothing was gained, since no head could force through the five-inch-wide slit. As for the chimney in his cell, it was not only barred, but was too small to admit the tiniest of chimney sweeps.
“If they’d let us in the Press Yard again,” muttered Charles.
“They won’t. Not after Mackintosh broke out.”
“There’d be only one way then,” said Charles. He put his hand in his pocket and jingled the few shillings that were there.
“ ‘Twould take a fearful lot,” said Errington sighing. “And even then ‘twouldn’t work now. Pitts is scared, and the turnkeys too, they’d not risk it. Anyway I’ve not got it.”
“Nor I,” said Charles scowling. Ann’s hundred guineas, had been faithfully brought by Alec in driblets, since it would naturally be dangerous for any large amount to be kept here. The guineas were almost gone. Five months of food, drink, and tips, besides provision for Alec outside, had absorbed them. “I’ll have to write Ann again,” said Charles. “She can’t mean me to rot here on bread and water -- or is she waiting for Tyburn Tree to save her the trouble!”
“That’s unfair,” said Tom in his judicial way. “Her ladyship would send to you if she could. She has nothing but what her parents can give her, and they are much embarrassed now.”
“I know,” said Charles. And besides, Ann had borne her posthumous child -- a girl -- in May and was still quite ill. Charles rose abruptly and walked to the corner latrine. When he came back he sat down again on the bench beside Tom. “Did you know there’s a small iron door, over there?” he asked in an excited whisper. “Hidden in the angle behind the privy. I felt it, though it’s too dark to see. Where could it lead?”
Tom frowned in concentration. “Can it be the women’s prison? Yet, no, I think not. That’s further back beyond the Press Yard. This ‘Castle’ we’re in is the oldest part, though I don’t know what it adjoins.”
“Uh-m,” said Charles thoughtfully. “Move that candle to the edge of the table. Pretend to read. I must have more light in there.” Tom obeyed. Charles started back towards the latrine. The turnkey called out sharply, “What ails ye, sir? Got the gripes? For sure it can’t be the gleet, since ye’ve ‘ad no chance to pox yourself in many a month!”
This sally was greeted with laughter by the other prisoners, two well-dressed rogues who had been conferring in hoarse whispers.
Charles shrugged and grinned. “You’re quite a wit, warder,” he said. “But d’you wonder a man should leak a bit after this foul drink you sell us?” And he retreated again to the niche.
The turnkey, whose name was Black, dubiously watched him go. He had been warned to keep a sharp eye on Mr. Radcliffe, who was by far the most important of the state prisoners. A big swaggering young fellow he was too, tricky no doubt, and should be in leg irons, no matter his rank or pocketbook. Black was one of the new turnkeys, hired over Mr. Pitts’s head as a result of the escape scandals. He was eager to succeed at his job, ambitious to be Keeper himself someday, likely as not.
Charles came back and joined Errington, though as Black was obviously listening he said nothing until the turnkey was called to the door. Then Charles muttered, “It’s no good, of course. I could see a little. The door’s all rusted into the wall, bolted fast, I can’t budge the bolts, locked too -- and I suppose from t’other side -- wherever that is.”
As Errington did nothing but nod glumly, Charles got up again and walked over to the two ordinary prisoners. They looked up from their beer mugs in surprise. The short pock-marked one -- scarcely more than a youth -- quirked a sandy eyebrow at Charles. The older man, who was known as “Blueskin,” either from the denseness of his ill-shaven black beard or the tattooed anchors on his arms, said, “Damme, if ‘ere’s not one o’ the Jacks deigning to notice us common prigs!”
“Aye,” said Charles pleasantly, sitting down. “Why not? We’re all in the same boat.”
“Not us, mate!” said Blueskin tossing his greasy head. “We’ll be up at Old Bailey soon, then out o’ ‘ere, afore ye can sye ‘gammon.’ “
“How so?” asked Charles, fingering his remaining shillings and deciding to sacrifice one. “Have another beer?”
The offer accepted, and good will being thus engendered, Charles presently learned several facts about his companions. They were professional thieves, “gentlemen prigs,” as Blueskin asserted smugly. There wasn’t a house in London he couldn’t rifle, if he’d a mind to, said Blueskin, nor a watch, ring or snuffbox he couldn’t nab. This temporary inconvenience -- here Blueskin waved his dirty hand around the dungeon -- was the result of a little mishap. But they’d get off at their trial, no doubt of that. At very worst there might be a sentence of transportation to Virginia.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Charles enviously. Blueskin shrugged and winked and said it was a good thing to have a friend outside.
The turnkey, Black, listened to what he could of this conversation, though he was not interested in Blueskin’s boastings, which he knew to be true enough. These two prigs were of the gang run by Jonathan Wild, the “Thieftaker.” Wild would get them off, as he had so many. By bribery, false witness, and knowledge of loopholes in the law, Wild had built up an elaborate and lucrative machine. And yet he managed to present himself as the champion of the victimized public. Was a nobleman’s gold watch stolen? All that was needed was a plea to Jonathan Wild. Some days later the watch would be returned, and the Thieftaker rewarded for his good offices by a fee. Occasionally he produced a culprit to justify his title, but the victim, delighted to have his property back at small cost, seldom wished to prosecute. And if, as in the case of these two, any of Wild’s gang landed in jail, the subsequent trial was never in doubt. All of this was no business of Black’s. Nor could he see why Mr. Radcliffe should concern himself with members of the underworld. Black mulled it over and hovered near, but heard nothing suspicious. Charles uttered only encouraging grunts, while Blueskin told of his exploits. It was not until the turnkey had wandered to the beer keg to get himself a draught, that Charles casually brought out the question he had come over to ask.
“That wall,” he said, indicating the direction with his eyes, “would you know what’s on the other side? I take it you gentlemen are well acquainted with Newgate.”
“S’truth, mate,” agreed Blueskin. “I been in an’ out o’ the old Whit sence I was a tot. That’ll be the debtors’ prison, t’other side the wall. Me uncle was in there oncet.”
“Oh,” said Charles. “The debtors aren’t locked up as we are, are they?”
“Naw,” said Blueskin. “Lotta comin
g an’ going. Family and friends can visit any time. Like to change over, you sly young cat’s meat, eh?” Blueskin slapped Charles’s thigh, and chuckled.
“I would,” said Charles, and after a few more remarks he left the two alone.
From then on he thought a great deal about the little door. It prevented him from wondering, each time Muggles entered his cell, whether Pitts was surely behind with the summons to execution. It prevented him from brooding over Betty’s defection, and the whereabouts of Jenny. It almost prevented him from worrying over the state of his finances. But as Alec, who came every other day to shave him and bring him food, grew each time longer-faced and gloomier, Charles could not long ignore his poverty. They had already pawned Charles’s gold watch and silver snuffbox. Yet Charles was still in arrears to Mr. Pitts for payment of his private cell, and Muggles, untipped for a week, was growing surly.
One morning, Alec came in even more frowning and anxious. His woolen suit was shabby, his stockings darned, his dark brown hair tied back with tape. He put a basket of withered peaches on the table. “Got ‘em off a barrow in Covent Garden, sir,” he said shaking his head. “ ‘Twas all I’d pence for. I’ve been to Mr. Rodbourne, and he won’t advance anything. Says the Crown’s impounded all the estates, and if they hadn’t, each shilling must be saved for his young lordship -- and there’s the entail.”
Charles frowned. It was natural that Ann and the Webbs should fight for her children’s security, that all their concentration should be on the future of little John, now the titular fourth Earl of Derwentwater. Yet did they realize what the lack of cash would reduce Charles to? Leg irons, a handful of straw in a dungeon with some twenty vicious and diseased criminals, a crust of moldy bread from time to time, no drink except a dipperful of tainted slimy water.
Yes, they must realize this, since he had written it to them, but Charles guessed they had given him up for dead anyway. And that no pain this thought could cause them would be important after the pain of James’s death.
“Ye must write to Lady Mary Radcliffe, sir,” said Alec sighing. “ Tis the only hope. Mr. Rodbourne says he thinks she still has funds despite they’re stripping all the Catholics.”
“No use,” said Charles. “That old bitch ever hated me.”
“But you’re her nephew, sir,” Alex coaxed. “Her ladyship is strong for family ties. Pray, try it. I saved enough pennies for the post.”
“Oh Alec,” said Charles faintly, “you’re the only friend I’ve got. I dare not ask how you are subsisting now that I’ve failed to provide for you.”
“Never fear for me, sir,” said Alec with the ghost of his old jaunty grin. “Matter o’ fact, I’ve bedded in at Wapping wi’ Rob Wilson-- the lad from Northumberland. He’s got a job unloading coal at the docks, and has got me one. ‘Twill bring in a few shillings.”
Charles was stricken by this new proof of Alec’s loyalty. He thought of the old carefree days in London, when Alec dressed in dark satin suits, wore a tie-wig and discreetly laced hat, and was the perfect “gentleman’s gentleman”; when his hands were as white, his manner as debonair, and his amusements as sophisticated as his master’s.
“It’s degrading for you, Alec,” said Charles sadly. “How can you bear it!”
“Not hard at all, sir,” said Alec. “Rob he’s a fine canny lad. Sometimes he plays me the pipes, then we talk o’ the North -- of Tyneside, and -- Dilston.” Alec went on quickly as he saw his master wince. “As for the job. Well, Rob, he won’t go for a ‘prentice, won’t bind himself down for all he’s so young and able. He wants to make money, and buy himself land on Tyneside, set up for a squire someday and wipe the eye of Black Will Cotes-worth.”
“Cotesworth?” said Charles wondering, so far past was the time he had met the grim colliery owner, so far past seemed even the arrival of the bailiffs Cotesworth sent to Dilston to catch James last October. “So ‘tis Rob Wilson’s ambition to be a squire? Heaving coal at London docks scarce seems a step in that direction.”
“ ‘Tis all that we can find just now,” said Alec. “Needs must.” The valet’s eyes twinkled bravely, but his mouth was pinched, drawn into a lopsided smile.
Charles turned and went to the table. “I’ll write to Lady Mary,” he said. “I’ll write to her now.”
It was on Charles’s twenty-third birthday, Monday, September 3, that the bleakness of his life was lightened, though he awoke to despair. Pitts refused to extend further credit for the private cell, or to admit Alec again. Tomorrow Charles must move to the common dungeon. The privilege of the “Castle” had already been denied him, so he had no further opportunities to inspect the little door. Muggles never came near him except to shove a jug of filthy water into the cell. Charles had lived for two days on the sausage and bread Alec had brought on his last visit. From Lady Mary there had been no answer.
In the morning Charles marked off his calendar, and saw that it was his birthday, also that he had been nine months less six days in Newgate. There was nothing to read except tattered pages from the Bible the prison chaplain had left here long ago. And no light to read by. The last stub of candle burned out while he marked the calendar. Charles took to pacing his cell. Six paces this way, four that way. Every third time around he rewarded himself by pressing his face against the barred slit of window. Way up and beyond the massive stone wall outside he could see an inch of blue sky. Ever and again he interrupted his ritual to listen while St. Sepulchre’s bell bonged out the hour. At two o’clock he stopped pacing and lay down on the cot. There he finished the last crumbs of bread and sausage.
Shortly afterward he heard a noise outside his door; the raucous voice of Muggles, and the grating of the bolts. Pitts at last, Charles thought. To announce my execution tomorrow! For a second he was flooded with relief, and a wild desire to laugh; the next instant the relief vanished and Charles was shaken by a heart-pounding animal fear. His muscles locked and he sat rigid on the cot while the key turned and the door opened letting in light.
The turnkey came in with a candle, and gave a great laugh when he saw Charles staring at him. “Naow then, sir,” he said in a voice Charles had not heard in weeks. “Perk up! Wot a wye to greet a lydy!”
“Lady?” repeated Charles stupidly, still gazing past Muggles to find the figure of Pitts.
“Your sister!” said Muggles, and he bowed low, as Betty in her cloak, hood, and mask walked by him. “An’ a fine generous ‘earted lydy she is!”
Charles swallowed and stared at Betty, until the turnkey shut the door, then he said, “I scarce expected to see you again!”
She threw off her mask and cloak, and going to him took his hands in hers. “I couldn’t write, Charles. It wasn’t safe, and I didn’t know where Alec was. But, darling, I knew you weren’t in danger, and Charles --what is it?” She broke off. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“For months I longed and waited,” said Charles. “And then I ceased to think about you -- as you and others have ceased to think about me.”
Betty withdrew her hands, stung by the unfairness of this. Then she saw how thin he was, how pallid, and she remembered that he knew nothing of all that she had done for him.
“Listen, dear,” she said gently. “My father’s dead. He died July fourteenth, and we’ve all been in Oxfordshire, at Ditchley Park.”
“Jenny too?” asked Charles quickly. At times during the miserable broodings, he decided Betty had gone back on her word and got rid of Jenny.
“Of course, Jenny too,” she said beginning to understand. “The child is blooming, she loved the country -- oh, Charles, you couldn’t think I’d really forgot you when I -- every moment -- I -- even at my poor father’s funeral --” She broke off. Her golden-brown eyes misted. She put her hand to her mouth.
“Forgive me,” said Charles flushing. He took her hand and kissed it. “This world of black shadows -- I’ve lost my way. I’ve become a boor. My deepest sympathy, Betty, for the loss of your father.”
“Thank you,
” she whispered, so bemused by the touch of his lips on her hand, that it was with effort she went on. “I was his favorite child, and he left me a legacy. Several thousand pounds. Frank will administer most of it, of course, but I’ve managed to get a thousand now, for myself. George talked Frank into letting me have it.”
“George?”
“George-Henry, my eldest brother, who is now the Earl of Lichfield. Charles, he’s a friend to you, and he has not forgotten that we are kin and share a royal grandfather. During those weeks while we were at Ditchley, I told him a little about you. He’s in love with a Catholic himself -- Frances Hales. He’ll marry her now that Father’s gone. Do you see what a difference this makes?”
“Not entirely,” said Charles. “Except that you look much happier, and have come into money, which I’ve begun to see is an essential commodity.”
“But it’s for you, you idiot!” Betty cried. “What else would I want with a thousand pounds! It’s to get you out of here, and if it isn’t enough, George will give me more. I know it.”
“Holy Saint Mary,” Charles whispered, ashamed that he had doubted Betty, and feeling in his vitals the churning of a wild hope. “I don’t know--” he murmured. “It might work, yet, my dear girl, when could I pay you back -- and your husband -- won’t he question?”
She shook her head. Frank was easier to manage now. Not only because of his delight at her legacy, but the other thing. During the sequestered days of mourning at Ditchley, she had often wondered if her other lies for Charles were forgiven, since one of them had been so surprisingly made fact. She had not been pregnant in May when she told Frank so, yet she was now. No doubt of it, and Frank had not even questioned her premature revelation. Such womanish discrepancies did not interest him. And he had indulgently acceded to her wish to do as she pleased with a small part of her legacy. “Don’t worry about Frank,” Betty said quickly. “Think what’s to be done here. You must know a way . . .”