Wide is the Water

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘Oh, I hope it’s the British.’ Ruth had finished dressing and was swiftly braiding her hair.

  ‘So do I. Except for Monsieur Brisson. I wish I knew what he meant to do.’ She must stop talking of Brisson, stop thinking of him.

  ‘I expect that’s him now,’ said Ruth, at a quick tapping on the door.

  ‘Come in.’ Mercy fastened her last button as the door opened. It was the Dutch sailor who usually brought their meals, looking frightened, gesturing them to follow him.

  ‘Lucky we dressed.’ Mercy ran a comb through her growing curls. ‘Are you ready, Ruth?’

  They found Captain van Loon at his big desk, angrily biting his nails. Across the cabin from him a very young man was lounging against the wall. English uniform. A lieutenant, Mercy saw, with a swift breath half of relief, half of fright. No sign of Brisson.

  ‘Ladies.’ The officer straightened up and made them a courteous bow. ‘The captain here tells me a strange tale about you. You are Mrs. Purchis and Miss Paston?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mercy and Ruth bobbed token curtsies as he spoke their names. ‘But by what right do you ask it?’ Mercy went on.

  ‘Ah – rights. Must I remind you ladies as I have the captain here that we British are fighting a war. You ladies are Americans, he tells me. Enemies. So – when he took you on board, did Captain van Loon take American cargo too?’

  ‘Indeed he did not,’ said Mercy. ‘And if he had, I do not see what affair it would be of yours. This is a neutral ship – is it not?’ she asked, struck by a sudden qualm,

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He smiled at her. ‘We are not at war with the Netherlands – yet. But neutral is as neutral does. If Captain van Loon will go out of his way to pick up an American party from the Jerseys, what other contraband may he not have on board?’

  ‘None that I know of,’ said Mercy. ‘Miss Paston and I came on board in a rowboat, with one portmanteau between us. Not room for much contraband there.’

  ‘And you know nothing of the rest of the cargo?’

  ‘Of course not. Except that it came from the West Indies. And that it is no concern of yours.’

  ‘Rum and sugar,’ he said meditatively. ‘A tempting haul, ma’am. As to its being my concern, you speak as an authority?’

  ‘Of course not. I merely meant …

  ‘That this is a neutral ship. Quite so. You know a good deal about the sea, Mrs. Purchis. And you spell your name with an i?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her hands clasped together. ‘Do you mean – can you mean that you know something about my husband? Captain Purchis of the Georgia?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Everyone in England knows about him.’

  ‘About – what can you mean?’ She clutched Ruth’s hand.

  ‘I’m sorry to give you bad news, ma’am, but when I left England your husband was in the Tower, suspected of complicity in the Gordon riots.’

  ‘The Tower? The Gordon riots? I don’t understand—’

  ‘And I have not time to explain. You are hoping to make your way to England, Captain van Loon says. I will take you if you wish it. I’m on my way to Portsmouth. I can give you ten minutes to get ready.’ He turned back to Captain van Loon.

  ‘The Tower of London.’ Back in their cabin, Mercy sank down on her cot. ‘That’s where they put traitors, Ruth!’ It was a terror that had lurked at the back of her mind ever since she had first heard of Hart’s capture. In the first years of the long war American privateersmen and even sailors in the regular American navy had been treated as rebel subjects by the British. Where captured soldiers had been eligible for exchange, sailors had been left to rot in the notorious British gaols. It was only after John Paul Jones had captured the entire crew of the Drake and held them for exchange that Parliament had passed and act allowing the exchange of naval prisoners. She had learned of this almost at the same time as she heard of Hart’s capture, and it had helped soften the worst of the blow. But now. ‘The Gordon riots?’ she said to Ruth. ‘What in the world?’

  ‘We must hope to find out when we reach the British ship.’ Ruth was busy packing their portmanteau. ‘Dear Mercy, you’ve been so brave! Don’t lose hope now.’ And then, as Mercy still sat gazing listlessly down at her own hands: ‘Just think how grateful you should be to Charles Brisson. We will be in England in a day or two. You will be able to speak for Hart at his trial if it should come to that.’

  ‘We may be too late,’ said Mercy dully. While she had been dreaming those uncontrollable dreams of Charles Brisson, Hart had been in the Tower of London, in danger of his life. It would serve her richly right if she never saw him again.

  It was Ruth who took the lead as they were dangerously transferred by bosun’s chair and small boat to the British frigate Endymion. The British sailors seemed friendly enough, and something about Mercy’s white silence subdued the worst of the ribaldry that might have greeted the unexpected appearance of two captive young ladies. Alone at last in the small cabin assigned to them on the Endymion, with a marine on duty outside, Mercy spoke at last. ‘The Gordon riots,’ she said. ‘The Tower. My poor Hart. If only I knew. What can they have been, Ruth? And why should he have been involved?’

  ‘I only wish we knew,’ said Ruth patiently. ‘But no doubt Captain Kemp will tell us when we see him.’

  ‘If we ever do. We’re prisoners, do you realize?’

  ‘I’m just as happy to be guarded,’ said Ruth. ‘The sailors were kind enough, but did you see how they looked at us?’

  ‘Dear Ruth!’ Mercy took her hand. ‘I’m ashamed. You are being so brave, and I can think of nothing but myself.’

  ‘Nothing but Hart,’ said Ruth. ‘That’s a different matter. But, Mercy,’ – she had been casting round for comfort – ‘surely being in the Tower almost guarantees Hart’s safety for the time being. It makes him a state prisoner, does it not? And that must mean a state trial, which I am sure would take a long time. What a blessing that we came. You will be there in time to speak for him.’

  ‘What shall I say?’ Mercy had never been so close to despair.

  Twenty-four hours of close confinement dragged by, and Mercy subsided into a silent trance of anxiety. At last, early next afternoon, a message summoned them to dine with Captain Kemp.

  They found him alone in his surprisingly luxurious cabin. ‘Mrs. Purchis, Miss Paston.’ He greeted them kindly enough, an elderly, sharp-featured man in an immaculate uniform. ‘I am sorry to have left you in suspense for so long.’ He turned to Mercy. ‘I understand that Lieutenant Fellows told you about your husband.’

  ‘That he’s in the Tower. Yes?’ She had taken the seat he offered her and leant forward eagerly. ‘Captain Kemp, I do beg you will explain. What were the Gordon riots?’

  ‘A terrible business,’ he told her gravely. ‘Half of London burnt and terrorised by the mob, from what I have heard. Started by Lord George Gordon, a madman, if ever there was one. I served with him when he was in the navy. Crazy as they come! All kinds of mad ideas about equal rights for the men. He didn’t last long in the service, I can tell you. Went into Parliament while he was serving. Got a bee in his bonnet about the Catholics. Thought they were going to take over the country: new Popish plot, something like that. Crazy business.’ He gestured to his man to pour wine. ‘The mob got out of hand, of course. He never could control men. Terrorised Parliament, burnt all the Catholic chapels in town, destroyed God knows how much property. Lord Mansfield’s house, Sir George Savile’s, Mr. Malo’s distillery, the prisons – I don’t know what else. Dreadful business. Makes one grateful to be a sailor. Discipline. Order … More wine?’

  ‘No, thank you. But my husband. Where does he come into it?’

  ‘Baffling business.’ He held out his glass to be refilled. ‘Somebody organised that mob. Must have. No one knows who. Came pretty close to a bloody revolution. Six days of it. Damned close-run thing. I beg your pardon. So – who behind it? One obvious answer is you Americans. Everything to gain by a British revolution. And your husband
in the thick of things, ma’am. Sorry to have to tell you. Oh – made out a hero at first. Rescued a young lady, cousin or something … Death or worse, that kind of thing. Ah, let’s dine.’ His servant had appeared with a steaming tureen.

  ‘A hero, you say?’ Mercy prompted him when they were seated at the highly polished table and the soup had been served.

  ‘That was the story. Saved this cousin of his from the mob. That was on the Monday. Tuesday things grew worse; the mob attacked the prisons: the King’s Bench, Newgate … I’m sorry to have to tell you, ma’am, but your husband was in the crowd that attacked Newgate.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘No? I suppose not. No wife would. Quite right, too.’ He gave her a look of slightly bleary approval. ‘But he was there, no doubt in the world about that, got a knock on the head, picked up by the constables when the worst was over. Of course, he says he was only trying to help the prisoners escape because they were in danger of burning to death. He’s full of heroic stories, that husband of yours.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She tried to keep the anger out of her voice.

  ‘You’ll need to know. There was an odd business about his capture. Another tale of heroism. Got taken by a cousin. Did you know?’

  ‘Yes. I had heard.’

  ‘Well, he saved the ship. Caught a prisoner trying to set it on fire. That was the story he and his cousin gave out. There’s another funny one: Dick Purchas. The cousin. We were mids together. Midshipmen—’ He amplified it. ‘Never thought he’d get to be a captain. Used to be sick over a flogging. Wanted to wrap the men in cotton wool. Bad as Gordon, if you ask me.’ He had rapidly consumed two huge bowlfuls of soup as he talked, now summoned his man to bring the next course.

  ‘How do you mean, “gave out”?’ Mercy had been angrily waiting for a chance to put the question.

  ‘Too good to be true. The whole story. To people like me. Oh, they swallowed it at first, in London, the First Lords, the public prints. Hero’s welcome, paroled to his cousin’s charge; all that. Then wiser councils, people began to ask questions, people like me who had served with Dick Purchas. Knew what he was like. And the men began to talk. Bound to.’

  ‘The men?’

  ‘Prisoners from your husband’s ship. What was she called? Privateer?’

  ‘The Georgia:

  ‘That’s right. Most of them had turned their coats by then, but. the few who had refused were marched off to Mill Prison when they landed. It burnt them up to see their captain go off to his freedom. They talked, and so did the others, sooner or later, when they got split up and found themselves serving on other ships. Away from young Purchas. A very odd story indeed. Attempted mutiny, arson … And all hushed up by Purchas, no doubt for good reasons of his own. He was awaiting his court-martial when I was last on shore. He was with your husband at Newgate, by the way. Swears blind they only meant to help. Well, naturally, he would. No use to your husband, of course. Nobody believes a word he says. Well, why should they? Just one lie after another. Too many stories of heroism by half. And of course, your husband’s carryings-on in London didn’t exactly help him.’

  ‘Carryings-on? My husband?’

  ‘Nothing to it, I expect, really, but there was a bit of talk.’ He looked unhappy and gestured to his man to refill their glasses. ‘Understandable enough,’ he went on. ‘London for the first time, lionised a bit, hero of the hour, you know the kind of thing. By what I heard, he was lucky to get safe to the Tower, or he would most certainly have had to take refuge in the rules of court. You’re safe there from debt, you know. He’d been spending money like water, like a drunken sailor … clothes … parties of pleasure.’ He had been carried away by his own eloquence, now stopped short, surprised at how far he had gone,

  ‘You said he rescued someone.’ Mercy forced boiled beef down her throat. ‘A cousin, did you say?’

  ‘Dick Purchas’s sister. Julia Purchas. A goer by all reports. Quite a goer. Whig family, you know. Wild blood. The older brother’s said to be a member of the Hell Fire Club. That kind of thing. Time you got there, ma’am.’ He helped himself to more beef and changed the subject. ‘Now I have to question you ladies. Decide what to do with you. Beauty in distress.’ He drank to them, one after the other, and Mercy did not like the leering admiration of his glance. ‘Gallant young ladies,’ he went on, ‘I’d like to make things as easy as possible for you. The British navy don’t make war on females. Better uses for them.’ His speaking glance travelled from Mercy to Ruth, then back again. ‘Tell me how I can serve you?’

  XVII

  ‘No,’ said Hart, ‘I will not marry her. Not if it means I have to spend the rest of my life here.’

  ‘Which may be short.’ Mr. Purchas picked up his hat and gloves and looked round the bare stone-walled cell. ‘We have done our best for you so far. Not all the apartments here in the Tower are so comparatively luxurious as this one. When the turnkeys learn that you are penniless and we have washed our hands of you, you will find your treatment quite other. Commons here have to be paid for, you know. Though I doubt that will be a problem to you for long if we do not intercede for you. Did you know that they hanged some of the convicted rioters yesterday? A pity you are not allowed newspapers. You might have found the descriptions interesting. They were taken to the scenes of their crimes and turned off there. Made good ends, most of them. Merely hanged, of course. The delights of drawing and quartering are reserved for state criminals like yourself. I saw it done once. The man lived a surprisingly long time. I wonder where they will choose to execute you. Leicester Fields? Lincoln’s Inn Fields? Or Newgate, of course. I hope for my poor Julia’s sake that they do not turn you off in St. James’s Square.’ He rapped on the cell door for the gaoler to come and let him out. ‘I will be at the house in Charies Street another week. Consider my offer of help as open until then.’

  ‘Consider it refused,’ said Hart.

  Left alone, he moved over to stare sightlessly out of the slit window that showed him only a strip of sky. The Tower of London. All Hope Abandon, You Who Enter Here. Was he mad to have refused Mr. Purchas’s offer? But how could he accept it? He had married Mercy for better for worse … till death them did part … Nothing she did could alter that. And yet it was strange almost beyond belief that he still had not heard from her. If she was really at Philadelphia, she must have heard of the deaths of his mother and aunt. Impossible, surely, that she would not have written to him then. He had talked to enough Americans in London to know that letters reached them by all kinds of strange channels. So why not Mercy’s?

  ‘Till death us do part.’ Bougainville had not used the words in that strange, hasty shipboard marriage. It had not seemed like a marriage. He had never felt happy about it, had intended to marry Mercy again as soon as they reached Boston. That had been part of the whole disaster of their ‘honeymoon’ on the crowded Georgia. In his mind, if not his heart, he could not help believing Purchas’s and Busby’s assurances that his marriage was invalid. But that was no argument for marrying Julia. Not now. Not knowing what he did. Rather die?

  Yes. He would not let himself think about that scene with Julia. About how she had planned it, duped him, led him on … Horrible … obscene … And going on from there, in the long hours of wretched thought, he had found himself going back to other scenes, wondering about them … That visit to the Bonds’. Could she have planned that, too? Hoped that the mob would come? That they would be compromised? But why? He always stuck there but came back to his one point of decision. Better to die than to marry Julia. Besides – he moved back to gaze at the hopeful strip of blue sky – he would not believe in the threat of death. This was England. This was the land of Parliament, of Magna Carta and habeas corpus. The evidence that had seemed so formidable at the committal proceedings would never stand up in full court. On the Monday night he had been among the crowd; he had proclaimed himself an American, started them singing ‘God save George Washington,’ and so managed to get Julia
safe away from them. Julia would support his story. And the next night he and Dick had been trying to rescue prisoners in danger of being burnt to death. If he could help it, now it was all over, he did not want to mention George, and this had told against him at his preliminary examination. So, of course, had Dick’s absence, but it was understandable enough that when they were separated by the crowd, Dick had remembered the Plymouth coach he must catch and gone off to face his court-martial.

  Dick would come back for the trial and speak up for him. If necessary, he would explain about George. He ought to have told Mr. Purchas that. But – drawn and quartered. Faced with that unspeakable threat, it was difficult to think clearly.

  It could not happen. Not here in England. It was merely the long spell of solitary confinement that had opened his imagination to the unspeakable possibility. He had received no mail, seen no newspapers; Mr. Purchas had been his only visitor. After a month of this, if it was a month, he was beginning to wonder whether he really existed.

  The surly gaoler, bringing his adequate, unappetising dinner, also brought paper, pen, and inkstand. ‘The gentleman said a line would bring him, any time of the day or night.’

  ‘And you would take it for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If I wrote to someone else?’

  The man spit, neatly, between Hart’s feet. ‘You’d waste your paper, and I’ve no instructions to give you more.’ He withdrew, slamming and locking the cell door behind him.

  Left alone, Hart gazed from greasy mutton to the tempting pen and paper. Now, at last, he knew he was afraid. He had read of prisoners in France, confined to the Bastille by the infamous lettres de cachet. Could it possibly be that the same kind of thing happened here in England? He would not believe it. He must not believe it. And yet it was strange beyond belief that Dick had not come to him. He was cold to the very marrow of his bones.

  Four days passed. Stale bread; lukewarm coffee; rancid beef. And the pen and paper always there on the table beside the horrible food. The gaoler had grown careless about emptying the sordid bucket in the corner of the cell, and it stank. If Mr. Purchas had asked for a verbal message, he almost thought he might have sent it, but he could not bring himself to write and sign an agreement to marry Julia …