When he set out to walk to Drummond’s, the smell of smoke hung heavy in the air. Many shops had not opened, although he had slept late, and it was now towards noon. Those that had opened sported bits of blue ribbon or scrawled slogans: ‘No Popery’ or ‘This is a Protestant House.’ People went about their business nervously, hurriedly, heads turning this way and that, comparing whispered notes about their adventures of the night before. He remembered Mercy’s description of Savannah after the British took it and thought that London today felt very much like a captured city. It made him angry with himself. His knowledge about George Purchas was too vital not to be used.
Was the clerk at Drummond’s less cordial than before? Probably he was imagining things, but as he pocketed the money that had been – reluctantly? – handed over, he made up his mind. The one person he could and should consult was Busby, the Purchas family’s man of business. He, surely better than anyone, would be able to advise him and could be trusted to do nothing to harm the family he served.
His office was in the Strand, only ten minutes’ walk from Drummond’s, and Hart went there at once. Clothes and a portmanteau were of infinitely less importance. Sending in his name, he was angry and ashamed to know that he was actually afraid he would find Mr. Purchas there before him. Cowardly and absurd: Mr. Purchas did not visit his man of business; he sent for him.
Busby greeted him, after a short wait, with his usual smiling effusiveness. ‘Mr. Purchis! What an unusual honour. You should have sent for me, I am always most happy to wait on the family in Charles Street. It is about the settlements, may I happily assume?’
‘No, you may not,’ said Hart. He should have expected this but was glad of the chance to make his position clear. ‘Mr. Busby, you know as well as I do that I am a married man.’
‘I know nothing of the kind,’ said Busby. ‘I have taken the liberty of talking to my friends about your – ahem – unusual situation, and they are all of the same mind. Divines and lawyers, they all agree that it is but to take a firm stand, now, at once, over that lunatic travesty of a marriage, and you will find yourself a free man. You will let me act for you? It will be a most interesting exercise.’
‘I most certainly will not unless you are prepared to help me prove the validity of my marriage.’ This was not what he had come to discuss, and he wished to be done with it as soon as possible.
It did not look as if he would succeed. ‘Mr. Purchis’ – the man of business put his white hands together and looked at Hart reproachfully over the fingertips – ‘I am deeply sorry to have to say this to you, but there is more to it now than a mere matter of the validity of your marriage to that young woman who is causing such a stir in Philadelphia. There have been hopes raised, Mr. Purchis, there has been courting done, and very publicly too, and a night passed, maybe not in the wisest possible manner, at the house of a gentleman of the name of Bond and his mistress. Mr. Purchis, I put it to you that you owe your cousin something.’
‘You are well informed, Mr. Busby.’ But not, thank God, entirely up-to-date, though no doubt he would be soon enough.
‘I am the family’s man of business,’ said Busby. ‘Its interests are mine. Now, Mr. Purchis, be reasonable, do. We do not wish things to come to a breach of promise action, which benefits only the lawyers and makes all kinds of bad blood … and which could have only one outcome. No English court is going to give a damn for your French-contracted marriage. And just stop to think of the harm such an action, so widely publicised as it must be, would do to poor Mr. Dick Purchas, circumstanced as he is. Have you not done enough harm, sir?’
‘If it were only that!’ Hart had wondered, in the course of the last speech, whether he had been right to come to Busby with the problem of George, but this final appeal decided him. Whatever other doubts he might have about Busby, there seemed no question of the man’s devotion to the Purchas family and their interests. ‘Mr. Busby’ – he plunged into it – ‘it is not about Miss Julia that I am come to see you, but on something even more serious, I am sorry to say, even more closely connected with the honour and well-being of the family. Of my family, if I may call them so?’ And then, as Busby nodded approval, he plunged into the story of his encounter with George and belated recognition of him. ‘What am I to do?’ he asked when he had finished. ‘What in the world am I to do?’
‘Nothing.’ Busby had heard him out in cold silence. ‘Unless you wish to find yourself in Bedlam. I never heard such a tale of a cock and bull. Mr. George involved with the rioters! Really, Mr. Purchis, if you wish to invent a tale that will draw attention away from your own affairs, you will need to do better than that. A voice heard by chance in a crowd, and you leap to all these conclusions. If it were not such a case with Miss Julia, I would advise her to think again.’
‘Pray do,’ said Hart. When had he stopped deluding himself that Julia loved him and started wondering why she wanted to marry him? ‘I’m not good enough for her, Mr. Busby,’ he said now. ‘And with Charleston under such serious threat, I may find myself penniless any day. I wish you would put that to Miss Purchas for me. It shows me in a shabby enough light, but the sooner she recognises how I am placed, the better for us all. I thought the clerk at Drummond’s looked at me doubtfully when I was there this morning. It would be a real kindness to Miss Purchas if you would explain to her the true facts of my case.’
‘She loves you, poor fool,’ said Busby. ‘At least for her sake, if not for your own, I trust you will refrain from repeating these slanderous lies about her brother. Yes?’ A clerk had put his head round the door.
‘A message from Mr. Purchas, sir. He wishes to see you most urgently.’
‘Thank you.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I hope you will give me the pleasure of being the one to tell Mr. Purchas that you recognise, at last, the great honour his daughter is doing you. And if that is too much good sense to expect from you, I trust that at least you will hold your tongue. I do not propose to add to Mr. Purchas’s distress by telling him this wild tale of yours, but I warn you, if I learn that you have repeated it to anyone, I will take steps, at once, to apply for a commission in lunacy. I wish you a very good day, sir.’
In the street once more, Hart stood for a few moments, wretched, irresolute. He had never felt so alone in his life. Even on the prison ship in New York Harbour there had been the companionship of misfortune, a kind of society in despair. Now, burdened with guilt towards Julia and dangerous knowledge about George, he did not know where to turn. Who would believe him? Busby was right about that. A voice heard in the crowd. His word alone against George Purchas and all his friends. If he went to Sir John Fielding, the famous magistrate, he would be laughed at for his pains. He thought, in his desperation, of trying to see Lord Stormont, the Home Secretary, or even Lord George Germain, the Secretary for the colonies, but why should they believe him more than anyone else? He bitterly regretted now that he had stayed so close to the Purchas family, that he had made no friends of his own, and yet it had been natural enough, granted the terms of his parole.
‘Hart! By all that’s wonderful!’ Dick’s voice roused him from the squirrels’ cage of thought. ‘Are you on your way to old Busby? He’s not in the office.’
‘No, I’ve seen him.’ Hart gripped Dick’s hand hard. ‘He’s gone to your father.’
‘Yes. They told me. Where I do not propose to follow him. God, Hart, but I’m glad to see you.’
‘Handsome of you. I seem to have been your ruin, Dick. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’ They had fallen into step and were walking down towards the river.
‘Not your fault,’ said Dick. ‘I remember how doubtful you were about that story of mine at the time. But I was so sure. Being captain, I suppose I felt like God Almighty.’
‘I know. One does.’ Hart remembered his own disaster. ‘What are you going to do now, Dick?’
‘What I’m told. I’m off to Plymouth on the night mail to await my court-martial. God knows how long it will be before they can assembl
e enough captains. Maybe that’s all for the best, though I don’t much fancy the waiting. But father has high hopes of his friend the First Lord and his good friends the Whigs.’ For once it was not a joke. ‘Oh, don’t look so sick, man. Bit of luck I’ll just be dismissed from the service. I never did like it above half.’
‘But what will you do if you are?’
‘Turn to my first love, the land. There’s a young man called Coke doing great things up in Norfolk. If he’d take me on, as steward, bailiff, anything, I think I could earn my keep.’
‘You won’t go back to Denton?’
‘After the things my father has said to me? No. I wish you would marry Julia, Hart, and look after things here.’
‘Dick, believe me, I can’t. I’m a married man.’ He turned away to gaze down into the turbid river, afraid that Dick would read the guilt in his face.
‘You still feel that? After the news from Philadelphia?’
‘Your father told you about that?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s mad for the match. I confess I do not entirely see why.’
‘No.’ Hart laughed grimly. ‘I’m not exactly a hopeful parti, am I? Dick, you’ve been such a good friend to me. I beg you to believe me when I say it is not possible.’
‘Oh, I believe you,’ said Dick. ‘I lived too closely with you all those weeks on the Sparrow not to know that for you the sun rises and sets in your Mercy. I told Julia so, back at Denton Hall, but she doesn’t listen to me much. George was always the one with her.’
‘George! Dick, I’ve got to talk to you about George. It’s horrible. You might believe me. Busby would not.’
‘What about George?’ Dick turned to face him, and Hart was shocked to see how much he had aged during the last few days.
‘I heard his voice last night. In the mob. Giving orders. Dick, I think he’s their leader or one of them.’
‘Oh, dear God,’ said Dick. ‘Impossible!’ And then: ‘No, I can believe it. I asked a few questions, after you mentioned the Mohawks the other day. He’s been on the edge of bad trouble while I’ve been away. Not just the Mohawks … the Hell Fire Club … talk of a highway robbery. Father managed to get it hushed up. Father really has good friends. Poor Father, what this will do to him if it’s true! But, Hart, why? George is no revolutionary.’
‘No.’ This was almost the worst of all. ‘I’m afraid it’s just for gain.’ He described the sinister carriage where loot was being bought at cut price and got a savage laugh from Dick.
‘How like George,’ he said. ‘He never paid a fair price for anything in his life. But he must pay for this. Hart, what are we going to do? Busby did not believe you?’
‘No. And I don’t blame him. A man in my position.’
Again Dick laughed that savage laugh, so unlike his former cheerful self. ‘And one in mine! Not much use our going to the authorities, Hart. They’ll say it’s just another made-up story. I think we will have to take care of George ourselves, don’t you? It’s my duty. He’s my brother. He should be at the Cocoa Tree at this time of day. Shall we pay him a visit, you and I?’
‘He must have accomplices,’ Hart warned.
‘Yes, of course. But there is no way he can know that you suspect him, is there? So if you and I pay a call at the Cocoa Tree and ask him to come’ out to us, there is no reason for him to be suspicious. He knows I wouldn’t go into that den of Tory thieves for anything.
‘Tory?’
‘Did you not know? He joined it to vex my father. And succeeded. He’s a coward, you know, my brother George. He’ll contrive against you with all his might behind your back and smile like a very Judas when he meets you.’
‘What are we going to do to him?’
‘Frighten him out of town. With a little violence if it is necessary, but I don’t think it will be.’ They started off through the eerily silent streets. Most of the shops were closed and the few people who were about scurried along, looking anxiously over their shoulders, on the alert for a new appearance of the mob. But the Cocoa Tree Club was open, and Dick sent in a message to his brother asking him to meet them at a neighbouring coffeehouse.
‘He’s not in the house, sir.’ The page who had taken the message returned almost at once. ‘Mr. Mordaunt said to tell you he and some friends have gone to look at the damage the mob did last night. They were to meet at the Brown Bear in Bow Street, he thinks. You might find him there if it’s urgent, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Dick tipped the boy and turned to Hart. ‘Shall we look for him there? It’s a tavern just across the street from Sir John Fielding’s house, which might be convenient if we can persuade him to turn king’s evidence.’
‘Do you really think he might?’
‘I have high hopes of it. He’s always been easily led. George; that’s how he gets into trouble. If we can just catch him before he starts drinking …’
‘Starts?’ asked Hart doubtfully, but Dick had already turned away, and Hart followed him more out of sympathy than conviction.
He was not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed when they reached the Brown Bear and found no George, but Dick had the bit between his teeth by now. ‘We’ll wait for him,’ he said. ‘If he is meeting friends here, he is bound to turn up sooner or later. In the meanwhile, I’m starving. We might as well eat here as anywhere else.’ And before Hart could protest, he had called a potboy and ordered lamb chops and a pint of home-brewed for them both.
Hart, too, was hungry, but he was also extremely anxious. How could he make Dick understand that his brother was no longer the persuadable creature he remembered? His voice, giving orders the night before, had been the voice of authority. This was not someone who could be persuaded to turn king’s evidence.
Eating and drinking as fast as possible, he tried to put this to Dick, but without success. ‘I hope I know my own brother,’ said Dick. ‘Of course, he’s wild – he always was – but there’s no real vice in him. He’s just impulsive, like Julia. And easily bored, like her. With the right friends, they could both go so far … Much farther than I ever shall. But then’ – he smiled ruefully across the table at Hart – ‘I don’t want to. To be a country gentleman, a happy family man, is the most of my ambition. And much chance I seem to have of achieving it.’ He pulled out his watch and consulted it anxiously. ‘Whatever happens, I must not miss the night mail for Plymouth.’
‘No.’ Hart, too, was aware of time ticking away towards a decision he must make. He had still not confessed to Dick what had happened between him and Julia. How could he? How could he not? He had to decide what he was going to do. If he asked Dick, could he release him from the terms of his parole? And suppose Dick could do so, might he not then contrive just to disappear? Perhaps Dick would let him go with him to Plymouth, even be able to help him find a smuggler there, who would set him over to France and so start him on his way home. But had he the right to ask this of Dick, who was in so much disgrace on his account already?
‘Listen!’ Dick looked up at the sound of shouting outside. ‘It’s starting again. Hart, we must find George! Before he gets into any more trouble.’ He looked round the now crowded room. ‘There’s a friend of his. I’ll ask him.’ He jumped up before Hart could protest and returned a minute later. ‘We missed him. I’ve paid the reckoning. Let’s go.’
‘But, Dick where?’
‘He’s gone down to Newgate. There’s a rumour that the mob is going there to try to release the prisoners taken on Friday. George knows Akerman, the keeper of Newgate. He would never have anything to do with harm to him. If he is there, he will be trying to hold back the mob and may need help.’
‘But, Dick …’ Hart protested in vain. There was no persuading Dick that George was not the man he had known before he went to sea all those years ago. Still arguing, they emerged into Bow Street, which was now ominously thronged with people, chanting and screaming as they had the night before. Already they could hear the thud of axes, the crackle of flames, and, as they approached Newgat
e itself, a horrible screaming.
‘It’s the prisoners!’ exclaimed Dick. ‘They’ve fired the building. They may be burnt alive!’ And then: ‘Dear God, there’s George.’
George was standing on the sill of a burnt out window, clearly illuminated against the flames behind, urging the mob on with cries of ‘The prisoners! We must save the prisoners!’
‘You see.’ Dick turned to Hart almost with triumph. ‘He’s trying to save them.’ And before Hart could stop him, he had plunged into the screaming, seething crowd to try to make his way to his brother.
‘Dick, wait!’ Hart turned at the sound of rattling chains and saw a group of escaped prisoners with streaming eyes and smoke-blackened faces. As he did so, he heard a cry from behind him. ‘A Papist! A Papist spy!’ A savage blow struck the back of his head, and he fell to the ground unconscious among the trampling feet.
XVI
‘I’m frightened.’ Ruth had received Mercy’s explanation in stunned silence, now clutched her hand in the darkness as the carriage rattled on through the night.
‘Ruth, dear, so am I. If this goes wrong, I’ll never forgive myself.’ They were alone; Brisson was riding ahead on horseback. ‘But when Brisson made the offer, it seemed the only thing to do. Will you forgive me?’
‘I wouldn’t have if you had left me behind. It’s not that – never that. But … do you trust Charles Brisson? Well, that’s stupid. Of course you must, or we would not be here. But are you right to trust him? Sometimes … Mercy, sometimes he looks at you in such a way …’
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