Her scheme sounded complicated, but it was based on a very simple idea: to confuse the guards with women coming and going from the prisoner’s room.
“For days before an execution, all men visiting the Tower are stopped and challenged to identify themselves,” she explained. “But not the women! And what coldhearted guard would stop a grieving lady, crying as she said farewell to a prisoner for the last time?”
As the speeding coach lurched and bumped over the stone roads, Winifred reminded each lady of the part she would play. Mrs. Mills was a large, tall woman, and a few months pregnant. Lady Nithsdale had noticed that with her pregnant belly she was just about the same size and shape as her dear William! It was as “Mrs. Mills” that William would make his walk to freedom.
Miss Hilton, on the other hand, was tall and thin, and could easily wear two riding cloaks, one over the other, without looking suspiciously bulky. Winifred cast a critical eye over the lady and was satisfied that no one would guess she was smuggling in a disguise.
The sun was low in the sky as the coach pulled up alongside the Tower’s arched entrance. Weaving through the stream of Tower workers still coming and going, the women headed for William’s prison house.
“Prisoners are allowed only two visitors at a time,” Winifred told them. Leaving Evans and Mrs. Mills at the foot of the stairs, she guided Miss Hilton up to William’s cell.
The warder before William’s door straightened and stepped forward as the two women approached. Winifred knew that for their plan to work, she would have to break the Tower rules — on the night before an execution, the prisoner’s wife could visit only if she stayed with him until morning. That would ruin everything! She linked arms with Miss Hilton and strode forward, praying that the tip she had given the guard the day before had done the trick.
On cue, Miss Hilton began to sniffle and sigh, but Winifred, in a loud voice, told her not to fear. “At this very moment the king is considering my petition for a pardon. All will be well, Mrs. Catharine!” she said, adding the lady’s first name for everyone to hear.
Turning to the warder, she added, “I am afraid I must leave after seeing my husband tonight. I have an audience with His Majesty.”
The warder’s face softened, and he nodded slightly as he opened the door. The other guards exchanged glances, then looked down. Her hopefulness was touching, but they knew there wasn’t much chance of a pardon.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Miss Hilton slipped off her top riding cloak, and William tucked it out of sight. The two women waited anxiously for a few moments, and then walked out together.
In a worried voice, Winifred called for her maid. There was no answer. She called again, and the guards turned their heads toward Winifred. As they listened to her shouts they scarcely noticed the quiet Miss Hilton slipping past and down the stairs.
Winifred continued to cause a scene. “Pray send up my maid at once to help me dress — it is nearly time to present my last petition to the king!”
Below her, the stout Mrs. Mills was already huffing on her way up the stairs. Winifred took her by the arm and lead her past the guards toward the cell. As planned, Mrs. Mills pressed her handkerchief to her face and sobbed loudly the whole way. The guards looked away, embarrassed. Good, thought Winifred. The less closely they look, the better!
Lady Nithsdale smiled and patted her friend’s arm, saying loudly, “I have high hopes, Mrs. Betty, that the king will pardon my husband this very night.”
Inside William’s room, Mrs. Mills took off her cloak and put on the one Miss Hilton had left. She handed her own cloak and handkerchief to William. Then she straightened up and prepared to walk out with her head held high.
“No crying this time,” Winifred reminded her. “You must look like a different lady than the one who went in with her face in her handkerchief.”
Winifred led her by the hand into the guardroom. Glancing around, she noticed that the room was fuller now. The guards’ wives and daughters were sitting in small groups, whispering. After all, it wasn’t every day that three executions were to take place at once!
A hush fell as the two ladies passed, their footsteps echoing under the high, timbered ceiling. Winifred turned to the disguised Mrs. Mills and addressed her as if she were Miss Hilton.
“My dear Mrs. Catharine,” she said with growing alarm in her voice, “go in all haste and send me my waiting-maid, she certainly cannot reflect how late it is. I am to present my petition tonight, and if I let slip this opportunity I am undone, for tomorrow will be too late.”
From the corner of her eye Winifred could see the looks of pity on the ladies’ faces. “Hasten her as much as possible,” she called after Mrs. Mills as she hurried down the stairs, “for I shall be on thorns till she comes.”
Winifred turned and walked back toward William’s cell, noting with satisfaction that the guards on either side looked away as she passed. Inside his room, William had already put on Mrs. Mills’s riding cloak. Now it was time to complete the transformation!
Winifred fished out the tools she had hidden under the folds of her clothes. First she must do something about his heavy, dark eyebrows — Mrs. Mills’s were a light sandy color. She brought out the paint she had prepared and began to disguise them. Next she fitted a light-haired wig over his head. With quick, sure strokes she powdered his face and painted his cheeks with rouge, to help hide his stubbly beard — he’d had no time to shave! Over it all she pulled the hood of his cloak, close around his face.
Finally, she stepped out of all of her petticoats except one and slipped them under William’s cloak.
Winifred glanced up at the small window and noticed it was growing dark. This was the time she had planned for their exit — in the twilight that would hide their faces, but before the candles were lit.
They stood together before the closed door, blocking the rest of the room from view. Winifred turned to William and raised her eyebrows.
He nodded and pressed the handkerchief to his face. As Winifred pulled the door open, William began to make loud sobbing noises. Holding his hand, Winifred stepped out and guided William through the doorway.
The murmurs in the guardroom died down as they appeared.
“Evans has ruined me by her delay!” Winifred said for all to hear. “How could she do this to me?”
They started walking, past the guards and their wives. Only their footsteps and William’s sobs broke the silence. The guardroom seemed endless, and Winifred felt the ladies’ curious eyes boring into them. Was she walking too quickly, too suspiciously? She took deep breaths to slow her racing heartbeat.
“My dear Mrs. Betty,” she said to William, her voice catching and sounding tearful, “for the love of God run quickly, and bring her with you. You know my lodging, and if you ever hurried in your life, do it now. I am almost distracted with this disappointment.”
They were halfway there now. William kept his face buried in the handkerchief, his head turned into Winifred’s shoulder.
At the far end of the room servants were starting to light the candles. Winifred held her breath — a moment more and the room would be brilliantly lit. She picked up her pace.
Not so fast, she scolded herself. The heavy oak door was right before them now. Only a few steps more.
Suddenly a guard sprang forward, blocking their way. Winifred stopped in her tracks, and tightened her grip on William. She felt the blood drain from her face. They were trapped!
The guard bowed slightly and opened the door for them, his face full of sympathy. Winifred tried to hide her relief. She began to steer William through the door toward the long staircase flanked by sentinels. Not far now.
As William passed before her through the door she nearly gasped in horror. He was walking like a man! Dress or no dress, it was a miracle no one had noticed before now. She grasped him by the elbow and pushed him in front of her. They moved forward awkwardly, with Winifred’s wide skirt hiding William’s masculine walk from the sentrie
s.
Past the guards, down the stairs, on and on Winifred begged anxiously — “Please hurry and send my maid.” All the while, William cried loudly in his handkerchief, never daring to raise his eyes and counting on Winifred to steer him. The sentries stood aside to make way for them, the sympathy on their faces turning to exasperation.
All these women, all this weeping and calling after maids. Such a ruckus — there must have been three or four of them at least — or was it more? They felt sorry enough for the ladies, but this was getting tiresome. If only they would just leave!
At the bottom of the stairs stood Evans, and the sight of her loyal face steadied Winifred’s nerves. She handed William over, and Evans led him across the green toward the outer gate.
Outside the Tower walls, Mrs. Mills’s husband was waiting for them. His wife had convinced him to help by having a safe house ready for the fugitive, but he had doubted very much that the women would succeed.
Now, there they were — Evans and Lord Nithsdale coming toward him through the archway! Mr. Mills was so astonished that he forgot what he was supposed to do. Surprise and joy crowded out every other thought, and he stood rooted to the ground, gaping. A few passersby slowed down and stared curiously at the group.
Glancing around, Evans saw the attention they were attracting. Time to take things firmly in hand, she thought.
Hailing a coach, the maid quickly pushed William inside and climbed in after him. She could sort things out with Mr. Mills later! Now they had to put as much distance between themselves and the Tower as they could.
Winifred walked slowly back up the steps and through the guardroom toward William’s empty chamber. She had a final role to play out inside the Tower. She must buy time for William to get away — before the guards raised the alarm, before searchers flooded the streets and gave chase.
Again the warder politely let her into William’s room. Winifred watched the door close behind her. She took a deep breath and began to talk to William as if he were still there. She paced up and down — as if they were walking together — to make it more convincing.
A sudden thought made her heart jump. They might wonder why they could hear her, but not him! She began to answer her own questions in his deep, quiet voice. All the while her mind was calculating — have they had enough time to clear the guards, cross the Tower green, and slip through the outer gate?
She kept up the illusion as long as she dared, then glanced outside at the dark night. It was time to make her exit as well.
Slowly she opened the door. Standing halfway out so that the guards could hear her words, but holding the door so close that they could not see inside the room, she bid farewell to her husband.
“Something unusual must have happened to keep Evans,” she said. “She has always been faithful in even the smallest matters. But I can afford to wait no longer.”
The guards kept their eyes discreetly lowered as she talked.
“I will go directly to the king now,” Winifred said reassuringly. “My task completed, if I can still gain admittance to the Tower, I will see you tonight. But if I cannot, do not worry, my love. I will be here tomorrow morning as early as they will let me in. With good news, I trust,” she added, smiling bravely.
Just before shutting the door, Winifred pulled through the string of the latch. Now it can only be opened from the inside, she thought with satisfaction, and there’s no one there to do that! She gave the handle a sharp tug and slammed the heavy door firmly shut.
Turning to leave, she looked up and started in surprise. A servant was heading straight for her. He was carrying William’s supper on a tray!
“My lord is praying now,” she said quickly, stepping in the servant’s way, “and does not wish to be disturbed. He has no need of supper or candles — he plans to fast until his pardon arrives.” The servant nodded and turned away.
With a sigh of relief, the sentries watched Lady Nithsdale pass down the stairs and out into the night.
A few days later Lord Nithsdale escaped to Italy disguised as a servant on the Venetian ambassador’s boat. Lady Nithsdale mounted her horse and rode back to Scotland, where she dug up the deeds for their lands. It was a risky journey for her. King George was furious about Lord Nithsdale’s escape, and search parties combed the country for Winifred. The king swore that Lady Nithsdale “had given him more trouble than any woman in the whole of Europe!” But Winifred slipped through the searchers’ fingers and joined her husband in Rome, where they lived near the court of the exiled Stuart family for the rest of their lives.
Fugitives in Iran
Tehran, Iran, 1979
THE CHANTING HAD DRONED IN THE DISTANCE since early that gray November morning. Crowds of student protesters were a daily sight outside the walls of the American embassy compound in Iran’s capital. But now the voices were getting louder, sounding closer.
Set back from the main entrance, the fourteen Americans in the consulate building felt far away from the noise. They ignored the angry shouts and kept working, processing applications from Iranians for visas to study or travel in the U.S. The protest was not their concern, and no doubt the police would soon break it up. But a panicked cry from an Iranian secretary destroyed their illusion of security.
“They’re inside the walls!”
Staff rushed to the window. The students had broken the main gate and were streaming into the compound. The grounds were filling up with people — young men in khaki fatigues, women in head scarves or the full-length black chador that covered them from head to foot. Some carried pictures of their spiritual and political leader, the Ayatollah Khomeini, on poles. Others were armed with knives, lead pipes, or guns.
“Stay calm.” From behind, the voice of Sergeant Lopez, a young marine, sounded reassuring. “It could just be a sit-in protest.”
They had all known something like this was bound to happen. Since the Shah, Iran’s former ruler, had fled his country, Iranian revolutionaries had shown more and more resentment toward his American allies. The return of the exiled Ayatollah Khomeini — an Islamic scholar who believed the country should be run by clerics — had focused people’s anger into a full-fledged revolution.
Walking through the city, the American diplomats had sensed the growing fear and suspicion — especially toward them. What were these foreigners doing in Iran anyway, the revolutionaries demanded. Trying to run our country for us? When President Carter had allowed the Shah into the U.S. for treatment at a hospital, tensions had reached a boiling point.
The sound of footsteps on the roof made everyone tilt their heads up. Seconds later they heard a window shatter in the washroom. Lopez rushed there just in time to push back a student trying to climb in from the roof. The marine fired a tear-gas canister out the window. Retreating quickly, he then wired the washroom door shut with a coat hanger and herded the staff and Iranian visitors further back into the building.
“How can this be happening? They can’t do this to an embassy! We’re diplomats,” sputtered the shocked employees. The Vienna Convention of 1961 was supposed to guarantee the protection of ambassadors and their staff in foreign countries. The embassy and its grounds belonged to the U.S., and could not be entered without permission.
“Can’t you guys do something?” someone asked the marine. Lopez shrugged. The guards were there to defend the staff, not attack anyone. It was another rule of diplomacy: embassies must count on the host government to protect them. “I can’t fire on citizens of this country,” he explained, “unless someone’s life is in immediate danger.”
Robert Anders, the senior diplomat in the building, took charge. “We’ll barricade the doors and hold out until the police or the army arrives to restore order,” he announced.
The staff huddled closer together. The group of visiting Iranians spoke little English, but the anxious looks on their faces showed they understood the situation. They were about to be caught in the den of the enemy by the most extreme of the revolutionaries. How would the
militants deal with them?
Outside, the roar of the mob, now three to five hundred strong, was frighteningly loud. Over his two-way radio, Lopez learned that the main embassy building, the chancery, had already been stormed by the revolutionaries. But so far no one else was trying to get into the consulate.
“They’ve forgotten about us,” Anders thought aloud. “For now.”
Suddenly the room went dark. “The lights! They’ve cut the electricity!” Panicked voices filled the darkened room. Lopez talked rapidly into his walkie-talkie, but received no answer. He tried again. Still nothing.
His face was in darkness, but the others could tell how he felt by the grim tone of his voice. “They must have captured the other marines. We’re cut off.”
Slowly the words sunk in. The handful of staff understood: they were on their own.
“We’ve got to get out now, before they find us!” someone wailed.
“Our best chance is the exit on the north side,” Anders reasoned. On the side of the building facing away from the demonstrators in the compound, a sliding door opened directly onto the street.
Two by two, the Americans and Iranians filed down the stairs toward the north door. Close behind Anders were two young couples: Joe and Kathy Stafford, and Mark and Cora Lijek. Lopez followed at the rear, locking doors behind them, buying time for their escape. He stayed behind on the ground floor to smash visa plates, so no forgeries could be made by the invaders. He would leave last — if at all.
At the north door, Anders raised a hand to signal everyone to wait. Slowly he slid the door open a few inches and peered up and down Bist Metri Street.
To his surprise, he saw no one. No protesters, not even any passersby.
“Okay, move out in small groups. That will attract less attention.”
The Iranian visa seekers slipped out first, followed by Iranians who worked at the embassy. Anders led the Staffords and the Lijeks out next. The rest followed behind.
Escapes! Page 5