During the past two days he learned from his warders of an attempted assassination against the king, but the details were confounded with rumor and changed hour to hour. Among the tidbits he heard was that a large number of conspirators had been jailed at Newgate. This argued that he was not one of the accused, yet raised even more the question of why he was here.
“Am I still under arrest?” Edward asked the gentleman who had come for him.
“I can tell you nothing except that I’m here to escort you from the Tower. As you can see, I’m unarmed and alone, so you may make of this what you please. I trust in your sense of duty and honor, not to mention the embarrassment to you were you to flee and I to call the wardens.”
“I am your servant, sir.”
From Edward’s stone-walled lodging they passed down a stairway to the open grounds. They walked across the green, onward through Bloody Tower to Water Lane—yet another coincidence in Edward’s mind, that he would twice be lodged on a street with the same name — where a coach, its windows un-darkened this time, waited.
Edward glanced at the castle above and around him, took in its imposing construction and many great towers, the White Castle at the center, noted their evocative names, caught the sound of the waters at Traitor’s Gate nearby, and almost shuddered. But he was too experienced, jaded perhaps, to feel anything more than a passing gratitude to Fortune. All he would leave behind was his name written in the book of prisoners, and also scratched on a wall: EdwMacN—1696.
The Tower: at least I’ve come up in the world, he thought wryly, regretting that Jonathan or some other cynical wit were not there to appreciate the sentiment.
He breathed an even greater sigh of relief when the coach departed through Byward and Middle Towers, and not via Traitor’s Gate.
Two hours later, Edward found himself before an unnamed gentleman at an imposing desk, in fact the very gentleman who had been at the Earl of Portland’s side when Edward presented his letters and warning. A recording secretary sat nearby at a smaller desk.
“Please, sit down,” the gentleman said, directing him to a chair. “You’ve been well treated?”
“Surprisingly so.”
“Indeed?”
“I remember the days of Titus Oates and his false claims of a Popish plot, when all men, no matter how likely innocent, were treated as guilty.”
“Times change, sir.”
“Indeed,” Edward replied dryly.
“So you’ve heard by now of the attempted assassination of the King?” the gentleman asked, ignoring Edward’s attempt to engage.
“From some of the warders at the Tower, yes. I don’t know how much they really knew.”
“Yes, rumors, there are so many. Briefly—”
“Pardon me, but why the Tower—and is it as my lord I should address you?”
“Mr. Secretary will do.”
“Why the Tower, Mr. Secretary?”
“For you?”
“I’m no nobleman.”
“Indeed you’re not. We wanted you kept separate from the rest.”
“There are other ways to do this.”
“So there are. But you also have a reputation for escape from jails and prisons more secure than Newgate.”
“I see.”
“You should consider it a measure of your worth. It’s expensive to keep a prisoner in the Tower; the King, unusually, and for which you must thank him, paid your way. But back to the matters at hand. There was in fact a plot to kill the king, forty men and forty horses to block his carriage and stab him to death. With God’s grace it never came to pass. We’ve captured many of the conspirators and most are talking, telling a remarkable tale in the hope of saving their skins if not their souls. As for you, we know you came here to warn of a plot to kill the king, for which the King thanks you, of course.” The gentleman poured himself a glass of wine. “Michael O’Neal,” he said, before lifting the glass to his lips.
Edward was taken aback but said nothing. He collected his wits, then looked curiously at his interrogator, realizing this man very likely managed the king’s network of intelligencers, or part of it.
“Wine?” continued the richly dressed gentleman. “It’s an excellent claret, captured by an English privateer from a French merchantman. A trade I hear you intend to follow again, privateering, I mean.”
“Thank you.”
The gentleman passed Edward a glass of the red wine.
“Michael O’Neal. An Irishman. Do you know him?”
Edward raised his eyebrows, not expecting anything resembling this question. “I sailed with an Irishman of this name twice, many years ago. He came from near Kinsale, or maybe it was Cork, or so I think he said.”
“You were friends?”
Edward shrugged. “After a fashion. We’ve since been enemies on the same battlefield.”
“You owe him loyalty?”
“No more than any other comrade-in-arms. But he’s dead.”
“Indeed? You owe him nothing, then?”
“He saved my life once.”
“A great debt.”
“I saved his also.”
“A great debt repaid. Is there animosity between you?”
“Was, you mean. As I said, he’s dead. I marooned him once.”
“We’ll come to his life and death in a moment. Marooned, you say? Ah, the punishment of putting a man ashore in a desert place. Why?”
“For mutiny. He refused to abide by a vote of the company—we were privateers, but sailed under Jamaica Rule—and, rather than depart in the sloop we offered him, he led a mutiny. The ship’s company wanted to hang him, but I persuaded them to maroon him. He blamed me because I championed the punishment, fearing that anything other than death or marooning might lead him to mutiny again.”
“Pity he didn’t die on his little island. This same O’Neal was here, in London, as an assassinator.”
Edward raised his eyebrows. “The O’Neal I knew was killed at the Boyne, or so I was led to believe.”
“He was not.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed.”
“And you say he’s alive, and an assassinator? And he’s escaped?”
“Escaped? No, not to France or Ireland, not as far as we know. We believe he’s in hiding somewhere in London. When did you last see him?”
“In the Caribbean, some years ago, when I marooned him. I never actually saw him on the battlefields of Ireland afterward, although I heard from irreproachable sources that he was there. Are you sure we’re speaking of the same man?”
“They’re one and the same, never doubt it. Don’t you want to bring this pirate and assassinator to heel? Sympathy, sir, is subordinate to your duty to your King.”
“He once swore to kill me, and now you say he’s a Jacobite who might thereby thwart my ventures. Thus he’s twice my enemy.”
“You were yourself once a Jacobite.”
“By circumstance. All were Jacobites, more or less, until King William and Queen Mary, God bless her soul, were proclaimed.”
“James pardoned you, for which you must be grateful.”
“For which I am grateful.”
“And now?”
“King William reigns. James fled to France. I’m no papist and will never serve France. I’ve served King William honorably under several various commissions and circumstances these past few years.”
“So you have. You’re not English, are you, but a Scot, and much of the Highlands, even? His Majesty is well-acquainted with the Scots: Highlanders have served him well in Europe.”
“I am a Creolian, to be precise.”
“Ah, yes, an American, of Scots family, and not only that, Indian-bred—you were born and brought up there in your early years, were you not? In Jamaica, or someplace thereabout?”
“Jamaica, at Port Royal,” Edward replied proudly.
“Indeed? Born in the famous buccaneer haven itself. And you also lived in Virginia before you were sent to family and education
in Scotland? The haughty hot temper of both a Scot and a Creole, yet I know both sorts are honorable. And your father, he was a buccaneer, I believe; like father like son? It must be difficult, these loyalties.”
The man’s habit of speaking in suddenly shifting questions posed as statements began to annoy Edward.
“My father was a warrant officer in the Usurper’s navy under Admiral Penn, then served under Captain Myngs raiding the Spanish Main—in the Royal Navy under both the Usurper and King Charles. Call my father a buccaneer if it pleases you, but he served aboard ships of the English navy, at least at first. As for me, I serve King William.”
“Yes, so you say. But you didn’t come here just out of loyalty, you came, as you said, hoping to find a patron to assist in your search for a commission as a privateer as well.”
“Whoever came to Court who didn’t seek reward?”
The gentleman smiled but did not reply, and instead looked at a paper on the desk. Edward suspected this was merely an act, that he really looked at nothing. He did not fail to notice that the subject was no longer Michael O’Neal.
“You’ve been in Ireland recently,” he said finally. “Your purpose, other than helping Lord Deigle?”
“I sought an investor, an old friend.”
“Sir William Waller.”
“You’ve read my personal correspondence.”
“A matter of State. You shall have your letters back. Of course, it must occur to you that we have other sources as well. We are not as blind as you might think.” He shifted in his chair and took a sip of wine. “What else did you do in Ireland?”
“Nothing except meet with Viscount Brennan and Sir James Allin on behalf of Lord Deigle.”
“Yes, poor Lord Deigle. He hoped to receive secrets of some use to us in order to improve his standing with the King. In particular he hoped to learn something from Lord Brennan, for until recently the viscount was a Jacobite with close ties to St. Germain, in particular to the Duke of Berwick, who has been trying raise rebellion in England, Scotland, and Ireland. But Brennan’s too wise to tell too many secrets. All Brennan and Allin had for Deigle was a list of petty Irish conspirators, and these we knew already. Of course, the Irish Jacobites didn’t know what was in the letters, so they attacked you. A wasted effort, in fact. Only what you found on them, and only by accident when they attacked, was of value. Handsome Harry will try to take credit for it, of course.”
“And would leave me hanging if it were otherwise.”
“I’m sure you knew his character before you agreed to do his bidding.”
“If I had a better choice, I’d have made it.”
“Of course.” The gentleman nodded in agreement, sat down, and leaned back in his chair. “Are you sure you don’t know if O’Neal knows anyone in London?”
Edward, tired of the verbal fencing in the form of changing subjects, smiled as he was wont to do before a fight. “I don’t know who he knows. Indeed, I know nothing of his life outside of privateering a decade ago. Why are you asking me this?”
The gentleman ignored the question. “Not even in Ireland? Did he ever say who his family was or with whom he consorted?”
“No.”
“O’Neal was to be married,” the gentleman continued. “O’Meary is her name, or something like this, I’m never quite familiar with these Irish and Scottish names—your pardon, sir. She’s a ward of sorts of Sir William? Or rather, he’s her patron, she lives under his protection?”
Again Edward was taken aback, and to a far greater degree this time. He did his best to dissemble again, although he was certain his face had begun to flush. He had forgotten that Sir William had named Molly’s betrothed as a man named Neal or Nall. “Yes. You do have good sources.”
“O’Neal was sloppy; in his haste he left letters behind, old ones, a lover’s keepsakes.”
“Clearly you have Irish sources, too.”
“Naturally. You must forgive me when I tell you that my trade requires that I lie to you at times, although usually only by omission. She was not his mistress? Sir William’s, I mean?”
“No,” Edward said sternly. “But I know nothing more of what might lie between them. Some family history or kinship I believe,” he lied.
“Sir William is loyal?”
“A Whig through and through, and of the Church of England forever, but fair in his dealings with the Irish. He fought for King William in Ireland.”
“This O’Meary woman, how well do you know her?”
“Not well,” he lied again. “She often acted as hostess on behalf of Sir William, but I usually had affairs elsewhere. I know nothing of consequence,” he continued, skirting between fact and fiction. How well he knew Molly was no one’s business, not to mention that he had given his word to Sir William to do all he might reasonably and in honor do to protect her.
“She might be a conspirator, then? No, not in the assassination attempt, but in the planned uprising?”
“I don’t know how she could be,” Edward lied, as he realized again, coldly, that she was well-placed to be involved.
“Perhaps you wish to protect Sir William? The woman is doubtless in a good position to be a traitor—as are others, of course.” Edward said nothing. The interrogation continued. “The rapparee letters you brought to the Earl of Portland, you had them by accident when you were attacked on the road in Ireland?”
“Yes.”
“Who was in your company when you were attacked?”
Edward waited a moment before replying. “Mistress O’Meary.”
“And one of the men who attacked you might well have been O’Neal. What do you think of this?”
“Is this proved?” he replied defiantly, yet unnerved.
“Proved? No, sir. It is intelligent speculation. Sympathy, my dear sir, sympathy: you show sympathy for O’Neal, you show sympathy for the O’Meary woman. How do you know that she didn’t lead the rapparees to you and he didn’t try to kill you for the Brennan and Allin letters? Sympathy, sir, can get you killed. Surely you learned this, if not as a soldier or honest privateer, then as a buccaneer?”
“I played no buccaneer tricks.”
“Is that what you call putting men to the rack? Myself, I don’t find torture very useful. But sympathy? A dangerous vice in my profession. Perhaps you’re protecting the O’Meary woman for some reason? For Sir William’s sake? No? I’m not so sure. Is there anyone else you might suspect of being spy or traitor in Kinsale? Anyone else who would know of your mission and movement?”
“I know only that someone had good intelligence of my affairs, but that could be any one or even several of many.”
“Do you know a Dutch denizen named Janneke Hardy?”
“I do.”
“Might she be a spy?”
“She’s also well-placed, as are many,” Edward said, then regretted it instantly. His interrogator noticed this immediately.
“As I said, sympathy, sir, beware sympathy.”
“I’ve no knowledge that Jane Hardy is a spy, and would not believe it of her,” Edward lied.
The interrogator smiled. “Nor would you believe it of Mistress O’Meary.”
“Have you finished with me?” Edward demanded.
“Not yet, sir. Sit and drink some more wine please. O’Neal, O’Neal again—in his place what would you do now? How do you think he’ll try to escape?”
“He’s a seaman,” Edward replied with resignation, “if he’s the man I knew. He’ll head to sea, alone I think, for that’s the sort of man he was. He’ll trust no one. The ports are closed, of course?” The gentleman nodded. “He’ll move by night, then, perhaps to Romney Marsh or a to a small village by the sea. He’ll steal a boat if he can, like Captain Sharp did, or hire one if not, something small. O’Neal is such as could row across the Channel alone if necessary. He’s no true artist as a navigator, but is a good seaman and can navigate in waters he’s familiar with.”
The gentleman said nothing for a few moments, instead sh
uffling through the papers on his desk.
“Did you know he had a cousin, a Jesuit priest? The priest was a spy, but, alas, he gave us nothing before he was hanged. A man of great faith but poor politics and worse fortune. We had hoped he would identify a Jacobite spy among the English in Kinsale. In a curious turn of events, it was you who killed one of his escorts, an English officer. Do you make it habit of killing His Majesty’s officers in duels?”
“Is twice a habit?”
The man smiled briefly. “You have a wry wit, sir. There were no consequences in Ireland?”
“It was a fair fight. Ingoldsby challenged me. There was an inquest.”
“We’re aware of the details. Your tracks are quite easy to follow, sir, for you leave dead men wherever you go, not to mention that you do it with a certain flair. A man who undertakes secret missions must have less notoriety. But then you already know this, don’t you? Perhaps you have some theory of plain-dealing, like Captain Manly in the play? That you may dispense with all the world’s cunning intrigues via a bold courageous front and a skillful sword? You are then a dreamer, sir, or at least more suited to sea than shore.” Edward’s interrogator smiled briefly. “You need not worry, sir, I mention the duel as a curiosity only, but will remark that Ingoldsby reputedly played some buccaneer tricks on the priest when they captured him. O’Neal would have preferred his company no more than you apparently did. But I hear you were on friendly terms with the other officers of the garrison.”
“As I said, he challenged me, over nothing.”
“As is ever the case. Usually.” The gentleman paused yet again to peruse the papers before him, or pretend to do so. “Speaking of rencontres, there was, curiously, a man found dead in Fleet Ditch the day the Earl ordered you taken into custody. A passerby recognized him as one who frequented both Jonathan’s coffeehouse and also Old King’s Head and both are Jacobite rendezvous. He said the man lived in Bristol until recently, and now London, often travelled between here and Bath. A courier named John Lynch.” Edward’s manner disclosed nothing. “Do you know him?”
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