The Gardener

by Catherine McGreevy

  Although by then, of course, it would be too late. He remembered the gibbet, and shuddered.

  During the next few hours, the ruffians lobbed questions at him, but when Tom sullenly refused to respond, they lost interest. He did not move from his corner until the small, barred window grew dark. Shortly after, a key scraped in the lock, and a wizened warden with a scarred face came in with a tray.

  The man tut-tutted at Tom's swollen arms, shaking his head at the constable's forgetfulness, and sawed through the bonds with a dull knife. Tom rubbed his wrists as the rope fell away. The pain of the blood throbbing back into his hands after hours of numbness felt almost unbearable. Only after the pain had lessened did hunger assert itself, and he wondered how many hours had passed since his last meal.

  Then he looked at the food on the tray the gaoler had left, and his appetite left him. Bits of gristle and vegetable tops floated on top of some kind of watery soup, causing his stomach to revolt. The others gobbled down the mess with relish, but Tom pushed his own bowl away as a vision of yesterday's fabulous pre-wedding feast floating through his mind: roast chicken dripping with fat; hot puddings; boiled lobster glistening with drawn butter; tender beef seeping savory juices through a golden, flaky crust; and of course the fish ....

  With difficulty, he swallowed. His mouth felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool, and he tasted the bitter tang of dried blood.

  “Eat,” counseled the bespectacled man, looking up from his bowl. “You'll need your strength.”

  “Why?” It was the first word he had spoken all day, and all his despair and bitterness gushed out in the single croaked syllable. “After all, I'm only to 'balance the gibbet.'”

  The older man took a bite of black bread and winked in a friendly manner. “I'm a philosopher, young fellow: no one knows what the future will bring. History is full of prisoners who went on to greatness. Think of Daniel in the lion's den, Saint Peter in chains, Joseph in Potiphar's prison....”

  “You're hardly the likes of any of those,” Tom snarled. The last reference had cut too close to home, and not in his favor. The Biblical Joseph had not stood paralyzed like a gibbering idiot while Potiphar's wife made a fool of him! Tom remembered his new vow, and repeated it silently. Never again would he willingly grant a man—or a woman—power over him.

  Then his head drooped. The vow was meaningless. He would never know freedom until the rope dropped around his neck.

  The other man shrugged, and nudged the tray with the remainder of the food toward him. “'Twill be a long time before breakfast.”

  Tom looked at his benefactor suspiciously. Then, hunger finally overwhelmed him, and he snatched a crust and devoured it. Although stale, it made him feel slightly better. He left the watery soup with an expression of disgust, however, and one of the other men immediately snatched the dish and drank it up with a cackle.

  After the warden had removed the empty tray, Tom surveyed his cellmates with new curiosity. The older man seemed an ally. Hard-bitten though the two other men appeared, Tom was stronger, more fit, and nearly twice their size. Experimentally, he flexed his muscles, and in response, they both moved back a step. “What are you lot here for?”

  “Feeling more sociable now, are you?” The bespectacled man made an exaggerated bow. “Isaac Harris, cut-purse extraordinaire, that is until my career came to a sudden end, the details of which need not concern you. These gentlemen, Marty and Jake, are my cohorts. None are more skilled at creating a diversion in a crowd while I ply my trade, I assure you. Sadly, the world will be far less interesting when they leave it.” He paused delicately. “If I may be so bold, what are you up for, my lad?”

  “It's no matter. I'm innocent,” he muttered.

  “So are we.” Isaac nodded. “Along with most of those held against their will within these walls, if one is to believe their accounts. Unfortunately, your trial will likely be as swift as ours, and no doubt as unjust in its outcome.” The others grunted assent.

  Tom sank back in despair.

  * * *

  Tom's spirits remained low the next few days as he awaited his fate. Stubbornly he refused to respond to Isaac's attempts at conversation, but his silence merely encouraged the cutpurse to launch into long monologues of past adventures interspersed with quotations from obscure poets and philosophers. Tom did not understand half his bespectacled companion’s ramblings, but he found them surprisingly diverting nonetheless.

  “It's a pity about the injustice done to you, my lad,” Isaac said at last, shaking his head while lighting his odiferous pipe. Tom wondered where his cell mate obtained the seemingly inexhaustible supply of tobacco. “In a better world, a comely young man of your intelligence could achieve the success he so obviously deserves. Only in the democracy of the dead, all men at last are equals.”

  In his corner, Tom stirred.

  The older man winked. “Alas, those last words are not mine, but those of the immortal bard.” Seeing Tom's blank expression, Isaac removed his pipe from his mouth. “Shakespeare," he explained. "You've heard of him, I hope?”

  Tom slumped back without answering. How had such an educated man come to be incarcerated in these walls? Better not to ask, he thought. After all, Isaac had not inquired again about his own past. Professional courtesy, perhaps.

  The older man's charm made up for his companions' lack of it. Tom never learned to tell Marty and Jake apart. They might have been identical twins, although one was slightly shorter and stouter, and the other darker. Their faces were equally hard, their speech equally rough.

  After the first day, fortunately, the two ruffians left him alone. Although they still occasionally eyed his boots covetously, all he had to do was flex his muscles again and they retreated like rats from a growling mastiff. Tom suspected that Isaac had forbidden them to try, for they could easily have overpowered him while he slept. He was glad, because he kept his guinea in the toe of his boots. Fat lot of good it would do him now, he thought sourly.

  In spite of Isaac's conversation, the hours dragged slowly, interrupted only when the aging pickpocket restocked his supply of tobacco once a day through the cell's grated window. When the rays of sunshine lay at the same angle across the floor in late afternoon, they heard footsteps approach on the cobblestones, and Isaac would cross to the window, reaching up and retiring to his cot with a fresh twist of tobacco and a pleased expression. Tom wondered idly who his benefactor was.

  On the fourth day, a constable herded Tom upstairs to a courtroom for his trial. Blodgett was the sole witness. Tom did not recognize anyone else in the crowded room. The butler avoided his eye before the guards bundled Tom back to his cell, after being allowed barely time to avow his innocence. It came as no surprise when shortly after, the verdict was relayed to him: guilty.

  Isaac had warned that execution usually took place quickly after a verdict. The pair of guards who appeared the next morning had come for Marty and Jake. The two sullen men were herded out, prodded with blows and curses, before the door swung shut with a final clang.

  Isaac's usual wry humor was not in evidence today. He lay on the stone bench that served as his cot listening to the wagon outside squeak as it rumbled away, carrying its somber load. His face looked tired and lined, and purple pouches hung under his eyes. Tom had guessed the pickpocket was in his mid-forties; today he looked sixty.

  Thirty minutes or so later they heard a distant cheer. Isaac sighed and settled his glasses back on his hooked nose. “Too late,” he remarked. “I had hoped .... Ah well. Perhaps by tomorrow....”

  Tom did not understand the remark. He was busy trying to banish the gruesome images in his head.

  An hour later he heard a key in the lock and looked up with surprise. It was not yet suppertime. Surely they had not come for him this late in the day? He jumped to his feet when the iron door screeched open to reveal a bent frame standing uncertainly in the doorway.

  “Tom?”

  “Lemley!”

  The old gardener moved in
to the room, mumbling a word of thanks to the gaolor and passing him a shilling. He touched his cap politely to Isaac, then turned his gaze on Tom.

  “Are they takin' good care of ye, my lad?” He carefully did not notice the mouse that scampered across the stone floor, nor twitch his nose at the stench that filled the room like an open latrine. “Ye look well enough.”

  Tom did not want to talk about himself. “How did you find me, Lemley?”

  “Only by chance. I went to the house to tell ye some news, and was told you had gone. That was before the rumors started flying. It took a piece o' work to find out where you was being held. I came as soon as I was able.”

  Tom was ravenous for news: “Tell me everything. What are they saying about me?”

  “A pack of lies, Tom. A pack of lies. Them as knows ye knows none of it is true.” Lemley looked down at his scuffed boots while simultaneously scratching behind his ear. “Some nonsense about a stolen snuffbox .... I didn't believe it for a moment. There was another story that you'd found a position elsewhere. I didn't believe that either. I knew you'd have come to say good-bye, bein' how we are such old friends and all.”

  “And the wedding?” For some reason Tom wanted to know how it had all ended.

  “Went off without a hitch. The American and his daughter left two days after the ceremony. I don't think they knew of the commotion over your departure; Lord Marlowe kept a tight lid on it, although of course we servants found out soon enough.”

  Lemley refrained from asking the question that must have been bursting inside him. Sensing this, Tom told him briefly the truth of what had happened the night of his departure. Lemley's rheumy eyes widened, When Tom finished, he shook his head.

  “I knew you'd run into trouble someday, and through no fault of yours, although I tried my best to warn ye. That's the way of it: no justice for the likes of you and me. Not till we get our heavenly reward ....” He sighed deeply.

  Tom broke in. He did not want to think of his heavenly reward, not yet. “There's a girl, a girl named Jenny Doyle. Do you—?”

  Lemley shook his head. “I know nothin' about her, nor about any of the other house staff. But I shall ask when I get back. Maybe I can give you more news next....”

  His voice trailed off. Both of them knew there would likely be no next time.

  The guard outside cleared his throat and stamped his feet. Gruffly, the two friends exchanged good-byes. With a final “God bless your soul, me lad,” Lemley turned his bent shoulders to leave.

  Tom watched the old man retreat, his stomach sinking. When the door clanged shut, he turned to see Isaac watching, an ironic grin revealing artificially white, even teeth.

  “So it was true, then, what the guards said?” he said, tapping his dentures thoughtfully with a long forefinger. “About the master's daughter? Ah, a young man's escapades! Well, true or not, it hardly matters now. Your fate will be the same.” He filled his clay pipe with a pinch of the foul-smelling tobacco and lit it. Tom still had no idea who it was who tripped across the cobblestones every day to deliver his cellmate's daily supply, but the stench had the happy side-effect of driving away some of the vermin.

  Isaac looked up through the smoke. “Well, who was she? That girl you asked about?”

  Tom thought of china-blue eyes and golden hair. Like Isaac had said, it hardly mattered now. “A lady's maid. Jenny.” Her name seemed to lighten the thick air of the cell.

  Isaac gave a low, mocking whistle. “You were a busy lad, weren't you? Not only the master's daughter, but a lady's maid as well?”

  Tom scowled at him, but Isaac appeared unfazed. “Ah, do not mind my jesting, lad. Folks in our situation must grab our laughs as we can.” He drew in a deep breath of pipe smoke and let it out slowly while waggling a long, narrow foot over the edge of the bed. A toe poked through a hole in the black worsted stocking. “Pity, that a lad with your unquestioned talents must swing. And, if I might say so—” The cutpurse grinned and wiggled the graceful fingers of his free hand. “A man with my talents as well. If you weren't to hang tomorrow ... if, mind you ... what would you do, young Tom? Where would you go?”

  Tom was startled. He hadn't bothered to dream of such an unlikely eventuality. “I don't know.” But he did, of course. He would go to see Jenny, explain what had happened so she did not think ill of him. After that, where he went did not matter.

  Isaac blew another lungful of smoke thoughtfully at the ceiling. “As for me,” he said dreamily, “I'd go to the Blue Boar. Best roast beef in London, and the prettiest wenches. I vow, they'd make you forget your Jenny in no time at all.” His head fell back, and Tom knew his companion's thoughts had drifted far from their cell.

  * * *

  It felt as if Tom had barely fallen asleep before he and Isaac were rousted and shoved into an open wagon. From the squeaking of its rear wheel, he knew it was the same conveyance that had taken away Marty and Jake. As before, his arms were tied behind his back, causing him to fall against the sides of the cart as they jounced over the cobblestones.

  People thronged the streets, all of them—men, women, children— eagerly watching the convicts' journey toward their final destination. Two sets of hangings in two days was an unusual treat. Tom wondered why the court hadn't hung the four cellmates together, to save time. Not enough scaffolds, perhaps.

  A chill ran through him at the sight of the onlooker's bright eyes and bloodthirsty grins, the sound of their raucous calls. The waves of their sweaty excitement were palpable, like electricity before a thunderclap. Tom could almost feel the tightening of the scratchy rope around his neck.

  At the thought, he gulped a deep breath of air. It was thick with coal smoke and reeked of emptied chamber pots, but compared to the atmosphere in the cell, it tasted as sweet as wine. This would be the last air he would breathe, forever. He filled his chest again and again until his lungs nearly burst.

  Just then a hideous old woman burst out of the crowd and loped alongside the wagon in her rags, hurling shrieking curses at them. Isaac, seated on the side of the cart nearest her, was seemingly lost in his thoughts, as he had been all morning, and ignored her insults, even when she raised her scrawny arm and, half-climbing over the side of the wagon, struck him viciously against the cheek. The wagon lurched around a corner, and she fell away, sputtering invectives and waving her fist in the air.

  Isaac fell heavily against Tom, and his elbow dug painfully into Tom's bound side. As the wagon began its final turn toward the spot where the top of the gibbet loomed above the crowd, he spoke rapidly into Tom's ear.

  “I'm going to jump for it.” There was no need to whisper for above the roar of the crowd not even the driver of the cart could hear them. “I'll go out the right side. You take the left. That way, one of us might have a chance.”

  “But ....”

  Tom suddenly realized that his hands and feet were free. A telltale glint of metal in Isaac's hand told him what had happened. Someone had passed the knife to Isaac as the cart rolled along—the old woman, no doubt, when she raised her hand to slap him.

  Isaac grinned, revealing his ivory dentures. Without another word, he hurled himself over the side of the cart. There was no time for thought. Tom instinctively followed suit.

  He heard a yell from the guard, then he was twisting and shoving through the jungle of close-pressed bodies. Hands caught at him, snatched at his clothing, but his size and strength proved once again to his advantage. He shoved aside the grasping hands, threw a blow at someone's head, and ducked and twisted through the spectators. Behind him he heard a gunshot.

  The crowd proved his salvation. As he plowed through the horde, hunching over to hide his height, the onlookers at the back took him for just one more of the mob and let him pass unmolested. When he surfaced at the edge of the square, he straightened and took off pell-mell down the narrow, twisting streets. Shouts followed him, and he knew pursuers would soon be at his heels. Already, passersby were looking at him with odd expressions. When they
heard the cries, he knew they would put two and two together and join the hunt.

  When he finally found a quiet hidden corner, he drew up, panting for breath, and took stock of his situation. He could not continue running through the streets in soiled knee-breeches and torn shirt, looking like the escaped convict he was. Hunger and the beating he had received from Lord Marlowe’s henchmen had weakened him. His only chance was to find a place to hide. If he were recaptured, he was fully aware there would be no second chance. A knife would be at his throat until the rope was around his neck and the trap door flung open.

  Suddenly Tom remembered Isaac's query: what he would do if, somehow, he did not hang? Had it been a hint to prepare him for what was to happen? Although Tom had not responded to Isaac's question, he knew the answer at once. Nothing, not even the threat of the gibbet, could keep him away from Jenny. She would believe his explanation. She would shelter him. He was certain that, deep inside, she must feel for him as he did for her. Those stolen moments together, the time she had returned his kiss....

  And after that? No matter. Once he had seen her, he was certain things would take care of themselves.

  Chapter Eight

  Tom spent three days traveling northwest on foot, mostly by night. By day, he slept in ditches or under hedgerows. The wrathful Lord Marlowe would be sure to send men after him when the news of the escape arrived, but Tom thought no one would expect him to go back to the great house.

  Still, he could not be sure. They might be on alert, expecting another attack on Miss Marlowe—at least, those who believed her lie. Or they might suspect an act of revenge. Either way, he avoided other travelers and watched carefully for anyone with the appearance of a detective.

  On the third day, near starvation, he broke into a cottage and found a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese, wolfing it down. His belly satisfied, he felt an attack of guilt. Whoever owned the cottage was poor, and now they might go hungry. As a child, he had lived in just such a cottage, and he knew how precious every crust of bread was. By way of payment, he chopped some firewood and left it by the door, hoping the family would forgive him. Having been unjustly labeled a thief, he had no wish to become one.