Wide is the Water (28 page)

For a moment Hart actually thought it would work, that the crowd were so trained to give way to the imperious accents of the upper class that they would do so now. But the woman who had first spoken barred the way, arms akimbo. ‘Scum, is it? We'll show you scum. And you too,
pretty boy, who ain't English whatever you try to pretend. Your talk gives you away, dirty foreigner.'

The surrounding circle moved a step closer. ‘I'm an American.' Hart raised his voice in a last effort to hold them. ‘A fighter for liberty. I won't cry, “No Popery,” friends, but I'll cry, “God save George Washington,” and I hope you'll join me!'

To his surprise and slight dismay, the crowd instantly burst into a very free rendering of his words, to the tune of ‘God Save the King.' And at the same time an impatient ripple came down from the direction of Kingsway. ‘Time's a-wasting,' said a voice.

‘On to Leicester Fields,' said another.

And, ‘No violence, he says no violence,' said someone quite close to Hart, apparently to the woman who had questioned him.

‘Oh, get along with you' – she gave Hart a push – ‘and take your woman with you, though it's more than she deserves. Scum indeed!' As she spoke, she was swept away in the southwards movement of the crowd, and Hart seized the chance to guide Julia across the road and into Kingsway.

They found the Bonds' house brilliantly illuminated, as the mob demanded, but it took some time before they could make anyone open the door. At last, Bond himself leant out of an upstairs window in nightcap and dressing gown, identified Julia with a squeak of dismay, and came down to open the door. ‘Can't take any chances,' he said apologetically as Julia subsided into his arms. And then to Hart: ‘You're not coming in?'

‘No,' said Hart. ‘You and Mrs. Bond will take care of her, I know. Good-bye, Julia. Forgive me.' And before she could retrieve herself from her pretended swoon, he turned and got himself safe back into the dark entrance of Duke Street. Where now? Most certainly not back to the Purchas house. He paused in the shadows, away from the street's one inadequate light, and listened to the roar of the mob, still surging down Great Queen Street.
Someone had been controlling them. Everything pointed to that. The change of direction had not happened spontaneously; word had been passed down from what had been the head of the unruly procession. So – whoever was in fact in command must be quite near now. He wrapped his domino more closely round him and insinuated himself quietly back into the milling, chanting crowd. The group who had tormented him and Julia should be well away by this time, and he had noticed other men in evening dress here and there among the rioters. It was only Julia's folly that had drawn the mob's attention to them. By himself, he should be safe enough.

Mad to be doing this. But he was mad tonight. And he could not shake off the strange feeling that he had known the man whose voice he had heard in the crowd earlier that evening. If he could only hear it again … A chance in a million, but one he felt he must take. In some curious way he felt it to be connected with Julia and all that disaster. Or was he merely clutching at straws, trying to make himself forget his own shameful behaviour? Either way he found himself moving down Great Queen Street, an unnoticed member of the mob. When they passed houses that had been looted in the previous day's rioting, the crowd stopped to give them three ironical cheers, but each time a new ripple flowed forwards through the crowd, and the words ‘Leicester Fields' and ‘Sir George Savile' passed from mouth to mouth. He thought that whoever was masterminding the riot must be behind him still and tried to slow his pace, but found it too dangerous. The only way to escape notice was to move with the tide.

When they reached Drury Lane, he could see a glow ahead, over the heads of the mob, and as they poured down Long Acre and spread into Leicester Fields, they were more and more clearly illuminated by the light of the huge bonfire that burnt in front of Sir George Savile's house. ‘Too late,' said a disgusted voice behind him.

And, ‘Look,' said another, ‘the troops!'

The house itself still stood, with all its windows broken
and its front door hanging ajar on broken hinges, but now Hart could see the glint of steel, the gleam of epaulettes in the savage firelight, as the Guards took over.

Now a new catchword was echoing through the crowd: ‘Rainforth.' And ‘Clare Street.' He pushed his way back towards Long Acre, trying to see who had started it going but again found it difficult and dangerous to move against the crowd and made slow work of it. He ought to be carrying something; everyone else had a bit of booty or a weapon. He picked up a piece of wood from the road and, as he did so, noticed something. People with booty were detaching themselves from the mob and moving southwards towards the dark shape of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields.

He followed them quietly, clutching the bit of wood as if it had value. It was darker as he moved away from the great bonfire, and he was able to watch unobserved as one after another the men paused by a big old-fashioned carriage that was standing in a dark corner by the church. They leant in at the carriage window, said something, and came away empty-handed. Or – not entirely so? One of them was muttering as he came back past Hart, ‘Sixpence!' angrily to himself. ‘Risk my life for sixpence! I'll see you damned first.'

‘Is that all you got?' Hart took his own purse out of his pocket. ‘Maybe I'll keep this myself, if so.'

‘I would,' said the other man. ‘A paltry sixpence for a bit of plate I'd have hung for. Word was, pay was good! Good!' He spit loudly. ‘I'll prig for myself from this on.'

‘And so will I,' said Hart. ‘Unless I can find the man himself and make better terms. Where is he, do you know?'

‘Black George? As well ask me where the devil is! You don't know much if you don't know that.' He gave Hart a sharp sideways look. ‘Why may you be, asking questions? And in a damned odd voice, too!' He reached out to grab Hart.

‘An American!' Hart managed to evade him. ‘Who doesn't want to be hanged either.' He threw it back as he
turned and hurried back towards Long Acre. Clearly the carriage was merely a collecting place for loot; there was no chance that the man who was organising the riots would risk himself by being seen near it.

The crowd was thinning now. The bonfire still burnt high, illuminating faces to a dangerous extent, and the Guards were fully in command of Sir George Savile's house. Hart suddenly felt too exhausted almost to move. He must find himself somewhere to spend the night. He began to work his way in the direction of Fladong's Hotel, which Dick had told him was much used by country gentlemen. Perhaps a night's sleep would help him identify that mysterious, surely familiar voice he had heard earlier that evening. Black George's voice, presumably, or that of one of his accomplices. Horrible to think that this whole unspeakable outbreak of mob violence might have been planned simply as a means to loot. Planned … The word caught in his mind. Something else had been planned that night; Julia had planned to entrap him and had succeeded. And thinking of her, hating himself all over again, he had it. Black George. Not George Gordon. George Purchas. His voice. Part of him had known it all the time. Known it and not wanted to admit it? Very likely. It was a horrible bit of knowledge and one he did not know how to use. He had harmed the Purchas family enough already without branding George Purchas as the worst kind of criminal. Besides, he had not a shadow of proof. Thinking it miserably over as he prepared for bed at Fladong's, he decided that the only thing he could do was confront George himself with his knowledge and hope to frighten him out of further criminal activity. A forlorn hope, but in the end it helped him to a restless, nightmare-haunted sleep.

His first problem next morning was that of funds. The staff at Fladong's had welcomed him kindly enough the night before as a fugitive from the mob, which had explained his lack of luggage for the time being, but that would do for only one night. Either he had to go back to
the house in Charles Street, collect his effects, and face Mr. Purchas, or he must go to Drummond's, draw some more money, and reequip himself. Feeling himself a craven, he chose the latter course. It would be time enough to face Mr. Purchas about Julia when he had seen George and done his duty there. He was pretty sure to find George at the Cocoa Tree later in the day, but he had no idea where he actually lived.

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.'