Daniel rose up against the gravity of many stout damp blankets, his body reminding him of every injustice he had dealt it since he had been awakened, twenty-four hours ago, with news that the King had gone on the lam. “Sergeant!” he hollered to the man on the wharf, “please inform yonder officer that the escaped prisoner has returned.”
THEKING’S OWNBLACKTORRENTGuards had gone into the west country with King James just long enough for their commander, John Churchill, to sneak away from camp and ride to join up with William of Orange. This might have surprised some of the Guards, but it had not surprised Daniel, for almost a year ago he had personally conveyed letters from John Churchill, among others, to the Prince of Orange in the Hague; and though he hadn’t read those letters, he could guess what they had said.
Within a few days, Churchill and his regiment had been back in London. But if they’d hoped to be stationed back at their old haunt of Whitehall, they’d been disappointed. William, still trying to sort out his newly acquired Kingdom, was posting his own Dutch Blue Guards at the royal palaces of Whitehall and St. James, and was happy to keep Churchill and the Black Torrent Guards at arm’s length in the Tower-which needed defending in any case, as it housed the Royal Mint, and controlled the river with its guns, and was the chief arsenal of the Realm.
Now Daniel was known, to the men of that regiment, as a wretch who’d been imprisoned there by King James II; one cheer for Daniel! Jeffreys had sent murderers to slay him-two cheers! And he had arrived at some untalked-about agreement with Sergeant Bob: three cheers! So in the last weeks before his “escape” Daniel had become a sort of regimental mascot-as Irish regiments kept giant wolf-hounds, this one had a Puritan.
And so the long and the short of it was that Mr. Bhnh was suffered to bring his boat through that tunnel under the wharf. After they passed under the arch, the sky appeared again briefly, but a good half of it was occulted by that out-thrust bulwark: St. Thomas’s Tower, a fortress unto itself, grafted to the outer wall of the Tower complex, straddling another stone arch-way paved with f?tid moat-water. Their progress was barred by a water-gate filling that arch. But as they approached, the gates were drawn open, each vertical bar leaving an arc of oily vortices in its wake. Mr. Bhnh hesitated, as any sane man would, and tilted his head back for a moment, in case he never got a chance to see the sky again. Then he probed for the bottom with his pole.
“This is my family coat of arms, such as it is,” Daniel remarked, “a stone castle bestriding a river.”
“Don’t say that!” Mr. Bhnh hissed.
“Why ever not?”
“We are entering into Traitor’s Gate!”
PAST THE NARROW APERTURE OF THEGate lay a pool vaulted over with a vast, fair stone arch. Some engineer had lately constructed a tide-driven engine there for raising water to a cistern in some higher building back in the penetralia of the citadel, and its fearsome grinding-like a troll gnashing its teeth in a cave-appalled Mr. Bhnh more than anything he’d seen all night. He took his leave gladly. Daniel had disembarked onto some ancient slime-covered stairs. He ascended, carefully, to the level of the Water Lane, which ran between the inner and outer fortifications. This had become the scene of a makeshift camp: several hundred Irish people at least were here, taking their ease on blankets or thin scatterings of straw, smoking pipes if they were lucky, playing hair-raising plaints on penny-whistles. No celebratory bonfires here: just a few brooding cook-fires setting kettle-bottoms aglow, and begrudging faint red warmth on the hands and faces of the squatters. There had to be a rational explanation for their being here, but Daniel could not conjure one up. But that was what made city life interesting.
Bob Shaftoe approached, harried by a couple of boys who were running around barefoot even though this was December. He ordered them away gruffly, even a bit cruelly, and as they turned to run off, Daniel got a look at one of their faces. He thought he saw a familial resemblance to Bob.
Sergeant Shaftoe was headed down the lane in the direction of the Byward Tower, which was the way out to London. Daniel fell into step beside him and in a few paces they’d left the water-engine far enough behind that they could talk without shouting.
“I was ready to set off without you,” Bob said somewhat bitterly.
“For where?”
“I don’t know. Castle Upnor.”
“He’s not there yet. I’d wager he’s still in London.”
“Let’s to Charing Cross, then,” Bob said, “as I think he has a house near there.”
“Can we get horses?”
“You mean, is the Lieutenant of the Tower going to supply you, an escaped prisoner, with a free horse-?”
“Never mind, there are other ways of getting down the Strand. Any news concerning Jeffreys?”
“I have impressed ‘pon Bob Carver the grave importance of his providing useful information to us concerning that man’s whereabouts,” Bob said. “I do not think his fear was affected; on the other hand, he has a short memory, and London contains many diversions to-night, most appealing to a man of his character.”
Passing through the Byward Tower they came out into the open and began to traverse the causeway over the moat: first a plank bridge that could be moved out of the way, then a stone ramp onto the permanent causeway. Here they encountered John Churchill, smoking a pipe in the company of two armed gentlemen whom Daniel recognized well enough that he could have recalled their names, had it been worth the effort. Churchill broke away from them when his eyes fell on Daniel, and pursued for a few steps, glaring at Bob Shaftoe in a way that meant “keep walking.” So Daniel ended up isolated in mid-causeway, face to face with Churchill.
“In truth I have no idea whether you’re about to embrace and thank me, or stab me and shove me into the moat,” Daniel blurted, because he was nervous, and too exhausted to govern his tongue.
Churchill appeared to take Daniel’s words with utmost gravity-Daniel reckoned he must’ve said something terribly meaningful, out of blind luck. Daniel had encountered Churchill many times at Whitehall, where he had always been surrounded by a sort of aura or nimbus of Import, of which his wig was only the innermost core. You could feel the man coming. He had never been more important than he was tonight-yet here on this causeway all that remained of his aura was his wig, which stood sore in need of maintenance. It was easy to see him as Sir Winston’s lad, a Royal Society whelp who had gone to sojourn in the world of affairs.
“So it’ll be for everyone, from now on,” Churchill said. “The old schemes by which we reckoned a man’s virtue have now been o’erthrown along with Absolute Monarchy. Your Revolution is pervasive. It is tricky, too. I don’t know whether you will run afoul of its tricks in the end. But if you do, it shall not be by my hand…”
“Your face seems to say, ‘ provided… ’ ”
“Provided you continue to be the enemy of my enemies-”
“Alas, I’ve little choice.”
“So you say. But when you walk through yonder gate,” Churchill said, pointing toward the Middle Tower at the end of the causeway, which was visible only as a crenellated cutout in the orange sky, “you’ll find yourself in a London you no longer know. The changes wrought by the Fire were nothing. In that London, loyalty and allegiance are subtle and fluxional. ’Tis a chessboard with not only black and white pieces, but others as well, in diverse shades. You’re a Bishop, and I’m a Knight, I can tell that much by our shapes, and the changes we have wrought on the board; but by fire-light ’Tis difficult to make out your true shade.”
“I have been awake for twenty-four hours and cannot follow your meaning when you speak in figures.”
“It is not that you are tired, but that you are a Puritan and a Natural Philosopher; neither group is admired for its grasp of the subtle and the ambiguous.”