Ruth Axtell Morren - The Making Of A Gentleman

The relief at his promise of her freedom was tempered by the fear of being left by herself in this rookery. “You needn’t worry that I’ll turn you in,” she said with a studied indifference. “You’ll have plenty to worry about on that score from the people in the neighborhood—or from your own companions, for that matter.”

That last remark caught his attention. His eyes narrowed under his heavy brows. “You’re the prison lady.”

She acknowledged the name they called her at Newgate with a slight inclination of her head. “Yes.”

He swore again. “I thought there was somethin’ familiar looking about you. You’re the one that offers the condemned false hope.” He pushed the remains of the food away and belched. “As soon as you leave to your warm dwelling, they’re left in the filth and cold of their prison walls, trusting their future to empty promises of a savior.”

“The only One who can help you now is that Savior.”

“Bah! I’ll take my chances on me own.”

“Where do you hope to go if you stay here? You may elude capture for a few days, maybe weeks, but eventually, they’ll catch you. If you leave here, there’ll be even a greater chance of detection. Someone will recognize you. Most people will fear you, the way you look now, like a great wild beast.”

His eyes widened before they flickered away from her and back toward the fire.

She leaned forward. “You can stow away on a ship, but then what? Where will you go? France? We’re at war with them. America? With the blockade?” She gave a doubtful laugh.

Quinn’s large hands clenched on the tabletop, the only sign that her words were having any effect.

“You could always turn yourself in—”

“Never!”

“In a few hours, days at most, they’ll have this place surrounded, mark my words—”

He stood, knocking his chair over backward. “They’ll never take me alive.”

She knew in those moments, as his green eyes stared into hers, that he spoke the truth.

Realizing the futility of arousing his ire further, she tried another tack. “You could petition to have your case retried. It’s been done before.”

“What do you know of my case?”

“I know enough to know you may be as innocent as you claim.”

Her words caught his attention. Picking up the fallen chair, he retook his seat.

She leaned forward. “I’ve been around Newgate long enough to know that witnesses can be bought or sold.”

He seemed to weigh her words a moment longer before shaking his head. “They’ll never believe me if they didn’t the first time.”

“In any case, your innocence or guilt is not the most important issue. The fact is the Lord has given you a reprieve. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.”

His eyes registered surprise for a second. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rough guffaw. “Worse than mere death?” he mimicked her cultivated syllables. “I beg your pardon, madam, but it’s easy for you to call it that since you haven’t had a rope strung about your scrawny neck.”

“I may not have stood where you stood today, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t watched enough souls go to their grave to understand the seriousness of their eternal destiny.”

He leaned in close, his green eyes glittering with mockery. “Are you one of those who like to watch a man swing from the gallows? It shows how little fine manners separate the scum o’ the Earth from those born to wealth.”

She jerked back. How dare he accuse her of enjoying the sight of someone strangling at the end of the rope? Before she could think of a suitable retort, he had turned away from her as if tired of her conversation.

He swung out his knife again. She flinched, but relaxed when she saw he used it only to pick his teeth.

Florence shifted her attention to the fire, which had burned low. “May I replenish the fire?” she asked softly.

He grunted. Taking it for assent, she stood.

There were only a few sticks of wood left. She used one to stir up the remaining embers and laid what was left atop them.

Damien, I pray you don’t worry about me. By now, he may have heard something about the escape. As far as she knew, no condemned person had ever slipped the noose.

“Did you know you would be rescued today?” she asked into the silence.

“No.”

She drew in her breath. The enormity of his reprieve took her breath away. The Lord had indeed heard her prayer for mercy. “You were prepared to die today?”

He laid down his knife and looked at her. His expression was flat and unreadable. “As ready as a man ever is.”

“You refused to kneel and pray.”

He turned aside and spit on the ground. “What, kneel for the benefit of a jeering crowd and play into the hands of that cleric so he can use it as a lesson to hold over the other poor prisoners?” He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. “Yes, dear people,” he mocked the pious tones of the ordinary. “Witness here a dying man’s repentance for a crime he never committed.”

She had no words to reply to that. She knew the man he was referring to and could hardly refute what he was saying.

Not knowing what else to say and feeling stiff from kneeling by the fire, she stood and shook her skirt out. Although the chill had left her limbs, she felt exhausted. The night’s vigil and the day’s excitement were taking their toll. She sat back down and recommenced praying. The Lord surely had a plan, and she needed to know what He would have her do next.

Instead of showing signs of fatigue, Quinn seemed to grow restless. He stood and began to prowl about the low cellar. He investigated every corner of it. Then he checked the door. Finally, he came back, spread out a dirty blanket on the hard ground next to the small fire, and lay down.

“Remember, if you try anything, I have the knife right here.” He patted the blade, which rested beneath his hands on his broad chest.

She sniffed. “It’s not up to me to turn you in. The Lord spared your life for a reason.”

He turned his back on her.

After a while, she heard the deep, even breathing that told her he was asleep. She began to recite Scripture. She felt her own lids grow heavy. Finally, able to fight the fatigue no more, she rested her head on the pillow of her arms and shut her eyes….

Jonah opened his eyes. He tensed, as he’d done every morning in his solitary cell in Newgate. The fire pit in front of him brought reality back in a jumble of images.

The feel of the rough hemp about his neck. The cap over his face blocking out the sea of faces in front of him.

He was going to die, and he didn’t know if he’d disgrace himself before the crowd. How they loved a good show. Would he suffocate quickly, his short, insignificant life snuffed out, or would the rope prove uncooperative and leave him swinging there for agonizing minutes?

Before he’d been isolated in the condemned man’s cell, he’d heard richly detailed stories from other prisoners of how chancy a clean death was. Often the hangman would have to pull on a prisoner’s legs so he’d die the quicker. A rare prisoner even survived the hanging, his throat raw and bruised, only to have to face the rope the next day.

Jonah didn’t think he could go through such a proceeding twice.

Despite his bravado, he’d been terrified. He’d stared at the dank, stone ceiling of his cell as the hours ticked by, and contemplated his demise. What would the morrow bring? Where would his soul go after the rope cut off the breath from his body? Or would his life be ended for good?

He passed a hand in front of his eyes now, wiping away the last horrible memories. His shoulders ached from his position on the floor, though he was used to a hard surface from the wooden pallet in his cell. The fire had long since gone out. His feet felt numb.