Low Treason

by Leonard Tourney

  He told Roley to proceed to the shop, lock the door of the house behind him, and go by way of the garden, the better to draw attention to himself. When Roley was gone, Castell dressed himself in the laborer’s garb he had worn during his interview with Cecil, filled his purse with all the loose silver in his desk, and withdrew from its hiding place the little book with its priceless list of names, dates, and places. For a moment he stood paging through the book, taking an almost sensuous pleasure in the feel of its leaves, in the fleeting glimpses of the names, and remembering how those names came to be there. Then he tucked the book safely within his shirt. The silver would be spent within the month, but the little book would keep him in clean linen and good wine forever.

  Twelve

  THAT same afternoon Joan and Matthew were transported to Newgate by cart, along with a housebreaker, a pickpurse, and a little tailor sent up for debt. The cart jolted to a stop before Newgate stairs and the officer in charge leaped from his seat and hurried around to open the tailgate. He was a tall, lanky fellow with a face afire with boils and pustules and two little gray eyes that peered out beneath almost invisible blond brows. He was very boisterous and self-important, making much ado out of a simple job and obviously pleased with the impression his authority was making on the small crowd of persons gathered to watch the spectacle of newly arrived prisoners.

  Matthew and Joan climbed down with the others. They stood around in the street, staring up at the prison.

  There was a considerable amount of traffic going in and out, visitors, released felons and debtors, victuallers, various officers of the sheriff, magistrate, and courts, and a small troupe of entertainers, dressed in motley. One of the entertainers led a brown bear on a chain while a little spotted dog yelped heroically at its feet.

  Suddenly Matthew felt Joan take his hand and caress it. He turned his eyes from the prison and looked at her ques—

  tioningly. She had lost her cap and there were pieces of straw from the cart clinging to her hair. His heart almost melted at the sight of her stricken face.

  “God keep you,” she said, moving her lips, not making a sound at all, and looking at him with her intent, dark eyes.

  Then they were put in a line and led single file up the stairs into the prison lodge where their fetters were removed and they came under the scrutiny of a half-dozen prison warders standing around conversing and smoking.

  Matthew was relieved to find a different officer in charge from the surly fellow he had encountered on his previous visit. The deputy keeper was a stout, powerfully built man of about thirty-five with a very ruddy face and a large, bulbous nose that seemed to have been designed by some satirist bent on mocking the normal human visage. The deputy glanced once at the prisoners and then continued to converse with two of his men. The deputy had a commanding voice and presence, and the men were listening to him with obvious respect. Matthew looked nervously about him; his mouth was very dry and his heart racing. It was the same lodge as before and the warders and turnkeys may have been the same, but the place had a different look to him now, now that he was no casual visitor but an inmate. The clutter and filth of the lodge, the confusion, the surliness of the officers, assumed a threatening aspect. Slowly he began to realize how prosperity and civic honor in Chelmsford had misled him about life. He had taken them for granted, as his due. But this was life. London. Newgate. His happiness as a man, husband, father, constable, citizen, had been stripped from him in an instant, just as his mortal life had nearly been, in the river. All that remained now was his soul, that quintessential sprite of the air, but here, here in this godforsaken place, he wondered if he would be able to retain even that.

  He prayed silently, feebly.

  Matthew noticed the little tailor who had come to Newgate with them was weeping and had commenced to relate his story to one of the turnkeys. The turnkey paid no attention, but busily searched the tailor for weapons or val. 205

  uables. When he had satisfied himself, the turnkey told the tailor to shut his mouth and stay in line. The tailor wiped his eyes with his sleeve and stood still in the center of the chamber.

  An elderly man with sparse white hair and scraggly beard was bent over a square wooden table in the center of the room writing down the prisoners’ names and the crimes of which they had been charged. This information was given to him by the magistrate’s man, who proclaimed the names in a loud voice for the edification of the assembly.

  Matthew was in line behind the cutpurse and Joan behind her husband. Matthew shuddered as he heard the word “thief” intoned after his name and felt even worse when Joan was called that, too. It seemed an eternity since morning.

  “Are you the wife of this man?” inquired the recorder, peering at Joan and nodding in Matthew’s direction.

  Joan answered yes; the recorder appraised Matthew coolly. Matthew thought he could read the recorder’s mind. There was Matthew, a middle-aged man of solid countenance and middling dress, but what of that? These days any thief could find his way into a good suit to mock the gentry withal.

  “Move on,” growled the recorder, inscribing something in his book. Joan joined Matthew in the comer where the tall, lanky magistrate’s man picked his nose and observed the proceedings with wry amusement.

  The recorder then looked up to announce that the prisoners would be assigned their wards. This seemed to occasion much discussion among the deputy, the turnkeys, and the recorder, and it was a full ten minutes before the assignments were made. During this interval the deputy and turnkeys scrutinized the prisoners and whispered among themselves. Matthew strained to overhear, although he could well guess the substance of their talk. He knew that a prisoner’s assignment in Newgate rarely bore a relation to the severity of his crime; it had, rather, to do with the capacity of his purse. As a result, prison officials considered themselves businessmen, and their appoint-merits, especially to the higher office of keeper and deputy, were much sought after.

  The housebreaker and cutpurse were first assigned to their quarters, whereupon the two men immediately commenced negotiations for better ones, and after another period of haggling, they assumed satisfied expressions and began to chat familiarly with the warders and turnkeys as though they had been companions of long standing. Someone had brought a bottle from the taproom and was passing it around. Quickly the lodge took on the atmosphere of a common tavern. All that was wanted was a company of aproned drawers to mingle with the patrons. While this was going on, Matthew noticed that the magistrate’s man and deputy keeper were looking at him, nodding their heads, and whispering.

  Matthew and Joan exchanged glances; Matthew drifted over to where one of the turnkeys had been leaning idly against the wall since their arrival and inquired if it were possible for a married couple to be confined together. No, replied the turnkey in a tone implying that the question was a foolish one, this was not possible. The men were on one side of the prison, the women on the other. Of course visits could be arranged, he said. But there was a charge.

  “Of course,” responded Matthew dryly.

  Presently the recorder announced that Joan Stock was to be sent to the Waterman’s Hall on the second floor of the jail and Matthew to the Middle Ward on the first floor, on ffie common felons’ side. From his previous visit, Matthew knew the general locations of these wards. He also knew that they were not the worst the prison had to offer and he withdrew his purse to pay the required sum. He had no sooner done so than the deputy approached him and informed him of the charge.

  Matthew began to protest, for the amount seemed exorbitant. He might have had board and room in the best inn in Chelmsford for less.

  “The charge,” explained the keeper defensively, “is for your wife and for yourself. For another shilling you can have admittance to the Press Yard.” The deputy enumerated additional charges, which involved lesser payments to cooks, attendants, turnkeys, and swabbers—the last being responsible for cleaning die prison of its nightsoil.

  “Naturally,” ob
served the keeper ironically, “if this sum seems high you could pay for yourself alone. There are lesser accommodations for the women. Or perhaps it would please you to save a penny by lodging in the Stone Hold, in which case you could feast on the Newgate rats for naught?”

  Matthew shuddered. He knew about the Stone Hold. He remembered poor dead Ralph. The wonder was that the boy had lived as long as he had, in the darkness and the filth.

  Matthew paid the sum, knowing full well that another man could have had the same accommodations for less and that the charge was padded to ensure that the keeper and his cronies got their share. But what could be done? He was only thankful that in the confusion of their arrest he had remembered to bring money. During their journey from the magistrate’s, he had managed to pass some to Joan as well. She had, also, her ring, and what was left of her gown, some parts of which might be sold for cloth of less expense, with the difference going to provide necessities of survival. Could he somehow get word to his friends in Chelmsford there would be money enough, enough for the master’s side, where prisoners of the better quality could live quite comfortably, or so he had heard. Yet he hoped not to be interred here for that length. His chief concern at the moment was how he could notify Cecil of their misfortune.

  As Matthew stared into Joan’s face, her troubled eyes seemed to mirror his own confusion and disbelief. What was happening to them? They knew where they were and why, but it was as though their sense of who they were was slipping from them along with their physical freedom. He struggled to shut out this encroaching, alien world with its wrangling, leering wardens and turnkeys, the uproar from the adjoining taproom, the dismal insignia of the prison house—fetters, chains, halberds, and pistols; he took his wife in his arms and brushed her forehead with his lips, clearing away the strands of dark hair that had fallen about her face like a shredded veil. Her forehead was hot and moist to his touch; he could feel her trembling limbs. With one hand in the small of her back pressing her to his body he raised the other to caress her face, but beneath his fingers the familiar contours gave him small comfort. She of all things he was loath to lose—separation would be a little death—and even as he embraced her he could already feel her immense and growing distance.

  But then, suddenly, he felt her pulled away. It was not of her own will. One of the turnkeys was rushing her off. She was looking back at him, her eyes round with fright, and as he watched Joan vanish into the maw of the prison he felt his eyes fill with hot tears of anguish and rage.

  The Middle Ward of Newgate was a great cheerless hall with a few tall dirty windows and a high ceiling. There were no beds for the inmates but there was a good oak floor on which a sleeping place could be made of straw and blankets which constituted the ward’s sole furnishings, except for the scattering of small personal articles the inmates managed to preserve against the depredations of thieves and the warders. Upon arriving there, Matthew was immediately surrounded by other inmates wanting to know his crime, eying his clothes enviously, and desiring to sell him some service or privilege or have news of friends or family. But this interest proved to be fleeting, for when they learned he was a stranger in the city, they left him alone, and he wandered about his new habitation aimlessly, feeling sick at heart.

  Despite the dismal surroundings, the prisoners were active. They played cards, diced, or stood about conversing. They were a very mixed group: some were well dressed and others practically in rags but here, oddly, social condition was no bar to intercourse. Imprisonment made them equals; the gentlemen chatted with laborers, the merchants with cutpurses—the ward was a little Paul’s Churchyard, brought indoors. Tobacco and liquor were much in evidence, and it was clear that the latter had much to do with the prevalent bonhomie.

  After a while Matthew drifted down to the end of the hall where there was a wall covered with notices and proclamations. Some of these were very old—tattered and illegible. They offered rewards for information leading to the capture of malefactors. To while away the hour, Matthew read them. What a God’s plenty of thieves, conycatchers, murderers, traitors, and vagabonds there were. He read their names, their descriptions, their acts. The traitors interested him the most. By right, thought Matthew, Castell’s name should be blazoned there on the wall, along with that of his lieutenant, John Starkey. And so they should be when Cecil discovered the Stocks’ imprisonment and released them.

  He remembered John Beauclerk’s false testimony before the magistrate. Why had the secretary lied? And Starkey, why had he manufactured that story about the chain? Had it been simple malice, or another devilish stratagem?

  Matthew paused in this catechism to reorder his thoughts. Both Starkey and Beauclerk had lied, and as a consequence Matthew now stood in Newgate awaiting the next sessions. That would be a good month from now, time aplenty for Cecil to learn of Matthew’s arrest and secure his release. So what was to be gained by bringing him here?

  And then he knew what it was, as he stared at the proclamations before him. Newgate was the citadel of crime. All about him were men very much like those whose heinous deeds were described in the proclamation. Here Matthew, and Joan, too, were in the company of murderers and highwaymen. In Newgate anything could happen. It was like the pulling cascades at the London Bridge, a wild disorder of elements; he and Joan would be swept away in the flood and there would be no one held accountable.

  It would happen soon. Before Cecil could save them.

  At this, Matthew saw the ward anew. Suddenly the activity of his fellow prisoners took on a cast more sinister for its very appearance of normality and what had struck him first as good fellowship now seemed the flimsiest of facades. There were no true men here, no, not a one. Only evidence that money no matter how ill-gotten could make a decent suit while inside was all rottenness and treachery. He noticed that several of the inmates were looking at him. Was there something about his expression, his stance, or dress that invited their scrutiny, or did they know well enough who he was and what price the jeweler was willing to pay for Matthew’s life?

  Realizing he must warn Joan, he rushed over to one of the windows that gave out into the Press Yard, but escape offered the dimmest prospect there. He watched the scene with growing futility. Prisoners mingled sociably. There were a good many warders about, identified easily by their leather jerkins and caps, but it was difficult to tell whether they were keeping order or merely fraternizing with the inmates.

  A tapping noise behind him caused Matthew to return his attention to the ward again. One of the warders was fixing a new notice to the wall. Matthew walked over to examine it. It announced worship service on the following morning in Newgate Chapel.

  “Do they all go to service?’’ Matthew asked, peering over the warder’s shoulder.

  The warder turned, his expression one of annoyance for this disturbance of his labor. He had an immense girth, a low forehead, and a bushy orange beard that covered the lower half of his face. He replied to Matthew very curtly: “A few, a very few—those with religion and those to be executed and their friends. There’s plenty of good sermons then. The condemned kneel about the coffin, you know.’’

  Matthew had heard that story. All the world knew it. The condemned were forced to kneel about a coffin while above them in the pulpit a preacher admonished them to repent. The prisoners received the sacrament; they made absolution, readied themselves before God. Who would not, with his chin propped upon the solid box into which his mortal remains would repose until Judgment? Sometimes the prisoners made speeches denouncing their crimes and exhorting their fellows to forswear unrighteous courses. These were often very entertaining and were published as broadsides for the edification of the public. Hiram

  Smallwood, a merchant tailor of Chelmsford, had seen it all with his own eyes. Hiram had told Matthew of it.

  “The women go as well?” Matthew asked the warder.

  “The women?”

  “The prisoners.”

  Bushy-beard smiled lasciviously and regarded Matth
ew with new interest. “Women come indeed,” he answered. “They don’t sit together. Nay, that’s forbidden them—and the common side lot and the master’s side lot, they’re kept apart, too. Yet the odors of heaven rain upon all.”

  The warder rolled his eyes heavenward in an expression of mockery. It was evident that religion was something with which he had nothing to do. Then he drew close to Matthew and whispered conspiratorially, “You’ve got the itch, you have, and not an hour within doors?”

  “The itch?” asked Matthew, thinking the warder might be referring to some infliction of vermin for which the prison was famous.

  “For women,” Bushy-beard replied with a worldly air of one who knew a great many of the creatures. As it turned out he knew a particular one—one of exceptional qualities, by which he meant she had a clear eye, paps like rosebuds, and a well-turned calf as smooth and white as an egg. The warder expatiated at some length, but Matthew was a poor audience for his discourse. He could think only of Joan.

  “Her name’s Diana,” said the warder climactically, as though the name itself was one of the woman’s exceptional qualities.

  “Diana?”

  “In the woman’s second ward, very convenient, indeed, sir.”

  For a groat she would gladly meet Matthew in the Press Yard; for two she would converse with him where he willed. The warder wanted something for her safe conveyance. He named the price; the first point of business was her rates.

  When Matthew explained that he had no interest in just any woman, the warder acted offended and began to draw away, but Matthew detained him.

  “It’s my wife,” he said.

  “Your wife? She’s here?”

  Matthew wanted to know more about the church service—the time, location of the chapel, whether the inmates had opportunities to converse.