More Sport for our Neighbours

by Ronald McGowan

  “Do you think he will get a fair trial in Newcastle? Do you think he would get a fair trial from the corporation here? Of course you don’t. But I’ll tell you where he’ll get a fair trial, shall I? I’ll tell you who will give him a fair trial. Trueborn Englishmen will give him a fair trial, like trueborn Englishmen always do. We’re all trueborn Englishmen here, aren’t we? So we’ll give him a fair trial right here, and right now. We’ll give him a fair trial, and then we’ll hang him.”

  I doubt if the roar of approbation which greeted this announcement could actually have been perceived in Newcastle, but if someone had mentioned it as heard in Durham I might have had less difficulty in crediting the claim.

  “Is there nothing we can do to stop this nonsense?” I could not help asking.

  “I cannot open fire on a crowd of ‘trueborn Englishmen’ for shouting patriotic slogans,” replied Wickham, “and if I were to, do you really want to precipitate a bloodbath?”

  I could not help but admit the sense of what he said. Shouting ‘Down with Boney’, or ‘Death to the French’ can hardly be capital crimes, or we should all stand in the shadow of the gallows. And yet, there was something so deeply macabre, so disturbing in these proceedings that I could not avoid the feeling that something should be done.

  I did not like it; Wickham did not like it; I could tell from the faces of the common soldiers that they did not like it. Your average Englishman can be as inhumane as any towards his fellow humans, but cannot abide cruelty to a dumb animal. But there was nothing else for it. We must stand there, fingers, I dare say, itching on the triggers, while the rioters went through the mockery of swearing in a jury, and the still greater mockery of the trial itself, with Raikes himself as both judge and counsel for the prosecution.

  “Prisoner at the bar,” he began, “you are accused that on the night of….” And so on, through all the rigmarole of legal jargon that is required by the recitation of a charge in open court, right up to “What say you to this charge, are you guilty, or not guilty?”

  To this question, the poor ape, busily trying to gnaw through the ropes that held it captive, made, naturally enough, no answer, and ignored the same question upon its repetition.

  “Gentlemen of the jury,” said Raikes, in a voice that could be heard by all in the square. “I direct you to note that the prisoner stands mute. He will neither give his name, nor enter a plea to the charge. It would be within the competence of this court to order peine forte et dure to be applied, in increasing severity until the prisoner consented to enter a plea. But in the name of humanity I intend to treat the prisoner’s silence as a plea of ‘not guilty’ and, proceeding upon that footing, to call the first witness for the prosecution.

  And so it went on, the whole, farcical business.

  Witnesses were called for the prosecution, deposing that the accused had been seen swimming ashore from a wrecked vessel, that said vessel had flown the French flag, that the prisoner had attempted to evade capture, had refused to speak any known language, had eaten frogs and snails, and so forth.

  The prisoner, unaccountably, declined his right to cross examine, and offered no evidence in his defence, and the jury were given no alternative but a verdict of guilty, which they pronounced with evident satisfaction. Still more evident was the satisfaction upon Raikes’s face as he pronounced sentence, and placed the black cap upon his head.

  “Is there nothing we can do?” I whispered in the silence that followed.

  Wickham looked pointedly at his watch.

  “It is but half an hour since the mayor read the Riot Act,” he said.

  “But your reputation? Your career?”

  “Let them both go hang along with Monsieur le Singe. I will not risk the lives of my men - no, nor those of the burghers of Hartlepool – for the sake of my reputation or my career, nor for the sake of a monkey, neither.”

  I honoured him for it – I honour him for it now – but it left a bad taste in my mouth.

  When the deed was done, and the excitement subsided, the ‘good people of Hartlepool’ found it no more to their liking either, I think, for when Raikes stepped up to harangue them again, they paid him no heed, but turned and went home, if not quite shame-faced, at least quietly, and within the hour there was no trace of the disturbances of the past few days except a few broken panes of glass.

  That is to say, if there was, we did not stay to see it.

  “Get the men to see to their kit, and prepare for a night march,” Wickham told the sergeant. “We are leaving this wretched place as soon as may be.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine : Repercussions

  A hard night we had of it, too, and little in the way of a welcome when we got back to – I almost said, to civilization – but when we got back to Sunderland.

  “Where have you been all this time, Mr Bennet?” was the rapturous greeting from my beloved spouse. “You were wanted to take us to the sands with baby, but neither you nor dear Wickham were to be found, and not a word of sense could we get from that nice Mr Washington, for all he is usually so agreeable and obliging. Some nonsense about you were both off chasing French spies, as if such things could be! Why, we should none of us sleep easy in our beds with such a creature prowling about, though I dare say you would soon have given him one of your set downs.”

  I was weary enough from a night spent travelling, and could not face explanations, so I merely said, “Never mind, my dear, we are both back now, and you may rest easy.”

  Wickham, I believe, fared rather better, on the domestic front, at least. Lydia, at any rate, joined us later in the morning, full of how her dear Wickham had “gone right across the county to fetch a monkey for little Fizzy to play with, but the nasty fishermen killed the poor beast before he could bring it back. Was that not disagreeable of them? But so like my own, dear Wickham, although now I think of it, it is perhaps just as well, for he tells me it was a French monkey and who knows what nasty, foreign diseases it might have brought with it?”

  Professionally, things were not quite so easily managed, however. Wickham's face as he left for Newcastle later that day was an exercise in resignation. I had offered to carry a written report for him, or to accompany him to bear out his story, but he had declined both proposals.

  “These things are best done face to face,” he said, “and I will keep you out of it, officially, as long as I can. If it comes to a court-martial, I may need your services, however. I shall have to make a written report, soon enough. But soon enough for that when Colonel Lambton and I have discussed what should go in it. I suspect in the end it will read something on the lines of ‘Captain Wickham, with a company of the 68th, arrived at Hartlepool to find the town already under the control of a riotous mob, and the Mayor and Corporation not yet having performed the formal reading of the Riot Act without which he was unable to intervene. He took action to rectify this situation, and to restore order once all the formalities had been satisfied, and left the city in a quiet state. In the course of the action taken to restore order, the only casualty was the French Spy – the alleged French Spy – who was killed by an unknown insurgent, who afterwards fled, to prevent his falling into the hands of the proper authority.’ It will serve for a whitewash, but will not stand up to proper investigation. It all depends on how eager Mr Justice Whosit at Newcastle is for a quiet life, and whether – if you will pardon me the metaphor – my enemies think it sufficient rope to hang me by.”

  We all stood in a row to see him off, the girls, Mrs Bennet, Lydia and I, and in all that rank there was but one who was not cheering the hero, off to claim his just reward.

  I had not long to wait, however before Lydia abandoned her unaccustomed state of elation to begin complaining of her beloved’s repeated absences of late.

  “Oh dear,” she sighed, “I know that the Colonel cannot do without my darling Wickham. He relies on his advice for everything, you know, but I do wish he would not call or send him away so often. It was so nice when we were all together with
little Fizzy.”

  “Never mind,” Kitty consoled her, “Papa is here now and we can all go to the seaside as we planned. Will not that be delightful?”

  “Oh yes!” her sister replied, “And I can wear my new pink sarsenet, and we can all ride donkies, and picnic on the sand like gypsies. Let us start immediately!”

  “Well, Papa?” enquired Kitty, “Will you take us to this famous Spa that you went off exploring for the other day.”

  “The Spa is no more, my dear. The Pump Rooms and all their attendant paraphernalia were washed away in a storm last winter, or perhaps the one before last, or even the one before that. My sources were somewhat contradictory on the point of dating, so that I can only cite a terminus ante quem with any hope of authority. All I can show you in that line is the triumphal arch which led to the steps to the chalybeate spring.”

  Their faces fell, but rose again when I continued.

  “A little further on, however, there is a fine, sandy beach, where refreshments may be obtained, and there are even bathing machines for those who are that way inclined.”

  “What things you tell us, Papa,” cried Kitty, “and how sly you are to have kept this news to yourself for so long! I have always longed to try sea-bathing, but, of course, in Meryton the opportunity does not arise.”

  “As have I,” echoed Lydia, “I must have my share in such an amusement. Mary will attend to little Fizzy the while, I am sure.”

  “Mary will do no such thing,” her sister objected. “Why should it always be thought that I am reluctant to engage in common amusements? And in any case, sea-bathing is rather more than mere amusement. Its salutary effect is well-known. Everyone knows that sea air and sea bathing together are nearly infallible, one or the other of them being a match for every disorder of the stomach, the lungs or the blood. They are anti-spasmodic, anti-pulmonary, anti-septic, anti-bilious and anti-rheumatic. All the authorities I have consulted agree upon their therapeutic value. I shall certainly not miss the opportunity to sample their benefits.”

  “Oh well,” said Lydia, “I dare say Mama and Annamaria can manage between them.”

  ‘Annamaria’ is the name Lydia has bestowed upon her new nursemaid, a great, lumpen Amazon of some twelve years old, recruited in Newcastle, and hence profoundly unpopular in Sunderland whenever she opens her mouth, although the two accents appear indistinguishable to the outsider. Her real name is Nora, or Dora, or some such sobriquet of insufficient elegancy.

  “Of course they can,” agreed Kitty. “Let us go at once.”

  Any person of the male sex who has attained the age of reason will know, naturally that when a lady says she will do something ‘at once’ the last thing she actually means is ‘at once’, in the sense generally accorded to the phrase in the pedestrian mind of the masculine hearer. What she means is ‘at once’ in the sense of ‘when it suits me’ that is to say, ‘when I have retired to my room and chosen which frock I shall wear, changing my mind only three times if the matter is urgent, and bestowing little more time to the choosing my hat, shoes and other accessories than will suffice for the reading of half a dozen newspapers.’

  We did, however, eventually set out, with myself, as experienced, if not quite native guide at the fore, and Annamaria bringing up the rear with the baggage train of little Francis Fitzwilliam and attendant impedimenta in his baby-carriage.

  The local version of the Arch of Constantine received no more in the way of comment than a general lament that the steps to the sands were no more, as they would have been much more convenient than the nasty path which I now proposed. The path’s nastiness, as far as I could gather, consisted chiefly in its having on its surface the occasional sharp stone, the sensation of which was instantly transported to their wearers’ feet by the ridiculous thin slippers which fashion decrees that ladies are required to wear upon almost all occasions.

  We did, however, at length find my old beach-side companions, looking more than ever like a family of Hurons or Iroquois siting in their wigwam.

  “Why, it’s wor gent!” exclaimed Mr Bathing Attendant, leaping to his feet and doffing his cap, “Wi’ a string o’ bonny lasses behind him. Put the kettle on, Bessie, man.”

  “Welcome back, sir,” he continued, trudging across the sand in our direction, “Aah thowt ye’d be back again, and here you are, and your family too, by the looks. And wad ye be wanting to try the bathing machines the day? The sea’s as quiet as ivver it can be, and the sun’s shining bright. Yer’ll not gerra berror chance.”

  “I am but recently come from a course of treatment at Buxton Spa, myself,” I replied, “ a course which has left me with a profound distaste, not to say distrust, for cold water in all its forms. But perhaps one or two of the ladies might care to indulge – that is to say, if you can accommodate them, for I see that you are as busy as ever.”

  “Why, Aah think we might just manage to fit them in,” he replied, “if they dinnat mind roughing it a bit. Burr Aah’l tell yer what it is, wor Bessies bad wi’ hor legs, and cannot dae the dippin’. She can mak the tea, like, and that sort o’ thing, but she cannot fesh wi’ the watter and the waves and such. Hor legs winnat bide it. Aah’ll send for wor Audrey, if ye like. She’s a canny little dipper, she is, and often does it, when her mam’s bad, like.”

  “Is this ‘dipping’ so absolutely necessary a part of the process?” I enquired.

  “Why they allwus dae it, like. I dare say yer lasses could dip theirsels, or each other, but it wouldn’t be like a regular dippin’, it wouldn’t be perfessional, like.”

  “Then by all means summon Miss Audrey. I should not like to fall foul of the mysteries of your guild. And perhaps she could bring some increased store of refreshments with her, although tea will be very acceptable in the meantime.”

  The inventory of Miss Audrey’s cargo grew apace, as more items were recollected, without which the day of pleasure and relaxation in the simple environment of the sea-shore could not be countenanced, as chairs, cushions, a table, tea cakes, milk, sugar etc. etc.

  Fearing every moment that a kitchen sink might be added to the list, I thought it best to send Mr Attendant on his way, enquiring, first, whether ‘his Audrey’ would be able to manage such a commission.

  “Why, man, she’ll be glad to get oot o’the hoose,” was the reply. “She knaas whee to borrow a handcart from, and her brothers will give her a hand pushing it. It’s time them little b.. beggars started to dae summat useful. And we’ll want them to push the bathing machines out an’ all.”

  “Ow, Jackie,” he now addressed one of the young ragamuffins who were raking the sands further along from us, “run and tell wor Audrey she’s tae come and help down here. And afore ye gan lowpin’ off, Aah’ve gorra list o’ stuff she’s ter bring. She knaas what ter dae.”

  And he ‘lowped off’ over the sands himself, and engaged the urchin in what appeared to be animated, while steadfastly remaining inaudible, conversation.

  Meanwhile, here came ‘wor Bessy’, emerging from the wigwam with a pile of blankets, which she distributed upon the sand that we might take our ease while all else was preparing.

  “Nivver thoo mind, hinnies,” she addressed the girls, while handing around mugs of extremely strong tea. “We’ll get thers aall in t’watter when the lads cooms doon, and yer dinnat want ower much in yer bellies afore that anyroad.”

  While I pondered the meaning of this announcement and endeavoured to construe for my family, we were rejoined by our host, who immediately launched into bargaining for the use of his bathing machines with attendant services and refreshments until sunset.

  I knew nothing of such things in those days – indeed, I know hardly any more now – and the sum demanded seemed to me so reasonable that I was inclined to close with it without further negotiation.

  That this did not please Mr Attendant at all became immediately clear.

  “Why, divvent mak gam on us, man. If yer not come for the bathing, why did ye let me send that bairn off on his m
essage? I should ha’ knaan, strite off. Rich folks only maks gam o’the working man. But Aah thowt yae wornt that way, after the way ye carried on t’other day, like.”

  In vain did I strive to convince him that I was perfectly sincere in my offer of payment, and in my desire to procure the use of his devices for my daughters, and it was not until I had reluctantly consented to pay half the original asking price that he showed signs of becoming easy in his mind.

  So we sat there, sipping tea and gazing at the waters, until a confused bellowing announced the imminent arrival of half the Bathing Attendant clan.

  First to arrive was our original urchin, who lost no time in demanding a bodle for his efforts, and running off once he had secured such a treasure.

  He was followed at a short interval, by a sort of wheelbarrow, or handcart, pushed by a stout young person of about Kitty’s age, with an attendant throng of infants who swirled about so much that I never did manage to take an accurate count.

  Very soon I found myself reclining on cushions, sipping tea and munching delicately upon stottykyek and singing hinnies. It is undeniably true that the stuffing of the cushions left something to be desired, and the omnipresent sand added nothing to either the comfort of the pose or the succulence of the viands, but the sun was shining, there was a gentle breeze to prevent overheating, my daughters were splashing about in the sea, whence their occasional shrieks as an overeager wave disturbed their balance could only be heard faintly, and Mrs Bennet found herself fully engaged with Master F.F.W., abetted by Annamaria and the more enterprising female members of the B.A. clan.

  I could positively feel my frame relaxing, my breathing easing, my thoughts clearing and gathering themselves as they had not done for many weeks now – all the benefits which the much vaunted Buxton Spa had promised, but had failed so singularly to deliver. If this was Mary’s ‘therapeutic sea air’, then I was quite prepared both to believe and to indulge in it, although the ‘sea bathing’ part of her recipe must surely be intended for persons less advanced in years.