An Experiment in Treason

by Alexander, Bruce

  If I seemed doubtful, it was not without reason, for I recalled that not so long ago, before Molly had joined our household, Clarissa had attempted a meal on her own (a beef stew, as I recall) which left us all a bit queasy. Sir John himself seemed to suffer most.

  “And what has she prepared for this evening?”

  “Beef stew, as I understand.”

  Sir John hastened to admonish me to give Clarissa a proper chance.

  “A good lawyer must always keep an open mind,” said he.

  As it happened, no special consideration needed to be given. Dinner was as good as any Molly had made for us that week. I realized, as Clarissa later confessed, that she had served as little more than Molly’s hands in preparing the meal. Nevertheless, I was also aware that with Clarissa’s memory and eye for detail, she would probably be able to duplicate that same stew in appearance and, most important, in taste, a month or even a year hence. There were frequent comments round the table and all of them quite flattering to Clarissa. I joined in with the rest and praised the spicing of her stew. “You’ve made good use of Annie’s paprika, ” said I, earning a frown from Molly. (I later learned that the red spice was the single original touch in Clarissa’s stew; Molly had warned against it because of its exotic origin.) But by any measure, the evening was a great success for Clarissa — and she deserved it.

  She remained in the kitchen after the others had left, savoring her triumph as I washed up the pots, the pans, and the dishes. I was oddly aware of her eyes following me round the kitchen as I went about my usual duties. What did she mean by watching me so closely? I was made a bit uncomfortable by such attention. I was relieved when at last she spoke.

  “What did you think of the meal?”

  “Why, like all the rest I thought it excellent — wonderful, really.”

  “Good,” said she with a solemn smile, “for it’s you I wish to please, more than anyone else in the world.”

  I was quite taken aback by what she said. I knew not what to say. None had ever addressed me in such a way.

  “Please don’t look so shocked, Jeremy,” said she. “You’ll be hearing more of such from me now.”

  “Now?” I echoed.

  “Yes, of course — now that you and I have an understanding. Now that I’ve no need to watch my tongue, lest you think me too flattering, too forward, lest I frighten you with such words and have you run from me. Why do you suppose I was so often tart, so frequently critical of you?”

  “I don’t know; because it is your nature, I suppose.”

  “Well, that’s partly true, but it was also true that I did not wish to frighten you.”

  That seemed a strange thing to say. Frighten me away? George Burkett frightened me, not Clarissa Roundtree. “I don’t understand,” said I — and I truly did not.

  “Oh, never mind,” said she, scowling, putting words to her sour expression. She was silent for a moment, then did she blurt out in a most ironically mundane tone, “And tell me, Jeremy, what did you do today?”

  Not knowing how better to respond to that, I treated it as an honest inquiry. I shrugged. “Constable Perkins and I went down to Robertsbridge in Sussex to arrest two men and bring them back to London.”

  “And did you?” She was becoming interested.

  “No,” I sighed. “One of them was dead, and the other, who’d killed him, had already fled.”

  “Oh, Jeremy, you do such dangerous work for Sir John. Supposing the killer had not fled. Supposing he had tried to kill you. What then?”

  “Why then, Mr. Perkins would have killed him.”

  “But…”

  I disliked the turn that this had taken. Just as with Sir John and Mr. Donnelly, I thought it unwise to discuss the nastier aspects of keeping the peace with the women of our household. I decided that it would be wise to change the subject.

  “Something interesting happened there in Robertsbridge, however,” said I.

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “Well, toward the end of our stay there — just before “we boarded the return coach — the magistrate in Robertsbridge offered Mr. Perkins a job there as constable. He said he would match what-ever he was paid here in Bow Street, and that his money would go much farther in Robertsbridge. I’m sure he’s right about that, too.”

  “Did Mr. Perkins accept the offer, or not?” She seemed oddly disapproving.

  “Neither one. The magistrate wouldn’t let him turn it down. He told him just to think about it. And frankly, I believe he is doing so.”

  “Well, I cannot understand that, ” said she.

  “You mean, why he should be considering it? You must remember that he grew up in that part of the country. And as for Roberts — “

  “No, that is not what I meant,” said she, interrupting sharply. “I care not if he be considering the matter. What distresses me is that this magistrate should be offering him the position and not you. Could he not see your worth? Your superiority?”

  “Clarissa, Oliver Perkins is likely the most capable of alt Sir John’s force of constables. He is brave and intelligent … and …”

  “You are far more intelligent. You have the law! When will you cease underestimating yourself? “

  “First of all, I do not have the law — not yet. I have not been admitted to the bar. When I am and am looking about for a position, I shall not accept one as a constable. I shall aim higher.”

  Still she sulked. “Well, that’s good to hear. Still, I think that the magistrate, whoever he may be, should have offered it first to you. Then at least you would have the chance to turn him down. You deserve recognition. If only you knew what I see in you!”

  I was beginning to have some notion of that, and, quite frankly, I found it disquieting. I wondered if I could ever live up to her expectations. I wondered if anyone could. Love, marriage, and all the rest made great demands, did they not? I only hoped that I was equal to them.

  Of a sudden we had little more to say, each to the other. I wondered if it might not be true that she, too, had suddenly been struck by the immensity of what lay ahead of us. Until now I had given little thought to anything beyond the completion of my studies and admission to the bar. But beyond that lay all of life. How was I to prepare for that?

  Next day, as I went out to do a bit of buying for Molly in Covent Garden, I was halted by the cries of the newsmongers who ran about shouting the news and selling their papers. There were remarkable events in America. I snatched up a gazette from the nearest lad, and raced with it back to Bow Street, ran down the hall, and into Sir John’s chambers.

  “What? What is it?” said he to me. “What is worth such a disturbance?”

  “News from Boston,” said I.

  “Of what sort?”

  “Insurrection — or something close to it.”

  He groaned. “All right, let us hear what that wretched gang of rebels have gotten themselves into now.”

  With that, I set out to read him the entire article, which, I noted, had been reprinted from a Boston newspaper of four weeks past. (It was not always that news came so swiftly from America.) The story it told was bizarre in the extreme. Let me summarize briefly, reader, for the event is no doubt still well known and well remembered.

  In protest against the tax levied by Parliament against the tea sold by the East India Company (chartered by the king), many of those in the colonies had simply refused to drink English tea. They instead drank tea smuggled in from Holland, or formed a new habit and took coffee as their morning drink.

  Yet a plan was hatched to force the most recalcitrant of the colonies, Massachusetts, to accept English tea in spite of the tax. The price was lowered. The tea was sold in advance to American importers. Nevertheless, the Massachusetts patriots held firm and insisted they would not allow the tea to be unloaded in Boston.

  Three ships sailed into Boston Harbor loaded with tea. A mob gathered at the wharf where they tied up, to make certain that they were not unloaded. Yet more was done. That ni
ght, three “raiding parties” of fifty men each appeared, made up of individuals with faces darkened with soot and decked out in feathers, who claimed to be Indians. Each of the raiding parties boarded a separate ship. They brought up the cargo and dumped the precious tea into the waters of Boston Harbor. No resistance was offered, and no force was necessary. It was all done in a matter of a few hours.

  “Who was it?” said Sir John. “Sam Adams and his crew, I’ve no doubt.”

  “It doesn’t say. I don’t think they really know. But you have to admit, sir, that the entire business does have to it a certain comic element.”

  He scowled. “Oh, I suppose so. Whoever it was thought of masquerading them as Indians showed a bit of spirit and some imagination, yet I’m sure that the king and the prime minister will not be amused.”

  “Even so, sir, I think — “

  “Hang it all, a mob is a mob, say I. Perhaps no force was used, but that was because the captain and the crew complied. If they had not, then there probably would have been shots fired and swords bloodied. They’re a violent bunch, those colonials.”

  “You are generally hesitant to distinguish any one group or race as more violent or immoral than the rest. I’ve heard you say quite often that all are about the same in the proportion of good to bad. Do you feel that the Americans are an exception to that?”

  “Well, the circumstances of their lives — Indian raids and so on — encourage a reliance upon firearms for protection, I suppose.”

  “In the hinterlands, perhaps,” said I, “but Boston and Philadelphia are large cities. There are others — New York, Baltimore, and Char — “

  “I know, dammit! I’m not entirely ignorant of geography. But just look at this fellow, Burkett. He’s an absolute monster — murdering, mutilating. There’s no end to the brutishness of the man.”

  “Aren’t you generalizing rather recklessly? Near all of the Americans are English, are they not? A good many of them were even born here.”

  Sir John let forth a great sigh. “I shall not argue the matter further,” said he, “for I admit that in the heat of the moment I have just now said a number of things that were intemperate and unconsidered. But you see? I admit it, now that I have cooled down a bit. Yet there are those of us true-born Englishmen of a more choleric and vengeful nature than mine, and some of them hold high positions in the government. Think of Lord North and Lord Hillsborough; think of their sovereign. Given such provocation, they will not forget, nor will they forgive. I fear that those in the North American colonies — Americans, as they call themselves — are in for a bad time of it, and — oh, my …”

  There he broke off, as if a thought had just struck him. From the expression that appeared on his face I judged it to be a particularly distressing thought.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “They may be planning to strike at him who is nearest at hand.”

  “Sir? I don’t quite understand.”

  “God help Benjamin Franklin.”

  Later that day, long after Sir John had concluded his court session, we were blessed with another of the infrequent visits of the Lord Chief Justice to Bow Street. He was as blustering and rude as ever. He, who could manage a certain style and grace within the four walls of his house in Bloomsbury Square, became ill-mannered the moment he ventured forth into the world outside. As it happened, he had been hearing cases all day at Old Bailey, which seemed to put him in a particularly foul mood. Wearing the black hat more than once in a day would sour anyone, I suppose.

  Sir John and I were sitting in his chambers when, without overture, the drama of Lord Mansfield’s entrance began. The door to the street slammed open. We heard Mr. Fuller come forward and ask how he might be of assistance.

  “By getting out of my way,” came the sharp reply.

  The voice was immediately identifiable — loud, harsh, and rasping. Sir John mouthed the name “Mansfield” quite soundlessly, and I whispered my agreement. I rose and took a place near the door, that I might be out of his way when he entered. We heard the click of his heels and the tap of his walking stick upon the wooden floor growing louder as he came closer. Then, without troubling to knock, he came charging through the open door.

  “Who is there?” Sir John asked, rising from behind his desk.

  “‘Tis I,” said the Lord Chief Justice. “Who did you suppose?”

  “Ah, Lord Mansfield, how good of you to drop by. You seem to be somewhat disturbed. Won’t you sit down and tell me about it?”

  “Yes, by God, I will.”

  With that, he began to squat precisely where he stood. I could do naught but tuck a chair Swiftly beneath his backside and hope he came down properly upon it. Luckily, he did.

  “Yes, Sir John, I am disturbed, though not directly because of you.”

  “Well, I’m glad of that, truly I am.”

  “It is Lord Hillsborough who has my dander up. I had little use for the man before I talked to him, as you urged, and now I have even less. You, better than most, know what it is to be lied to. When one sits upon a court of any degree, he develops a sure sense of discrimination between truth and untruth, a certain feeling of nausea.”

  “A bad taste in the mouth,” suggested Sir John, “a bad smell in the nostrils. I told a fellow so not long ago.”

  “Exactly! Well, sir, I talked to Lord Hillsborough, and sure as I sit here before you now, that man lied to me in the most flagrant manner. He did not even make the effort to conceal his contempt for my questions.

  “He told me that he was shocked at your report on his fellow, Burkett, and he had the audacity to call to question the information you gave me. And, by the bye, I am now willing to concede that indeed I have sent men to the gallows with less hard evidence against them — though not without compunction. Still, when one knows, then one knows — if you follow me.”

  “Perfectly well.”

  “Yet what annoyed me most — nay, angered me — was the manner in which he gave his answers. Throughout our interview, he wore a sly smile, something quite like a sneer, as if he were drawing me into complicity in the matter. At one point — well, I’ll tell you exactly when it was. He insisted that of course he appointed Burkett only to help you, Sir John, and instructed him to stay in close contact with you, and share whatever information he might gather on the theft of the letters with you. He declared he had been very explicit in that. And in saying that, do you know what he then did?”

  “No idea, none at all.”

  “He had the audacity to wink at me. He asked if Burkett had done as he was told and kept in contact with you. ‘No,’ said I, ‘he has been too busy searching for victims and murdering one said to have some share in the burglary.’ Then did I tell him of the murder of him who had brokered the crime, sparing none of the ugly details. Pretending shock, he reminded himself that he must speak to Burkett about that. ‘That sort of thing should be discouraged,’ said he, referring to the mutilation of the body, as if making a jest — certainly in bad taste. I asked him if he had indeed seen Burkett since the day he brought him to me, and he admitted he had not. ‘But you know,’ said he, ‘that is the way I prefer it. When I give an order, I like it carried out without a lot of consulting and conferring. I may have said as much to him. But of course,’ he did add, ‘I said nothing about murder or mutilating.’ And that, of course, was said with a smirk, as well as all else.”

  “I stand shocked but not surprised,” said Sir John. “I fear I have long had a low opinion of him.”

  “It seems that that low opinion is now so widely held that he is losing his place in government.”

  “Oh? How is that?”

  “Piecemeal,” said Lord Mansfield, making a bit of a jest himself.

  “They have reheved him of responsibihty for the American colonies. He is being forced to resign over some silly land matter in Illinois, or Ohio, or one of those Indian parts of North America.”

  “Who is taking his place?”

  “Lord Dartmouth.
”

  “A good choice,” said Sir John. “He is a reasonable man and has influence with the prime minister.”

  “Indeed he should. The two are stepbrothers.”

  “I’d forgotten.” (This I doubted, reader; Sir John seemed to forget nothing.) “It may bring some relief to this fellow, Franklin.”

  “I doubt it,” said Lord Mansfield. “You’ve heard about this new outrage, of course? All that tea dumped in Boston Harbor?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  “I have heard that all in the government are now so powerfully set against this Massachusetts colony and its agent, Franklin, that they have set a trap for him.”

  “Oh? What sort?”

  “Well, it seems that for some time he had withheld a petition put forward by the Massachusetts legislature for the removal of the governor — appointed by the king himself, of course — Thomas Hutchinson.”

  “He of that packet of letters?”

  “Yes, yes of course. Franklin had held it back, waiting for a more favorable time to present it. The departure of Lord Hillsborough and the entry of Lord Dartmouth upon the scene must have seemed the best opportunity he was likely to have, and so he made application to present the petition. As was proved by the news from Boston, there are no opportune times in regard to such matters. He has been summoned before the Privy Council to defend it and himself.”

  “It and himself?” said Sir John. “I do not follow.”

  “He has been told that he must answer also for the packet of letters which he sent off to Boston, for they maintain that the letters prompted the petition calling for the governor’s removal. And so Franklin is to appear with counsel to confess his sins. They are out, in short, to crucify him. I do truly believe that this is but prologue to a trial for treason — and in spite of myself I pity the poor fellow.”

  “A crucifixion, eh? And who is to drive in the nails?”

  “Why, our new solicitor general — or had you not heard?”

  “Who might that be?”

  “None but Alexander Wedderburn.”