‘We live in a callous world, Sophie,’ she said.
They drove south along a much-pitted road as the world grew dark as well as cruel all about them. Neither of them said very much until they reached a small village called Lavant and were passing a group of low rush-lit cottages and the high grey flanks of a singing church.
‘We pray to a God of Love,’ Nan observed sourly, ‘and He lets great lions break loose.’
‘And allows great poets to be put on trial,’ Sophie agreed.
‘And slave ships to trade.’
‘Poor Mr Blake!’ Sophie said. ‘Why did he ever leave London? What hope does he have here? What hope do any of us have?’
‘None we don’t make for ourselves,’ Nan said, grimly. ‘An’ that’s a fact.’
And so they came to Chichester, which didn’t look at all promising as a seat of justice, being a dark, muddy town set in the midst of a totally flat plain. It was an enclosed place, bounded by the square of a crumbling Roman wall just visible to them in the lamplight, and divided into quarters by its two main roads that ran north-south and east-west and were lantern-lit but so mud bestrewn that the coach wheels threw gobbets of the stuff against the windows like a thick putty-coloured rain. After Midhurst’s instant involvement in their affairs the inhabitants of this town seemed sombre and withdrawn, going about their business stolidly in the flickering light and barely giving them a glance. They were mostly labourers and small-holders and their wives, Nan decided, peering at them through the gloom, for their horses were mud-caked to the saddle and they themselves were more like dung-smeared scarecrows than men. And her heart sank at the sight of them.
Even a roaring fire in the coffee room of the Dolphin Hotel and a plentiful supply of candles and warm water in their bedroom was quite unable to lift her spirits. Poor Mr Blake was doomed to suffer at the hands of these ignorant peasants, she thought, as she removed her filthy skirts and put on clean clothes and left her muddy shoes for the boot-boy. The lioness had been an omen. ’Twas a folly to come here, she thought. I wished I’d stayed in London with Calverley, and seen Mr Teshmaker and tried to get my business affairs in some sort of order.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The morning of William Blake’s trial was very cold and miserably damp. Neither of the fires in the hotel dining-room had taken properly, so the room smelt of soot and struck very chill when Nan and Sophie came shivering down to see what was on offer for breakfast. They made a poor meal, for the kidneys were half done and the toast burnt, and they were still in an ill-humour when they set off in the spitting rain to find the Guildhall, which the landlord assured them was a mere step away from the hotel.
It was a small flint building standing all by itself in the middle of a windswept park, all that remained of an ancient friary, and easy enough to find, since everybody walking out of the hotel into the rain that morning seemed to be heading towards it.
Inside, under high oak beams, the court was assembling, rustics self-conscious in their Sunday best, artists in their London clothes, their neck-cloths dazzling white, the Duke of Richmond who sat in the judgement seat, formidable in red robes and a grey full-bottomed wig, six well-dressed magistrates and twelve uneasy jurymen ranged on two benches to the right of the judgement seat. Mr Blake was already in the court and sitting at a low table in the middle of the room, with his wife Catherine protectively on one side of him and his lawyer, who was a pale unhealthy-looking young man, on the other. None of them looked up as the little courtroom continued to fill. The lawyer was busy studying his papers, Catherine was busy studying her husband’s face, and Blake himself, who was pale as wax but seemed composed, was staring fixedly at the table.
‘Poor man,’ Nan whispered, feeling sorry at the sight of him.
‘Would we could help him,’ Sophie said. ‘He is in God’s hands now, I fear.’
Mr Blake’s lawyer, who was called Mr Rose, looked ill. From time to time he coughed into a large pocket handkerchief, and the strain of coughing brought tears to his eyes. I can’t see him getting Mr Blake acquitted, Nan thought, as the great door was closed. But then the court was being gavilled to order, and the charge was being read. ‘That William Blake, engraver of Felpham, had uttered seditious and treasonable expressions, to wit, Damn the King; damn all his subjects; damn his soldiery, they were all slaves; when Bonaparte comes it will be cut throat for cut throat and the weakest must go to the wall; I will help him.’
The words echoed into the high roof of the Guildhall and the jurymen shifted uncomfortably on their wooden benches and looked first at Mr Blake and then at the Duke of Richmond. And Mr Rose coughed into his pocket handkerchief and the Duke hauled his red robe about his shoulders and smiled with satisfaction.
‘How do you plead?’
‘Not guilty.’ It was a loud, firm answer and given straight to the jury.
The Duke snorted in obvious disbelief. ‘Mr Bowden,’ he said.
Mr Bowden, the prosecuting counsel, proceeded to elaborate. He spoke through his nose in a superior sing-song, as though he were chanting in church, but the gist of what he said was far from Christian. Mr Blake, as he was sure the jury would agree, or at any rate might well find themselves thinking, was a known trouble-maker, and the companion of trouble-makers, a friend to known revolutionaries, men whose avowed aim was to establish a republic in this happy monarchy of ours. It did not surprise him in the least that such seditious words should have been spoken by such a man, one who would, he need hardly point out, take a member of His Majesty’s dragoons by the arms, the very men who had so gallantly volunteered to save us all from the dastardly attentions of the French, and offer him violence …
At which point Mr Blake rose to his feet, eyes blazing and shouted, ‘False!’ in such a very loud voice that several of the jurymen jumped and the prosecuting counsel was quite put off his stride.
‘I will have order in my court, sir!’ the Duke said sternly, and he glared at Mr Blake and smiled at Mr Bowden, the difference between the two expressions being so marked it was impossible not to see which side he was on. ‘Pray do continue, sir.’
So Mr Bowden continued with a great deal more in the same pompous strain. Nan’s attention drifted away. The warmth of the great fire was making her drowsy, and it was hard to concentrate when all the speeches were delivered in such stilted English. She wondered how the gelding was and how she would manage when she sold her half-share of the slave ship and what Cosmo Teshmaker wanted to tell her and how Calverley was faring with the renowned Mr Chaplin. She would much rather be with her lover than sitting in a boring courtroom, and she wondered where he was and what he was doing.
He was in the stables at the Cross-Keys, selecting a team to draw the Ipswich coach that morning.
He and Mr Chaplin had taken to one another at once, for it was plain to both of them that they had a lot in common. They were both young and energetic for a start and they loved their horses.
Mr Chaplin glanced at Colonel Leigh’s letter of introduction and then set it aside. ‘Ain’t who you know, but what you know, to my way a’ thinking,’ he said, and his grin was open friendliness. ‘I need a man to buy fresh horses as and when the need arises, which it does, let me tell ’ee, at least once every week. I own three coaching inns, and ten stables and my business grows. Work for me, Mr Leigh, and I warrant you’ll never have an idle moment.’
‘Nor never want one,’ Calverley said, impressed by the man’s direct style.
‘He says you’re a good judge of horses,’ Mr Chaplin said, nodding towards the letter. ‘Are you?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Then pick me a team for the Ipswich stage.’
‘On appearance, speed or staying power?’
‘Staying power’s the more important, but bear appearance in mind, eh.’
He chose four greys while Mr Chaplin watched him at work. ‘These for the rear pair,’ he explained. ‘Good strong haunches to withstand descent, but docile and well matched. This geldin
g for the left lead. A good spirit, but he’ll follow. And this,’ indicating the largest of the four, ‘this fine fellow to lead. ’Tis an independent spirit with a deal of courage, I should say. He’ll need handling, but he’s the one.’ And he patted the white neck of his choice, while the animal tossed his mane and shuffled with impatience to be moving.
‘You know your horses,’ Mr Chaplin approved. ‘Now, as to pay.’
In the Guildhall the first witness was being called by Mr Bowden, ‘Private Scolfield please to step forward.’ And Nan woke from her reverie to look at him, for this was the man who had accused Mr Blake of sedition.
He was a surly-looking creature and he gave his evidence as though he had learned it by heart. He had been in the painter’s garden, he said, talking to the ostler, when the painter had come out of the house and thrown him bodily out of the garden, at which point the seditious words had been said. He agreed with Mr Bowden that there was no question but that they had been spoken, and spoken in the way he described.
When Mr Rose stood up to cross-examine there was an expectant hush in the little court.
‘You were once a sergeant, were you not?’
Private Scolfield couldn’t see what that had to do with it. But the counsellor persisted.
‘You were, were you not?’
It was admitted grudgingly.
‘Would you kindly tell the court the reason why you were degraded.’
The private was annoyed and looked it, but after a long pause he admitted that it was on account of having been a little the worse for wear on one occasion.
‘Drunk, you mean?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Drunk and disorderly?’
‘’Twas said.’
‘No further questions.’
Then Private Cock, the second witness was called.
Private Cock was nervous and confused. First he maintained that he had heard all the seditious words uttered. ‘Yes sir, every single one.’ Then under patient cross-examination from the frail Mr Rose, he admitted that he hadn’t actually been anywhere near the garden where the fracas was said to have taken place, but had met up with his fellow soldier, beside the Fox Inn, where, so he said, he was certain he’d heard the painter say ‘Damn the King!’
‘When you began your evidence, you were certain you had heard the painter say all the other words on the charge, were you not?’ the counsellor reminded him.
‘Sir.’
‘Your certainty would appear to be somewhat changeable,’ Mr Rose observed, coughing into his handkerchief. ‘No further questions, your Grace.’
It appeared that there were no further witnesses for the prosecution either. But Mr Rose said he had several people he wished to call, Mr Grinder, the landlord of ‘The Fox’ and his wife, Mrs Grinder, Mr Cosen, the miller, Mrs Haynes, wife to the miller’s servant and Mr Hosier, gardener to Mr Hayley, ‘a gentleman well known to you, your Grace.’
The judge turned his head towards a gentleman sitting in the court and gave him a smile of such frozen courtesy that Nan knew at once that the two were adversaries. A rich man, she thought, looking at Mr Hayley’s fine clothes, and used to getting his own way. He had a striking face, his dark eyes and black eyebrows contrasting strongly with soft grey hair, and he wore a plaster on his forehead, which, so Sophie whispered, was due to a fall from his horse. And it was clear from his expression that he disliked the Duke of Richmond as much as the Duke disliked him.
‘Are all these witnesses really necessary?’ the Duke said to Mr Rose, hoisting his robe about him again, and giving a dramatic sigh.
‘If they were not, your Grace, I would not call them.’
‘Oh, very well. Call them if you will.’
So they were called and gave their evidence, one after the other, hesitantly and in small voices made smaller by the dignity of the place, looking timorously at the great Duke as he glowered down upon them. But however much the Duke and Mr Bowden might bully, they were unshakable in their testimony. They had been as close to Mr Blake and the soldier as they were to the jury, and they hadn’t heard one seditious word.
The questioning went on and the afternoon advanced and Nan grew drowsy again. Presently, while the first candles were being lit, the Duke came to a decision. ‘’Tis plain,’ he said, ‘that owing to the inordinate number of witnesses called in this case, we are unlikely to conclude today. That being so we will adjourn when the last witness has been heard, and final speeches and summing up will be held over until tomorrow.’
Mr Rose produced a second handkerchief and mopped the sweat from his brow.
‘That’s a very sick man,’ Nan said watching him.
‘But an uncommon clever one,’ Sophie said. ‘I do believe he might succeed.’
‘How tiring this trial has been,’ Nan said. ‘I shall be glad of my dinner and a warm bed.’
But although she was fatigued, it was some time before she could sleep that night.
At first, while Sophie slumbered beside her, she lay wakeful, gazing through the window at the long shadowy shape of the cathedral on the other side of the road, and watching the play of cold moonlight on the green tiles of its roof, thinking of Calverley and the children and Thiss and Bessie and Calverley again. Then the tiles dissolved and became rippling water and floated away and she was in the coach and the lioness was leaping forward straight at her throat. And Mr Blake was sitting in a red and white cart with a rope round his neck and she knew he was going to be offered as live bait, and she cried out to warn him, but no sound came from her mouth, although she was straining every muscle. And the cart was being driven away as the guillotine came crashing down and blood spurted into the air like a fountain, an endless unstoppable fountain. And there was the lioness running alongside the coach and looking at her with its beautiful yellow eyes, and as she looked into its eyes she knew it was Calverley, riding his bay gelding, wheeling and turning and pulling up so sharply that the flailing hooves were right above her head and she was afraid, terribly afraid and yet she didn’t know what she was afraid of. And she woke in a sweat with her heart thumping most uncomfortably.
The green tiles were still reassuringly moonlit. It was extremely cold and the hotel was silent all around her. Come now, she scolded herself, this en’t the way to go on. And she got up, taking care not to disturb Sophie, and wrapping herself in a blanket like an Indian squaw. Then she raked out the fire and put fresh coals on the embers which were still glowing sufficiently to catch. And then as the coals began to burn and a little warmth reached her cold feet, she set herself to think of cheerful things, so as to put all the nonsense of nightmare out of her head.
You en’t a baby, she scolded herself, you’re a woman grown, thirty-two years old, and the owner of a company, even if it is running into difficulties at present, and besides that the mother of a daughter very nearly old enough to be married herself. And she turned her mind deliberately away from the memory of Cosmo’s alarming letter and thought about her daughter, knowing with comfortable assurance that she would be in bed and asleep.
Actually she was awake and for the last five hours she’d been assisting at a birth. Bessie had gone into labour that morning and a good deal earlier than they’d all expected. It had been a long, painful labour and Mrs Hopkins, the local midwife, had gone off home at ten o’clock that night saying she despaired of seeing the child until morning. So Annie had sat up with her dear Ba, giving her sips of raspberry tea to restore her spirits, rubbing her back which she said ‘ached prodigious’, stoking the fire and relighting the candles and generally making herself useful.
Neither of them could have guessed what overwhelming misery the birth would bring. They were looking forward to it, quizzing one another about what colour hair the baby would have and what sex it would be, counting the hours until they would be able to hold it in their arms.
It was born just after four in the morning, while Thiss was on his way round to Paradise Row to recall Mrs Hopkins, a boy, perfectly formed, bu
t mauve with lack of oxygen and limp with lack of life. Annie was so frightened she didn’t know what to do. She lifted the little slack body, trailing its long grey twisted cord and gave it a shake. ‘Oh, breathe my little lovely,’ she begged. ‘Please breathe. Just give one little breath, that’s all.’
‘Give ’im ter me! Give ’im ter me!’ Bessie begged. ‘I’ll see to ’im.’ And she took the child and held him furiously against her breast, trying to force her nipple into his small, closed mouth. ‘Once they feed,’ she said, ‘that brings the colour into their little cheeks sommink lovely. Oh, if he’d only open ’is eyes.’
But it didn’t matter what either of them did, the child was dead, and presently, when Thiss returned with Mrs Hopkins, they all had to accept it.
Bessie wept until she was choking with tears. ‘It ain’t fair!’ she cried over and over again. ‘My own little boy, not even ter live fer a minute. Oh, it ain’t fair!’
‘Hush hush, goosie,’ Thiss said, cuddling her and stroking her hair. ‘We can have others.’
But that provoked a grief so extreme it frightened him. ‘I don’t want others. I want this one! This one! Oh, oh, oh, there’s no justice in the world.’
‘Oh Ba!’ Annie grieved, standing forlornly at the end of the bed. ‘If there was anything I could do …’ But her love for her dear Ba was reduced to anguished impotence by this unexpected, miserable loss. Oh, there was no justice, no justice at all.
Calverley took an early breakfast that morning in the coffee-shop next door to Mr Chaplin’s stables in Wood Street. He was feeling well pleased with the start he’d made and was anxious to meet his new employer again and be sent on his first assignment. He sat in front of the fire with his long legs stretched before him and his feet facing the flames and smiled happily to himself.
He was still smiling when an elderly man crossed the room towards him and eased himself into the chimney corner.
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