by Ken Follett
“He is. And Colonel Cranbrough was impressed by the way I handled the riot. I can resign my commission and leave the army with an unimpeachable reputation.”
Jay made love to her then, but she was too troubled to enjoy his caresses. Normally she liked to romp around the bed, rolling him over and getting on top sometimes, changing positions, kissing and talking and laughing; and naturally he noticed that she was different. When it was over he said: “You’re very quiet.”
She thought of an excuse. “I was afraid of hurting you.”
He accepted that and a few moments later he was asleep. Lizzie lay awake. It was the second time she had been shocked by her husband’s attitude to justice—and both occasions had involved Lennox. Jay was not vicious, she was sure; but he could be led into evil by others, particularly strong-minded men such as Lennox. She was glad they were leaving England in a month’s time. Once they set sail, they would never see Lennox again.
Still she could not sleep. There was a cold, leaden feeling in the pit of her stomach. Mack McAsh was going to be hanged. She had been revolted to watch the hanging of total strangers the morning she had gone to Tyburn Cross in disguise. The thought of the same thing happening to her childhood friend was unbearable.
Mack was not her problem, she told herself. He had run away, broken the law, gone on strike and taken part in a riot. He had done all he could to get into trouble: it was not her responsibility to rescue him now. Her duty was to the husband she had married.
It was all true, but still she could not sleep.
When the light of dawn began to show around the edges of the curtains, she got up. She decided to begin packing for the voyage, and when the servants appeared she told them to fetch the waterproof trunks she had bought and start filling them with her wedding presents: table linen, cutlery, china and glassware, cooking pots and kitchen knives.
Jay woke up aching and bad tempered. He drank a shot of brandy for breakfast and went off to his regiment. Lizzie’s mother, who was still living at the Jamissons’ house, called on Lizzie soon after Jay left, and the two of them went to the bedroom and began folding Lizzie’s stockings and petticoats and handkerchiefs.
“What ship will you travel on?” Mother asked.
“The Rosebud. She’s a Jamisson vessel.”
“And when you reach Virginia—how will you get to the plantation?”
“Oceangoing ships can sail up the Rappahannock River all the way to Fredericksburg, which is only ten miles from Mockjack Hall.” Lizzie could see that her mother was anxious about her undertaking a long sea voyage. “Don’t worry, Mother, there are no pirates anymore.”
“You must take your own fresh water and keep the barrel in your cabin—don’t share with the crew. I’ll make up a medicine chest for you in case of sickness.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Because of the cramped quarters, contaminated food and stale water Lizzie was much more likely to die of some shipboard illness than be attacked by pirates.
“How long will it take?”
“Six or seven weeks.” Lizzie knew that was a minimum: if the ship was blown off course, the voyage could stretch to three months. Then the chance of sickness was much greater. However, she and Jay were young and strong and healthy, and they would survive. And it would be an adventure!
She could hardly wait to see America. It was a whole new continent and everything would be different: the birds, the trees, the food, the air, the people. She tingled whenever she thought about it.
She had been living in London for four months, and she disliked it more every day. Polite society bored her to death. She and Jay often dined with other officers and their wives, but the officers talked of card games and incompetent generals and the women were interested only in hats and servants. Lizzie found it impossible to make small talk, but if she spoke her mind she always shocked them.
Once or twice a week she and Jay dined at Grosvenor Square. There at least the conversation was about something real: business, politics, and the wave of strikes and disturbances that had washed over London this spring. But the Jamissons’ view of events was completely one-sided. Sir George would rail against the workingmen, Robert would forecast disaster, and Jay would propose a clampdown by the military. No one, not even Alicia, had the imagination to see the conflict from the point of view of the other side. Lizzie did not think the workingmen were right to strike, of course, but she believed they had reasons that seemed strong to them. That possibility was never admitted around the highly polished dining table at Grosvenor Square.
“I expect you’ll be glad to go back to Hallim House,” Lizzie said to her mother.
Mother nodded. “The Jamissons are very kind, but I miss my home, humble though it is.”
Lizzie was putting her favorite books into a trunk: Robinson Crusoe, Tom Jones, Roderick Random—all stories of adventure—when a footman knocked and said that Caspar Gordonson was downstairs.
She asked the man to repeat the visitor’s name, because she could hardly believe Gordonson would dare to call on any member of the Jamisson family. She should have refused to see him, she knew: he had encouraged and supported the strike that was damaging her father-in-law’s business. But curiosity got the better of her, as ever, and she told the footman to show him into the drawing room.
However, she had no intention of making him welcome. “You’ve caused a great deal of trouble,” she said as she walked in.
To her surprise he was not the aggressive know-it-all bully she had expected, but an untidy, shortsighted man with a high-pitched voice and the manner of an absent-minded schoolteacher. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to,” he said. “That is … I did, of course … but not to you personally.”
“Why have you come here? If my husband were at home he would throw you out on your ear.”
“Mack McAsh has been charged under the Riot Act and committed to Newgate Prison. He will be tried at the Old Bailey in three weeks’ time. It’s a hanging offense.”
The reminder struck Lizzie like a blow, but she hid her feelings. “I know,” she said coldly. “Such a tragedy—a strong young man with his life in front of him.”
“You must feel guilty,” Gordonson said.
“You insolent fool!” she blazed. “Who encouraged McAsh to think he was a free man? Who told him he had rights? You! You’re the one who should feel guilty!”
“I do,” he said quietly.
She was surprised: she had expected a hot denial. His humility calmed her. Tears came to her eyes but she fought them back. “He should have stayed in Scotland.”
“You realize that many people who are convicted of capital offenses don’t hang, in the end.”
“Yes.” There was still hope, of course. Her spirits lifted a little. “Do you think Mack will get a royal pardon?”
“It depends who is willing to speak for him. Influential friends are everything in our legal system. I will plead for his life, but my words won’t count for much. Most judges hate me. However, if you would plead for him—”
“I can’t do that!” she protested. “My husband is prosecuting McAsh. It would be dreadfully disloyal of me.”
“You could save his life.”
“But it would make Jay look such a fool!”
“Don’t you think he might understand—”
“No! I know he wouldn’t. No husband would.”
“Think about it—”
“I won’t! I’ll do something else. I’ll …” She cast about for ideas. “I’ll write to Mr. York, the pastor of the church in Heugh. I’ll ask him to come to London and plead for Mack’s life at the trial.”
Gordonson said: “A country parson from Scotland? I don’t think he’ll have much influence. The only way to be certain is for you to do it yourself.”
“It’s out of the question.”
“I won’t argue with you—it will only make you more determined,” Gordonson said shrewdly. He went to the door. “You can change your mind at any time. Just come to the Old Bailey
three weeks from tomorrow. Remember that his life may depend on it.”
He went out, and Lizzie let herself cry.
Mack was in one of the common wards of Newgate Prison.
He could not remember all that had happened to him the night before. He had a dazed recollection of being tied up and thrown across the back of a horse and carried through London. There was a tall building with barred windows, a cobbled courtyard, a staircase and a studded door. Then he had been led in here. It had been dark, and he had not been able to see much. Battered and fatigued, he had fallen asleep.
He woke to find himself in a room about the size of Cora’s apartment. It was cold: there was no glass in the windows and no fire in the fireplace. The place smelled foul. At least thirty other people were crammed in with him: men, women and children, plus a dog and a pig. Everyone slept on the floor and shared a large chamberpot.
There was constant coming and going. Some of the women left early in the morning, and Mack learned they were not prisoners but prisoners’ wives who bribed the jailers and spent nights here. The warders brought in food, beer, gin and newspapers for those who could pay their grossly inflated prices. People went to see friends in other wards. One prisoner was visited by a clergyman, another by a barber. Anything was permitted, it seemed, but everything had to be paid for.
People laughed about their plight and joked about their crimes. There was an air of jollity that annoyed Mack. He was hardly awake before he was offered a swallow of gin from someone’s bottle and a puff on a pipe of tobacco, as if they were all at a wedding.
Mack hurt all over, but his head was the worst. There was a lump at the back that was crusted with blood. He felt hopelessly gloomy. He had failed in every way. He had run away from Heugh to be free, yet he was in jail. He had fought for the coal heavers’ rights and had got some of them killed. He had lost Cora. He would be put on trial for treason, or riot, or murder. And he would probably die on the gallows. Many of the people around him had as much reason to grieve, but perhaps they were too stupid to grasp their fate.
Poor Esther would never get out of the village now. He wished he had brought her with him. She could have dressed as a man, the way Lizzie Hallim did. She would have managed sailors’ work more easily than Mack himself, for she was nimbler. And her common sense might even have kept Mack out of trouble.
He hoped Annie’s baby would be a boy. At least there would still be a Mack. Perhaps Mack Lee would have a luckier life, and a longer one, than Mack McAsh.
He was at a low point when a warder opened the door and Cora walked in.
Her face was dirty and her red dress was torn but she still looked ravishing, and everyone turned to stare.
Mack sprang to his feet and embraced her, to cheers from the other prisoners.
“What happened to you?” he said.
“I was done for picking pockets—but it was all on account of you,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“It was a trap. He looked like any other rich young drunk, but he was Jay Jamisson. They nabbed us and took us in front of his father. It’s a hanging offense, picking pockets. But they offered Peg a pardon—if she would tell them where you lived.”
Mack suffered a moment of anger with Peg for betraying him; but she was just a child, she could not be blamed. “So that was how they found out.”
“What happened to you?”
He told her the story of the riot.
When he had done she said: “By Christ, McAsh, you’re an unlucky man to know.”
It was true, he thought. Everyone he met got into some kind of trouble. “Charlie Smith is dead,” he said.
“You must talk to Peg,” she said. “She thinks you must hate her.”
“I hate myself for getting her into this.”
Cora shrugged. “You didn’t tell her to thieve. Come on.”
She banged on the door and a warder opened it. She gave him a coin, jerked a thumb at Mack and said: “He’s with me.” The warder nodded and let them out.
She led him along a corridor to another door and they entered a room very like the one they had left. Peg was sitting on the floor in a corner. When she saw Mack she stood up, looking scared. “I’m sorry,” she said. “They made me do it, I’m sorry!”
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said.
Her eyes filled with tears. “I let you down,” she whispered.
“Don’t be silly.” He took her in his arms, and her tiny frame shook as she sobbed and sobbed.
Caspar Gordonson arrived with a banquet: fish soup in a big tureen, a joint of beef, new bread, several jugs of ale, and a custard. He paid the jailer for a private room with table and chairs. Mack, Cora and Peg were brought from their ward and they all sat down to eat.
Mack was hungry, but he found he had little appetite. He was too worried. He wanted to know what Gordonson thought of his chances at the trial. He forced himself to be patient and drank some beer.
When they had finished eating, Gordonson’s servant cleared away and brought pipes and tobacco. Gordonson took a pipe, and so did Peg, who was addicted to this adult vice.
Gordonson began by talking about Peg and Cora’s case. “I’ve spoken with the Jamisson family lawyer about the pick-pocketing charge,” he began. “Sir George will stand by his promise to ask for mercy for Peg.”
“That surprises me,” said Mack. “It’s not like the Jamissons to keep their word.”
“Ah, well, they want something,” Gordonson said. “You see, it will be embarrassing for them if Jay tells the court he picked Cora up thinking she was a prostitute. So they want to pretend she just met him in the street and got him talking while Peg picked his pocket.”
Peg said scornfully: “And we’re supposed to go along with this fairy tale, and protect Jay’s reputation.”
“If you want Sir George to plead for your life, yes.”
Cora said: “We have no choice. Of course we’ll do it.”
“Good.” Gordonson turned to Mack. “I wish your case was so easy.”
Mack protested: “But I didn’t riot!”
“You didn’t go away after the Riot Act was read.”
“For God’s sake—I tried to get everyone to go, but Lennox’s ruffians attacked.”
“Let’s look at this step by step.”
Mack took a deep breath and suppressed his exasperation. “All right.”
“The prosecutor will say simply that the Riot Act was read, and you did not go away, so you are guilty and should be hanged.”
“Yes, but everyone knows there’s more to it than that!”
“There: that’s your defense. You simply say that the prosecutor has told half the story. Can you bring witnesses to say that you pleaded with everyone to disperse?”
“I’m sure I can. Dermot Riley can get any number of coal heavers to testify. But we should ask the Jamissons why the coal was being delivered to that yard, of all places, and at that time of night!”
“Well—”
Mack banged the table impatiently. “The whole riot was prearranged, we have to say that.”
“It would be hard to prove.”
Mack was infuriated by Gordonson’s dismissive attitude. “The riot was caused by a conspiracy—surely you’re not going to leave that out? If the facts don’t come out in court, where will they?”
Peg said: “Will you be at the trial, Mr. Gordonson?”
“Yes—but the judge may not let me speak.”
“For God’s sake, why not?” Mack said indignantly.
“The theory is that if you’re innocent you don’t need legal expertise to prove it. But sometimes judges make exceptions.”
“I hope we get a friendly judge,” Mack said anxiously.
“The judge ought to help the accused. It’s his duty to make sure the defense case is clear to the jury. But don’t rely on it. Place your faith in the plain truth. It’s the only thing that can save you from the hangman.”
24
ON THE DAY
OF THE TRIAL THE PRISONERS WERE awakened at five o’clock in the morning.
Dermot Riley arrived a few minutes later with a suit for Mack to borrow: it was the outfit Dermot had got married in, and Mack was touched. He also brought a razor and a sliver of soap. Half an hour later Mack looked respectable and felt ready to face the judge.
With Cora and Peg and fifteen or twenty others he was tied up and marched out of the prison, along Newgate Street, down a side street called Old Bailey and up an alley to the Sessions House.
Caspar Gordonson met him there and explained who was who. The yard in front of the building was already full of people: prosecutors, witnesses, jurors, lawyers, friends and relatives, idle spectators, and probably whores and thieves looking for business. The prisoners were led across the yard and through a gate to the bail dock. It was already half full of defendants, presumably from other prisons: the Fleet Prison, the Bridewell and Ludgate Prison. From there Mack could see the imposing Sessions House. Stone steps led up to its ground floor, which was open on one side except for a row of columns. Inside was the judges’ bench on a high platform. On either side were railed-off spaces for jurors, and balconies for court officers and privileged spectators.
It reminded Mack of a theater—but he was the villain of the piece.
He watched with grim fascination as the court began its long day of trials. The first defendant was a woman accused of stealing fifteen yards of linsey-woolsey—cheap cloth made of a mixture of linen and wool—from a shop. The shopkeeper was the prosecutor, and he valued the cloth at fifteen shillings. The witness, an employee, swore that the woman picked up the bolt of cloth and went to the door then, realizing she was observed, dropped the material and ran away. The woman claimed she had only been looking at the cloth and had never intended to make off with it.
The jurors went into a huddle. They came from the social class known as “the middling sort”: they were small traders, well-to-do craftsmen and shopkeepers. They hated disorder and theft but they mistrusted the government and jealously defended liberty—their own, at least.
They found her guilty but valued the cloth at four Shillings, a lot less than it was worth. Gordonson explained that she could be hanged for stealing goods worth more than five shillings from a shop. The verdict was intended to prevent the judge from sentencing the woman to death.