A Place Called Freedom (1995)

by Ken Follett

  She was not sentenced immediately, however: the sentences would all be read out at the end of the day.

  The whole thing had taken no more than a quarter of an hour. The following cases were dealt with equally rapidly, few taking more than half an hour. Cora and Peg were tried together at about midafternoon. Mack knew that the course of the trial was preordained, but still he crossed his fingers and hoped it would go according to plan.

  Jay Jamisson testified that Cora had engaged him in conversation in the street while Peg picked his pockets. He called Sidney Lennox as the witness who had seen what was happening and warned him. Neither Cora nor Peg challenged this version of events.

  Their reward was the appearance of Sir George, who testified that they had been helpful in the apprehension of another criminal and asked the judge to sentence them to transportation rather than hanging.

  The judge nodded sympathetically, but the sentence would not be pronounced until the end of the day.

  Mack’s case was called a few minutes later.

  Lizzie could think of nothing but the trial.

  She had dinner at three o’clock and, as Jay was at the court all day, her mother came to dine and keep her company.

  “You’re looking quite plump, my dear,” Lady Hallim said. “Have you been eating a lot?”

  “On the contrary,” Lizzie said. “Sometimes food makes me feel ill. It’s all the excitement of going to Virginia, I suppose. And now this dreadful trial.”

  “It’s not your concern,” Lady Hallim said briskly. “Dozens of people are hanged every year for much less dreadful crimes. He can’t be reprieved just because you knew him as a child.”

  “How do you know he committed a crime at all?”

  “If he did not, he will be found not guilty. I’m sure he is being treated the same as anyone foolish enough to get involved in a riot.”

  “But he isn’t,” Lizzie protested. “Jay and Sir George deliberately provoked that riot so that they could arrest Mack and finish the coal heavers’ strike—Jay told me.”

  “Then I’m sure they had good reason.”

  Tears came to Lizzie’s eyes. “Mother, don’t you think it’s wrong?”

  “I’m quite sure it’s none of my business or yours, Lizzie,” she said firmly.

  Wanting to hide her distress from her mother, Lizzie ate a spoonful of dessert—apples mashed with sugar—but it made her feel sick and she put down her spoon. “Caspar Gordonson said I could save Mack’s life if I would speak for him in court.”

  “Heaven forbid!” Mother was shocked. “That you should go against your own husband in a public courtroom—don’t even speak of it!”

  “But it’s a man’s life! Think of his poor sister—how she will grieve when she finds out he has been hanged.”

  “My dear, they are miners, they aren’t like us. Life is cheap, they don’t grieve as we do. His sister will just get drunk on gin and go back down the pit.”

  “You don’t really believe that, Mother, I know.”

  “Perhaps I’m exaggerating. But I’m quite sure it does no good to worry about such things.”

  “I just can’t help it. He’s a brave young man who only wanted to be free, and I can’t bear the thought of him hanging from that rope.”

  “You could pray for him.”

  “I do,” Lizzie said. “I do.”

  * * *

  The prosecutor was a lawyer, Augustus Pym.

  “He does a lot of work for the government,” Gordonson whispered to Mack. “They must be paying him to prosecute this case.”

  So the government wanted Mack hanged. That made him feel low.

  Gordonson approached the bench and addressed the judge. “My lord, as the prosecution is to be done by a professional lawyer, will you allow me to speak for Mr. McAsh?”

  “Certainly not,” said the judge. “If McAsh cannot convince the jury unless he has outside help, he can’t have much of a case.”

  Mack’s throat was dry and he could hear his heartbeat. He was going to have to fight for his life alone. Well, he would fight every inch of the way.

  Pym began. “On the day in question a delivery of coal was being made to the yard of Mr. John Cooper, known as Black Jack, in Wapping High Street.”

  Mack said: “It wasn’t day—it was night.”

  The judge said: “Don’t make foolish remarks.”

  “It’s not foolish,” Mack said. “Whoever heard of coal being delivered at eleven o’clock at night?”

  “Be quiet. Carry on, Mr. Pym.”

  “The delivery men were attacked by a group of striking coal heavers, and the Wapping magistrates were alerted.”

  “Who by?” said Mack.

  Pym answered: “By the landlord of the Frying Pan tavern, Mr. Harold Nipper.”

  “An undertaker,” said Mack.

  The judge said: “And a respectable tradesman, I believe.”

  Pym went on: “Mr. Roland MacPherson, justice of the peace, arrived and declared a riot. The coal heavers refused to disperse.”

  “We were attacked!” Mack said.

  They ignored him. “Mr. MacPherson then summoned the troops, as was his right and duty. A detachment of the Third Foot Guards arrived under the command of Captain Jamisson. The prisoner was among those arrested. The Crown’s first witness is John Cooper.”

  Black Jack testified that he went downriver to Rochester to buy coal that had been unloaded there. He had it driven to London in carts.

  Mack asked: “Who did the ship belong to?”

  “I don’t know—I dealt with the captain.”

  “Where was the ship from?”

  “Edinburgh.”

  “Could it have belonged to Sir George Jamisson?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who suggested to you that you might be able to buy coal in Rochester?”

  “Sidney Lennox.”

  “A friend of the Jamissons’.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  Pym’s next witness was Roland MacPherson, who swore that he had read the Riot Act at a quarter past eleven in the evening, and the crowd had refused to disperse.

  Mack said: “You were on the scene very quickly.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who summoned you?”

  “Harold Nipper.”

  “The landlord of the Frying Pan.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he have far to go?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Where were you when he summoned you?”

  “In the back parlor of his tavern.”

  “That was handy! Was it planned?”

  “I knew there was going to be a coal delivery and I feared there might be trouble.”

  “Who forewarned you?”

  “Sidney Lennox.”

  One of the jurors said: “Ho!”

  Mack looked at him. He was a youngish man with a skeptical expression, and Mack marked him down as a potential ally in the jury.

  Finally Pym called Jay Jamisson. Jay talked easily, and the judge looked faintly bored, as if they were friends discussing a matter of no importance. Mack wanted to shout “Don’t be so casual—my life is at stake!”

  Jay said he had been in command of a detachment of Guards at the Tower of London.

  The skeptical juror interrupted: “What were you doing there?”

  Jay looked as if the question had taken him by surprise. He said nothing.

  “Answer the question,” said the juror.

  Jay looked at the judge, who seemed annoyed with the juror and said with obvious reluctance: “You must answer the jury’s questions, Captain.”

  “We were there in readiness,” Jay said.

  “For what?” said the juror.

  “In case our assistance was needed in keeping the peace in the eastern part of the city.”

  “Is that your usual barracks?” said the juror.

  “No.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Hyde Park
, at the moment.”

  “On the other side of London.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many nights have you made this special trip to the Tower?”

  “Just one.”

  “How did you come to be there that particular night?”

  “I assume my commanding officers feared trouble.”

  “Sidney Lennox warned them, I suppose,” the juror said, and there was a ripple of laughter.

  Pym continued to question Jay, who said that when he and his men arrived at the coal yard there was a riot in full progress, which was true. He told how Mack had attacked him—also true—and had been knocked out by another soldier.

  Mack asked him: “What do you think of coal heavers who riot?”

  “They are breaking the law and should be punished.”

  “Do you believe most folk agree with you, by and large?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think the riot will turn folk against the coal heavers?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “So the riot makes it more likely that the authorities will take drastic action to end the strike?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Beside Mack, Caspar Gordonson was muttering: “Brilliant, brilliant, he fell right into your trap.”

  “And when the strike is over, the Jamisson family’s coal ships will be unloaded and you will be able to sell your coal again.”

  Jay began to see where he was being led, but it was too late. “Yes.”

  “An end to the strike is worth a lot of money to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “So the coal heavers’ riot will make money for you.”

  “It might stop my family losing money.”

  “Is that why you cooperated with Sidney Lennox in provoking the riot?” Mack turned away.

  “I did no such thing!” said Jay, but he was speaking to the back of Mack’s head.

  Gordonson said: “You should be a lawyer, Mack. Where did you learn to argue like that?”

  “Mrs. Wheighel’s parlor,” he replied.

  Gordonson was mystified.

  Pym had no more witnesses. The skeptical juror said: “Aren’t we going to hear from this Lennox character?”

  “The Crown has no more witnesses,” Pym repeated.

  “Well, I think we should hear from him. He seems to be behind it all”

  “Jurors cannot call witnesses,” the judge said.

  Mack called his first, an Irish coal heaver known as Red Michael for the color of his hair. Red told how Mack had been on the point of persuading the coal heavers to go home when they were attacked.

  When he had finished, the judge said: “And what work do you do, young man?”

  “I’m a coal heaver, sir,” Red replied.

  The judge said: “The jury will take that into account when considering whether to believe you or not.”

  Mack’s heart sank. The judge was doing all he could to prejudice the jury against him. He called his next witness, but he was another coal heaver and suffered the same fate. The third and last was also a coal heaver. That was because they had been in the thick of things and had seen exactly what happened.

  His witnesses had been destroyed. Now there was only himself and his own character and eloquence.

  “Coal heaving is hard work, cruelly hard,” he began. “Only strong young men can do it. But it’s highly paid—in my first week I earned six pounds. I earned it, but I did not receive it: most was stolen from me by an undertaker.”

  The judge interrupted him. “This has nothing to do with the case,” he said. “The charge is riot.”

  “I didn’t riot,” Mack said. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts, then went on. “I simply refused to let undertakers steal my wages. That’s my crime. Undertakers get rich by stealing from coal heavers. But when the coal heavers decided to do their own undertaking, what happened? They were boycotted by the shippers. And who are the shippers, gentlemen? The Jamisson family which is so inextricably involved in this trial today.”

  The judge said irritably: “Can you prove that you did not riot?”

  The skeptical juror interjected: “The point is that the fighting was instigated by others.”

  Mack was not put off by the interruption. He simply continued with what he wanted to say. “Gentlemen of the jury, ask yourselves some questions.” He turned away from the jurors and looked straight at Jay. “Who ordered that wagons of coal should be brought down Wapping High Street at an hour when the taverns are full of coal heavers? Who sent them to the very coal yard where I live? Who paid the men who escorted the wagons?” The judge was trying to break in again but Mack raised his voice and plowed on. “Who gave them muskets and ammunition? Who made sure the troops were standing by in the immediate neighborhood? Who orchestrated the entire riot?” He swung around swiftly and looked at the jury. “You know the answer, don’t you?” He held their gaze a moment longer, then turned away.

  He felt shaky. He had done his best, and now his life was in the hands of others.

  Gordonson got to his feet. “We were expecting a character witness to appear on McAsh’s behalf—the Reverend Mr. York, pastor of the church in the village of his birth—but he has not yet arrived.”

  Mack was not very disappointed about York, for he did not expect York’s testimony to have much effect, and neither did Gordonson.

  The judge said: “If he arrives he may speak before sentencing.” Gordonson raised his eyebrows and the judge added: “That is, unless the jury finds the defendant not guilty, in which case further testimony would be superfluous, needless to say. Gentlemen, consider your verdict.”

  Mack studied the jurors fearfully as they conferred. He thought, to his dismay, that they looked unsympathetic. Perhaps he had come on too strong. “What do you think?” he said to Gordonson.

  The lawyer shook his head. “They’ll find it hard to believe that the Jamisson family entered into a shabby conspiracy with Sidney Lennox. You might have done better to present the coal heavers as well intentioned but misguided.”

  “I told the truth,” Mack said. “I can’t help it.”

  Gordonson smiled sadly. “If you weren’t that kind of man, you might not be in so much trouble.”

  The jurors were arguing. “What the devil are they talking about?” Mack said. “I wish we could hear.” He could see the skeptical one making a point forcefully, wagging his finger. Were the others listening attentively, or ranged against him?

  “Be grateful,” Gordonson said. “The longer they talk, the better for you.”

  “Why?”

  “If they’re arguing, there must be doubt; and if there is doubt, they have to find you not guilty.”

  Mack watched fearfully. The skeptical one shrugged and half turned away, and Mack feared he had lost the argument. The foreman said something to him, and he nodded.

  The foreman approached the bench.

  The judge said: “Have you reached a verdict?”

  “We have.”

  Mack held his breath.

  “And how do you find the prisoner?”

  “We find him guilty as charged.”

  Lady Hallim said: “Your feeling for this miner is rather strange, my dear. A husband might find it objectionable.”

  “Oh, Mother, don’t be so ridiculous.”

  There was a knock at the dining room door and a footman came in. “The Reverend Mr. York, madam,” he said.

  “What a lovely surprise!” said Mother. She had always been fond of York. In a low voice she added: “His wife died, Lizzie—did I tell you?—leaving him with three children.”

  “But what’s he doing here?” Lizzie said anxiously. “He’s supposed to be at the Old Bailey. Show him in, quickly.”

  The pastor came in, looking as if he had dressed hastily. Before Lizzie could ask him why he was not at the trial he said something that momentarily took her mind off Mack.

  “Lady Hallim, Mrs. Jamisson, I arrived in London a few hours ago, a
nd I’ve called on you at the earliest possible moment to offer you both my sympathies. What a dreadful—”

  Lizzie’s mother said, “No—” then clamped her lips tight.

  “—blow to you.”

  Lizzie shot a puzzled look at her mother and said: “What are you talking about, Mr. York?”

  “The pit disaster, of course.”

  “I don’t know anything about it—although I see my mother does.…”

  “My goodness, I’m terribly sorry to have shocked you. There was a roof collapse at your pit, and twenty people were killed.”

  Lizzie gasped. “How absolutely dreadful.” In her mind she saw twenty new graves in the little churchyard by the bridge. There would be so much grief: everyone in the neighborhood would be mourning someone. But something else worried her. “What do you mean when you say ‘your’ pit?”

  “High Glen.”

  Lizzie went cold. “There is no pit at High Glen.”

  “Only the new one, of course—the one that was begun when you married Mr. Jamisson.”

  Lizzie felt frozen with rage. She rounded on her mother. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  Lady Hallim had the grace to look ashamed. “My dear, it was the only thing to do. That’s why Sir George gave you the Virginia property—”

  “You betrayed me!” Lizzie cried. “You all deceived me. Even my husband. How could you? How could you lie to me?”

  Her mother began to cry. “We thought you’d never know. You’re going to America—”

  Her tears did nothing to blunt Lizzie’s outrage. “You thought I’d never know? I can hardly believe my ears!”

  “Don’t do anything rash, I beg you.”

  An awful thought struck Lizzie. She turned to the pastor. “Mack’s twin sister …”

  “I’m afraid Esther McAsh was among the dead,” he said.

  “Oh, no.” Mack and Esther were the first twins Lizzie had ever seen, and she had been fascinated by them. As children they were hard to tell apart until you got to know them. In later life Esther looked like a female Mack, with the same striking green eyes and the miner’s squat muscularity. Lizzie remembered them a few short months ago, standing side by side outside the church. Esther had told Mack to shut his gob, and that had made Lizzie laugh. Now Esther was dead and Mack was about to be condemned to death—