A Place Called Freedom (1995)

by Ken Follett

  Remembering Mack, she said: “The trial is today!”

  York said: “Oh, my goodness, I didn’t know it was so soon—am I too late?”

  “Perhaps not, if you go now.”

  “I will. How far is it?”

  “Fifteen minutes’ walk, five minutes in a sedan chair. I’m coming with you.”

  Mother said: “No, please—”

  Lizzie made her voice harsh. “Don’t try to stop me, Mother. I’m going to plead for Mack’s life myself. We killed the sister—perhaps we can save the brother.”

  “I’m coming with you,” said Lady Hallim.

  * * *

  The Sessions Yard was crammed with people. Lizzie was confused and lost, and neither York nor her mother was any help. She pushed through the crowd, searching for Gordonson or Mack. She came to a low wall that enclosed an inner yard and at last saw Mack and Caspar Gordonson through the railings. When she called, Gordonson came out through a gate.

  At the same time Sir George and Jay appeared.

  Jay said in a reproving tone: “Lizzie, why are you here?”

  She ignored him and spoke to Gordonson: “This is the Reverend Mr. York, from our village in Scotland. He’s come to plead for Mack’s life.”

  Sir George wagged a finger at York. “If you’ve got any sense you’ll turn around and go straight back to Scotland.”

  Lizzie said: “And I’m going to plead for his life, too.”

  “Thank you,” Gordonson said fervently. “It’s the best thing you could possibly do.”

  Lady Hallim said: “I tried to stop her, Sir George.”

  Jay flushed with anger and grabbed Lizzie by the arm, squeezing hard. “How dare you humiliate me like this?” he spat. “I absolutely forbid you to speak!”

  “Are you intimidating this witness?” said Gordonson.

  Jay looked cowed and let go. A lawyer with a bundle of papers pushed through the middle of their little group. Jay said: “Do we have to have this discussion here where the whole world can see?”

  “Yes,” said Gordonson. “We can’t leave the court.”

  Sir George said to Lizzie: “What the devil do you mean by this, my girl?”

  The arrogant tone maddened Lizzie. “You know damn well what I mean by it,” she said. The men were all startled to hear her swear, and two or three people standing nearby turned and looked at her. She ignored their reactions. “You all planned this riot to trap McAsh. I’m not going to stand by and see you hang him.”

  Sir George reddened. “Remember that you’re my daughter-in-law and—”

  “Shut up, George,” she interrupted. “I won’t be bullied.”

  He was thunderstruck. No one ever told him to shut up, she was sure.

  Jay took up the cudgels. “You can’t go against your own husband,” he stormed. “It’s disloyal!”

  “Disloyal?” she repeated scornfully. “Who the hell are you to talk to me about loyalty? You swore to me that you would not mine coal on my land—then went ahead and did exactly that. You betrayed me on our wedding day!”

  They all went quiet, and for a moment Lizzie could hear a witness giving evidence loudly on the other side of the wall. “You know about the accident, then,” said Jay.

  She took a deep breath. “I might as well say now that Jay and I will be leading separate lives from today. We’ll be married in name only. I shall return to my house in Scotland, and none of the Jamisson family will be welcomed there. As for my speaking up for McAsh: I’m not going to help you hang my friend, and you can both—both—kiss my arse.”

  Sir George was too stupefied to say anything. No one had spoken to him this way for years. He was beetroot red, his eyes bulged, and he spluttered, but no words came out.

  Caspar Gordonson addressed Jay. “May I make a suggestion?”

  Jay gave him a hostile glare but said curtly: “Go on, go on.”

  “Mrs. Jamisson might be persuaded not to testify—on one condition.”

  “What?”

  “You, Jay, should plead for Mack’s life.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Jay.

  Gordonson went on: “It would be just as effective. But it would save the family the embarrassment of a wife going against her husband in open court.” He suddenly looked sly. “Instead, you would look magnanimous. You could say that Mack was a miner in the Jamisson pits and for that reason the family wishes to be merciful.”

  Lizzie’s heart leaped with hope. A plea for mercy from Jay, the officer who had quelled the riot, would be much more effective.

  She could see hesitation flicker across Jay’s face as he weighed the consequences. Then he said sulkily: “I suppose I have to accept this.”

  Before Lizzie had time to feel exultant, Sir George intervened. “There’s one condition, which I know Jay will insist upon.”

  Lizzie had a bad feeling that she knew what was coming.

  Sir George looked at her. “You must forget all this nonsense about separate lives. You are to be a proper wife to Jay in every way.”

  “No!” she cried. “He has betrayed me—how can I trust him? I won’t do it.”

  Sir George said: “Then Jay will not plead for McAsh’s life.”

  Gordonson said: “I must tell you, Lizzie, that Jay’s plea will be more effective than yours, because he’s the prosecutor.”

  Lizzie felt bewildered. It was not fair—she was being forced to choose between Mack’s life and her own. How could she decide such a thing? She was pulled both ways, and it hurt.

  They were all staring at her: Jay, Sir George, Gordonson, her mother, and York. She knew she should give in, but something inside would not let her. “No,” she said defiantly. “I will not trade my own life for Mack’s.”

  Gordonson said: “Think again.”

  Then her mother said: “You have to.”

  Lizzie looked at her. Of course her mother would urge her to do the conventional thing. But Mother was on the verge of tears. “What is it?”

  She began to cry. “You have to be a proper wife to Jay.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re going to have a baby.”

  Lizzie stared at her. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “You’re pregnant,” her mother said.

  “How would you know?”

  Mother spoke through sobs. “Your bosom has got bigger and food makes you feel sick. You’ve been married for two months: it’s not exactly unexpected.”

  “Oh, my God.” Lizzie was dumbfounded. Everything was turned upside-down. A baby! Could it be? She thought back and realized she had not had the curse since her wedding day. So it was true. She was trapped by her own body. Jay was the father of her child. And Mother had realized this was the one thing that could change Lizzie’s mind.

  She looked at her husband. On his face she saw anger mixed with a pleading look. “Why did you lie to me?” she said.

  “I didn’t want to, but I had to,” he said.

  She felt bitter. Her love for him would never be quite the same, she knew. But he was still her husband.

  “All right,” she said. “I accept.”

  Caspar Gordonson said: “Then we’re all in agreement.”

  It sounded to Lizzie like a life sentence.

  “Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh yes!” shouted the court crier. “My lords, the king’s justices, strictly command all manner of persons to keep silence while the sentence of death is passing on the prisoners at the bar, on pain of imprisonment.”

  The judge put on his black cap and stood up.

  Mack shuddered with loathing. Nineteen cases had been tried on the same day, and twelve people had been found guilty. Mack suffered a wave of terror. Lizzie had forced Jay to plead for mercy, which meant that his death sentence should be reprieved, but what if the judge decided to discount Jay’s plea or just made a mistake?

  Lizzie was at the back of the court. Mack caught her eye. She looked pale and shaken. He had not had a chance to speak to her. She tried to give him an enc
ouraging smile, but it turned into a grimace of fear.

  The judge looked at the twelve prisoners, standing in a line, and after a moment he spoke. “The law is that thou shalt return from hence, to the place whence thou earnest, and from thence to the place of execution, where thou shalt hang by the neck, till the body be dead! dead! dead! and the Lord have mercy on thy soul.”

  There was an awful pause. Cora held Mack’s arm, and he felt her fingers digging into his flesh as she suffered the same dreadful anxiety. The other prisoners had little hope of pardon. As they heard their death sentences some screamed abuse, some wept, and one prayed loudly.

  “Peg Knapp is reprieved and recommended for transportation,” the judge intoned. “Cora Higgins is reprieved and recommended for transportation. Malachi McAsh is reprieved and recommended for transportation. The rest are left to hang.”

  Mack put his arms around Cora and Peg, and the three of them stood in a mutual embrace. Their lives had been spared.

  Caspar Gordonson joined in the embrace, then he took Mack’s arm and said solemnly: “I have to give you some dreadful news.”

  Mack was scared again: would their reprieves somehow be overturned?

  “There has been a roof collapse in one of the Jamisson pits,” he went on. Mack’s heart missed a beat: he dreaded what was coming. “Twenty people were killed,” Gordonson said.

  “Esther …?”

  “I’m sorry, Mack. Your sister was among the dead.”

  “Dead?” It was hard to take in. Life and death had been dealt out like cards today. Esther, dead? How could he not have a twin? He had always had her, since he was born.

  “I should have let her come with me,” he said as his eyes filled with tears. “Why did I leave her behind?”

  Peg stared at him wide-eyed. Cora held his hand and said: “A life saved, and a life lost.”

  Mack put his hands over his face and wept.

  25

  THE DAY OF DEPARTURE CAME QUICKLY.

  One morning without warning all the prisoners who had been sentenced to transportation were told to pick up their possessions and herded into the courtyard.

  Mack had few possessions. Other than his clothes, there was just his Robinson Crusoe, the broken iron collar he had brought from Heugh, and the fur cloak Lizzie had given him.

  In the courtyard a blacksmith shackled them in pairs with heavy leg irons. Mack was humiliated by the fetters. The feel of the cold iron on his ankle brought him very low. He had fought for his freedom and lost the battle, and once again he was in chains like an animal. He hoped the ship would sink and he would drown.

  Males and females were not allowed to be chained together. Mack was paired with a filthy old drunk called Mad Barney. Cora made eyes at the blacksmith and got herself paired with Peg.

  “I don’t believe Caspar knows we’re leaving today,” Mack said worriedly. “Perhaps they don’t have to notify anyone.”

  He looked up and down the line of convicts. There were more than a hundred, he reckoned; around a quarter of them were female, with a sprinkling of children from about nine years upward. Among the men was Sidney Lennox.

  Lennox’s fall had caused much glee. No one would trust him since he gave evidence against Peg. The thieves who had disposed of their stolen goods at the Sun tavern now went elsewhere. And although the coal heavers’ strike had been broken, and most of the men were back at work, no one would work for Lennox at any price. He had tried to coerce a woman called Gwen Sixpence into stealing for him, but she and two friends had informed against him for receiving stolen property, and he had duly been convicted. The Jamissons had intervened and saved him from the gallows, but they could not prevent his being transported.

  The great wooden doors of the prison swung wide. A squad of eight guards stood outside to escort them. A jailer gave a violent shove to the pair at the front of the line, and slowly they moved out into the busy city street.

  “We’re not far from Fleet Street,” Mack said. “It’s possible Caspar may get to know of this.”

  “What difference does it make?” said Cora.

  “He can bribe the ship’s captain to give us special treatment.”

  Mack had learned a little about crossing the Atlantic by questioning prisoners, guards and visitors in Newgate. The one indubitable fact he had learned was that the voyage killed many people. Whether the passengers were slaves, convicts or indentured servants, conditions below decks were lethally unhealthy. Shippers were motivated by money: they crammed as many people as possible into their holds. But captains were mercenary too, and a prisoner with cash for bribes could travel in a cabin.

  Londoners stopped what they were doing to watch the convicts make their last, shameful progress through the heart of the city. Some shouted condolences, some jeered and mocked, and a few threw stones or rubbish. Mack asked a friendly-looking woman to take a message to Caspar Gordonson, but she refused. He tried again, twice, with the same result.

  The irons slowed them down, and it took more than an hour to shuffle to the waterfront. The river was busy with ships, barges, ferries and rafts, for the strikes were over, crushed by the troops. It was a warm spring morning. Sunlight glinted oft the muddy Thames. A boat was waiting to take them out to their ship, which was anchored in midstream. Mack read its name: “The Rosebud.”

  “Is it a Jamisson ship?” said Cora.

  “I think most of the convict ships are.”

  As he stepped from the muddy foreshore into the boat, Mack realized this would be the last time he stood on British soil for many years, perhaps forever. He had mixed feelings: fear and apprehension mingled with a certain reckless excitement at the prospect of a new country and a new life.

  Boarding the ship was difficult: they had to climb the ladder in pairs with the leg irons on. Peg and Cora managed easily enough, being young and nimble, but Mack had to carry Barney. One pair of men fell into the river. Neither the guards nor the sailors did anything to help them, and they would have drowned if the other prisoners had not reached out and pulled them back into the boat.

  The ship was about forty feet long by fifteen wide. Peg commented: “I’ve burgled drawing rooms that were bigger than this, by Christ.” On deck were hens in a coop, a small pigsty, and a tethered goat. On the other side of the ship a magnificent white horse was being hoisted out of a boat with the help of the yardarm used as a crane. A scrawny cat bared its fangs at Mack. He had an impression of coiled ropes and furled sails, a smell of varnish, and a rocking motion underfoot; then they were shoved across the lip of a hatch and down a ladder.

  There seemed to be three lower decks. On the first, four sailors were eating their midday meal, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by sacks and chests that presumably contained supplies for the voyage. On the third, all the way down at the foot of the ladder, two men were stacking barrels, hammering wedges between them so that they could not move during the voyage. At the level of the middle deck, which was obviously for the convicts, a sailor roughly pulled Mack and Barney off the ladder and shoved them through a doorway.

  There was an odor of tar and vinegar. Mack peered at his surroundings in the gloom. The ceiling was an inch or two above his head: a tall man would have to stoop. It was pierced by two gratings that admitted a little light and air, not from outside but from the enclosed deck above, which itself was lit by open hatches. Along both sides of the hold were wooden racks, six feet wide, one at waist height and one a few inches off the floor.

  With horror Mack realized the racks were for the convicts to lie on. They would be spending the voyage on these bare shelves.

  They shuffled along the narrow walkway between the rows. The first few berths were already occupied by convicts lying flat, still chained in pairs. They were quiet, stunned by what was happening to them. A sailor directed Peg and Cora to lie next to Mack and Barney, like knives in a drawer. They took their positions, and the sailor roughly shoved them closer together, so that they were touching. Peg was able to sit up
right but the grown-ups were not, for there was not enough headroom. The best Mack could do was to prop himself on one elbow.

  At the end of the row Mack spotted a large earthenware jar, about two feet high, cone shaped with a broad flat base and a rim about nine inches across. There were three others around the hold. They were the only items of furniture visible, and he realized they were the toilets.

  “How long will it take to get to Virginia?” said Peg.

  “Seven weeks,” he said. “If we’re lucky.”

  Lizzie watched as her trunk was carried into the large cabin at the rear of the Rosebud. She and Jay had the owner’s quarters, a bedroom and a day room, and there was more space than she had expected. Everyone talked of the horrors of the transatlantic voyage, but she was determined to make the best of it and try to enjoy the novel experience.

  Making the best of things was now her philosophy of life. She could not forget Jay’s betrayal—she still clenched her fists and bit her lip every time she thought of the hollow promise he had made on their wedding day—but she tried always to push it to the back of her mind.

  Only a few weeks ago she would have been thrilled by this trip. Going to America was her great ambition: it was one of the reasons she had married Jay. She had anticipated a new life in the colonies, a more free-and-easy, outdoor existence, without petticoats or calling cards, where a woman could get dirt under her fingernails and speak her mind like a man. But the dream had lost some of its glow when she learned of the deal Jay had made. They ought to call the plantation “Twenty Graves,” she thought moodily.

  She tried to pretend that Jay was as dear to her as ever, but her body told the truth. When he touched her at night she did not respond as she once had. She would kiss and caress him, but his fingers did not scorch her skin, and his tongue no longer seemed to reach all the way inside to touch her soul. Once upon a time the mere sight of him had made her moist between the legs; now she surreptitiously oiled herself with cold cream before getting into bed, otherwise intercourse hurt her. He always ended up groaning and gasping with pleasure as he spilled his seed inside her, but there was no such culmination for her. Instead she was left with an unfulfilled feeling. Later, when she heard him snoring, she would console herself with her fingers, and then her head would fill with strange images, men wrestling and whores with exposed breasts.