by Edward Cline
Chapter 27: The Trial
TWELFTH NIGHT, THE LAST HOLIDAY BEFORE A DROUGHT OF HOLIDAYS THAT led to Shrove Tuesday and the beginning of Lent, was celebrated the first Monday twelve days after Christmas. It was a day of building bonfires, of wearing masks to dances, of staging plays, and of playing innocent games of forfeiture. It was a kind of post-New Year’s carnival. Skelly and Redmagne, in the Falmouth prison, and Jack Frake in the workhouse, heard some of the revelry in the streets, but paid it little attention. There were more merry-makers in town than usual; great numbers of them had come to attend the trial. Someone brought Skelly and Redmagne a Twelfth Cake, an elaborately and exquisitely decorated confection in which was buried a golden guinea. Mr. Binns, when he presented the men with the cake, said that the donor did not wish his name to be known. “He said that he sends his compliments, sirs, and wishes you both well.”
Redmagne persuaded Mr. Binns to allow him into the pen to sing songs and recite speeches from Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night.” His enthusiasm was such that, for a while, all the prisoners, their families, and even Mr. Binns, forgot that they were in a prison. Only Skelly knew why his friend was so full of spirits; he had received a letter from Millicent Morley, in which she promised that, no matter what the consequences to herself or to her father, she would sail for Falmouth as soon as she could.
News of Skelly’s arrest and indictment had reached London long ago. Ladies and gentlemen of leisure had begun appearing in town days before. Respectable merchants and their wives, tradesmen, doctors, lawyers and men of dubious occupation were filling up the inns. Residents let rooms at a shilling a day. The boys in the Chrysalis Academy were promised a holiday from their studies and chores on the day of the trial, so that their schoolmasters and wardens could attend. A company of dragoons rode in and were billeted in an unused warehouse near the quay.
* * *
The trial itself was an anticlimax. Treverlyn spoke and conducted himself throughout it with an arrogance moderated by boredom and pity. It was neither pose nor theater; he knew that he had a clinched conviction and he assumed that he need not employ much lawyerly art. The verdict was a foregone conclusion in the minds of the magistrate, the jury, the prisoners, and the spectators. He knew that the jury was friendly to conviction; it was packed with “fair-traders,” and in the impaneling of juries the defense then had no role. Treverlyn built his case for the Crown with proofs and sound logic. He may as well have been demonstrating the blackness of black, or the wetness of water.
He displayed samples of what had been unshipped in the Portreach run: Italian brierwood candlesticks, Prussian cobalt blue glassware, Flemish parchment and vellum paper, French West Indies sugar, sacks of Portuguese salt, and bolts of Dutch silk. “All of this is but a small portion of what was found stored in those caves, gentlemen.” He noticed that jurors and spectators looked longingly at the objects he produced, so he ordered them removed and went quickly to his next point. He produced Skelly’s account books, meticulously kept by Chester Plume, and showed that the Crown had been defrauded of at least a hundred thousand guineas in the course of the master smuggler’s career. He painted a glorious picture of how the grenadiers had braved musket fire and fierce combat to overcome Skelly and his band of criminals. “Four stalwart men lost their lives in that fracas, and a fifth lost the sight of his left eye.” He produced witnesses — Juno Waugh, a sailor who had worked on The Hasty Hart, now seized by the Customs Service, and an itinerant farmhand who had been hired by Skelly as an oarsman and to help unload contraband — who provided a wealth of particulars about the Portreach run. This testimony, everyone knew, was given in exchange for amnesty on all smuggling charges against the witnesses, plus a generous bounty of ten guineas per witness.
He produced two other witnesses, Revenue men who had participated in the Fowey raid years ago, who identified Skelly and Redmagne, having caught sight of them during the fight, in which two other Revenue men had been killed. Their testimony had little to do with the charges at hand, and the bench, prosecutor, and spectators expected Redmagne to object. He did not. Neither did Twycross.
Treverlyn also made much of the healthy condition of the prisoners. “While hard-working citizens of this county have been obliged to save farthings and pennies, and forsake many common necessities of life to keep their heads above the foul waters of these hard times,” he paused to gesture at Skelly and Redmagne, “these two have lived lives of indolence and profligacy from the gains of their criminal careers! Why, they even had time to paint pictures and to write books! They are no less contemptible than the infamous Jonathan Wild, who lived a life of ease while robbing the good citizens of London who honored him.” The prosecutor paused, and then permitted himself some theatrics. He walked slowly toward the prisoners, glowering at them. “Look at these prisoners! Do they appear in the least contrite? No? That is because they have even spurned the generous advice of the ordinary of the prison to make their peace with God. In fact, they have made themselves so obnoxious to that good man’s office — and this is a man who has endured the insults and rude behavior of pirates and cut-throats — that he refuses ever again to enter their cells! Surely not the behavior of penitent men!” He gestured again to the prisoners. “Gentlemen of the jury! Behold the bane of England!”
Redmagne, on the other hand, had no witnesses and no countering evidence. He attempted no eloquence, and resorted to no clever stratagems. When Twycross at last asked him to present his case, he approached the bench and looked up at the bewigged authority. He said, calmly, “We are free Englishmen who have committed no crime. It is you who are about to commit one. If you punish us, you punish all free men.” He turned to the jury. “You will punish yourselves. Your liberties will hang from rope as surely as will our bodies. ” Then he turned and walked back to the bar and Skelly.
* * *
The jury returned a verdict of guilty on all charges, and recommended hanging. No one was surprised.
Magistrate Twycross said, addressing the two men, “As reward for your utterly flagitious lives, you are sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. The sheriff will schedule your executions at the earliest possible date, as neither the Crown nor this county wishes to bear the expense of your continued existence.” He added, as a distasteful afterthought, “May God have mercy on your souls.”
The spectators began to murmur, but Twycross banged his gavel. “The bench has not finished.” He waited until the chamber was quiet, then reached for a sheaf of papers, adjusted his spectacles, and began to read. “Furthermore, John Smith, in addition to the jury’s finding of your guilt in the matter of smuggling, and all other matters encompassed by this trial, I have other grave communications for you. You are the confessed author of a fictitious work, Hyperborea, et cetera, under the name of Romney Marsh. I have been instructed by the Lord Chancellor to reveal this action to you, in this court, regardless of the findings in these proceedings.” Twycross paused, cleared his throat, and went on reading from his notes. “Said fictitious work has been discussed in Chancery, by the members of the King’s Bench, and has been closely examined by the Lord Chamberlain and by the King’s Proctor, and their various lordships have concluded that while Hyperborea, et cetera purports to be an entertainment of moral elevation and ingenious innovation, its righteous tone and feverish grammar, however, are of a disorderly and fractious nature, solicitous of anarchy, public discord, regicide, and treason; calumnious and offensive to the person and office of our gracious sovereign; libelous of Parliament and civil government and of the persons who sit in those august bodies; apostatical by omission of the least regard for the Almighty; suggestive of heresy in regard to accepted doctrines of the Christian faith of divers denominations; and impious in its repeated demonstration of disrespect for the established church of this country, for public morality, and for representatives of the Crown.”
Redmagne stepped forward and said for all to hear, “Has my book been judged without the privilege of trial? Has the Lo
rd Chancellor turned critic?”
Twycross did not rebuke him for the interruption. There was a look of satisfaction on his face, and he glanced once at Edgecombe in the gallery and smiled. The King’s Proctor had written most of what he was to read. “The Lord Chancellor has instructed me to inform the prisoner that while their various lordships can find no recent precedent for lawfully suppressing said work, they feel that said work is patently disruptive of the public peace, and their lordships, together with a committee of the Commons, view the work with the darkest countenance. It is their view that suppression may be accomplished de facto, by branding a stigma of criminality on its existence. The Lord Chancellor has granted leave to the presiding magistrate to devise an ex officio stigma — ”
Redmagne struck the railing of the dock with his fist. “This is treason!” he shouted. “Treason against the people of this nation! Even a Stuart or a Cromwell would show more courage — ” The bailiff behind him raised his staff, which was capped with an iron ball, and tapped Redmagne firmly on the back of his head. Redmagne collapsed in the box, but was immediately pulled up to his feet by the bailiff and his colleague.
“— to devise such a stigma,” continued Twycross. “Therefore, this court, in accordance with the Lord Chancellor’s instructions, orders that a copy of said work be consumed by flames on the occasion of, but not before, the execution of the author for other of his crimes. For this purpose, the prosecutor will release the handwritten copy of said work, which was found in the prisoner’s former illegal domicile, to the sheriff, who will direct the hangman to tar it and light it, together with available printed copies of the work, before the eyes of the prisoner, and then to proceed with the sentence when the work has been reduced to ashes. The presiding magistrate will strongly recommend that a printed copy of said work be similarly stigmatized at the Royal Exchange in London.” Twycross paused to adjust his spectacles. “However, in the spirit of these enlightened times, the prisoner will be spared the barbarous practice of relieving him of his right hand for this species of felony, as had once been the custom.”
Another murmur ran through the courtroom. Spectators looked at Redmagne, expecting him to make another protest. Redmagne said nothing.
Twycross cleared his throat and continued. “I am further instructed to inform you, John Smith, that all extant booksellers’ copies of said work have been bought or seized by agents of His Majesty’s Revenue on evidence of irregularities relating to the payment of stamp duties by the printer, A. Dawson and Sons, of Pater-Noster Row, London, for other of his endeavors, and that, while an inquiry has exonerated him of the charge of knowingly entering into a transaction with a notorious felon, said printer has been constrained from making further copies of said work, pending resolution of those matters.”
Redmagne said nothing.
“A final communication for the prisoners,” said Twycross, who permitted himself a quick smile, “and perhaps one more welcome to them. The Attorney-General has apprised this court that the Crown would be disposed to be satisfied with the penalties handed the prisoners today on the matters of the chance-medley death of Geoffrey Hockaday, son of the late Marquis of Epping, at the hands of John Smith, in March of 1733, on the occasion of a rout at the late Marquis’s residence in London, and of the murder in duel of Warren Pumphrett, by Osbert Augustus Magnus Skelly, in June of 1728, at the prisoner’s former residence in London. There are ample surviving witnesses to both acts, adumbrated by the prisoners’ state of pro confesso after the expiration of the recently published proclamations of their numerous subpoenas in the London Gazette, at the Royal Exchange, and in the parishes of the prisoners’ last legal addresses. The Attorney-General avers, and this court agrees, that a trial of the prisoners on these old charges with the same likely convictions would add a redundant expense to the Crown to no avail, as the prisoners can only be punished once.”
Redmagne glanced at Skelly beside him, then spoke again. “Are we to be presumed guilty without benefit of trial? Is this another form of your ex officio stigma? I did not do murder, and my esteemed colleague and dearest friend here was defending his home against the rapacious machinations of a Crown carbuncle!”
Twycross shrugged in pointed indifference. “When the executions have been accomplished, the prisoners’ bodies shall be taken down and put in irons, and the sheriff will remove them to Clowance Castle, a ruin some miles south of the site of this assize, where he will cause them to be suspended from the prominence overlooking the Channel known as Tragedy Point, and will establish a guard to ensure that the prisoners’ remains are not removed by relatives or sympathizers. The remains will be so displayed until such time as the civil authorities are satisfied that others tempted to emulate the prisoners’ lives and crimes are discouraged.” Twycross sighed and put aside his sheaf of papers. He removed his spectacles and looked directly at the prisoners. “Have the prisoners anything to say in answer to the court’s findings?”
Skelly shook his head. “I am found guilty by laws which wish me to seem guilty, milord, but by my immortal soul I am guilty of nothing. That is all I have to say.”
Redmagne stood his tallest and said, “You have turned justice to wormwood here, sir, and brought righteousness to the ground!” He paused to look the at Twycross, at Treverlyn, and at the jurors. “You trample on the poor, and take from them levies of grain to build yourselves houses of hewn stone and to plant yourselves pleasant vineyards — ”
Twycross sat back as though he had been punched in the chest, his mouth pursed in shock. The jurors and spectators gasped. In the gallery, a parson turned to his wife and whispered, “He’s twisting Amos, the sacred words of the prophet! What better proof of his reprobation!”
“What better proof, indeed!” muttered Edgecombe, who overheard the remark.
“— I know how great have been your sins here, in this room — you who afflict the righteous, who take a bribe! I have never kept prudent silence. This is an evil time, I have always said, and I say so again!”
Twycross leaned forward over his papers. “Your blasphemy suits you, sir!” he said. “Bailiff, remove these creatures!”
Chapter 28: The Conquering Hero
ON FRIDAY EVENING AFTER THE TRIAL, HUMPHREY GRYNSMITH POSTED a schedule of the week’s hangings on the door of his quarters, which was a block away from the prison. Then he went to the office of the weekly Cornish Gazette and gave a clerk a copy of the schedule, which appeared in the paper the next morning on the first page. That page reprinted details of the fight at Marvel, and of Redmagne’s attempted rescue in Gwynnford of another prisoner, whose name was not revealed.
The hangings would begin at eleven o’clock Monday morning. In addition to Skelly, Redmagne and Leith, three other men and a woman were scheduled for the rope. One of the men had murdered his uncle in an argument over the possession of a horse. The other two had broken into the customs house and taken a quarter ton of East India tea. The woman was guilty of making lace and calling it “Irish”; imported Irish lace was taxed as heavily as were tea and liquor, and she had been selling her product for a mark-down price per yard only a little less than if it had been sold with the tax. The court not only found her guilty of fraud, but felt that she had cheated the Crown.
Under the column heading of “Guests of the Gallows” were reported the lives and crimes of the condemned. This column continued on page two, which it shared with items of Cornish and local interest. Page three featured news from the Continent and the colonies; page four carried shipping news, commodities prices, and advertisements.
At the end of the “Guests” column was a short, special item on Tragedy Point. It was so christened years ago when an alderman’s daughter and the son of a local baron, whose marriage banns had just been published in the Gazette, drowned when their rowboat was swept against the rocks at its base. This was not news to Falmouth residents; the editor included it for the benefit of those coming to town from afar to witness the executions.
Two wo
men arrived in Falmouth the evening before the scheduled executions. One had traveled by coach from London to Plymouth, and from there to Falmouth as a fare on a packet. The other, after a journey on a farmer’s produce cart, boarded the packet in Fowey. They did not know each other, and did not exchange words on the boat trip. One was dressed in her Sunday clothes; the other wore a lady’s traveling suit.
When the packet docked at the quay, both made their way through the dark streets to Falmouth Prison. The courthouse and prison were by now guarded by a cordon of dragoons, for the sheriff was concerned that some dramatic rescue of the convicted smugglers might be tried. In the prison office, each woman asked to see a prisoner. One was admitted to see her husband, as was her right. The other, claiming to be the fiancée of her man, was denied the privilege, and, in fact, told that he was not permitted visitors except immediate family. “Then would the prison chaplain agree to marry us?” asked the woman. No, she was told; the prison ordinary would sooner venture to baptize the Devil than to breathe the same air as the prisoner in question. The woman offered the jailer money, all that she had left. It was refused. “I’m sorry, milady,” he said, “but it’s a Crown matter. You’ll have to settle for seeing him tomorrow, in the square.” “Would you be kind enough to tell him that I am here?” asked the woman. The jailer relented and asked, “What name is it, milady?” “Millicent Morley.” “All right, I’ll tell him.”
Millicent Morley left the prison and wandered the chilly streets until she found a great house with a sheltering portico. Here she sat down and, leaning against a granite pillar, quietly cried herself to sleep. She had been given the money to travel by her mistress, Madeline McRae, a French Huguenot. Her mistress had read Hyperborea, and found her governess reading it, and forced the story of her encounter and subsequent trysts with the author from her. She was pleased to learn that her employee had such a gallant as a lover; the English could otherwise be so common in their amours. She had even once espied the two together, entering a London coffeehouse. She approved of the man. She and her governess kept these things from Ian McRae, who, though a lukewarm Presbyterian, would not have approved, and in all likelihood would have dismissed Miss Morley, if he had learned. Madeline McRae invented a story about a sick relative to explain the governess’s absence. Miss Morley was expected back in London in three days.