‘I have heard both those names,’ Lancer confirmed, as he became aware of an under-warden, a sly man by the name of Moses Heron, covertly eyeing them.
Heron was mistrusted by the convicts and gaolers alike. It was well known he had betrayed many by going to the governor of the gaol and repeating what he had been told in confidence or half overheard.
‘I am certain that you have, Joby, as we have a mutual friend.’
‘Buckingham Joe.’ Memory fragments clicked together in Lancer’s mind as he recalled the highwayman having once mentioned the Kentish Hero. ‘How could you have recognized me?’
‘It wasn’t difficult. Buckingham Joe emphasized that when describing you,’ Longley replied, pointing to Lancer’s yellow hair. ‘He spoke highly of you.’
That is more than he did of you, Lancer thought, as he recalled that Buckingham Joe hadn’t a good word to say about this disreputable fellow. He noticed that the under-warden had inconspicuously moved closer to them.
‘We got on pretty well,’ Lancer said.
‘Everyone likes Thomas. That’s his real name – Thomas Oliver,’ Longley informed Lancer. ‘Me and him were good together. I made more gilt along the road when I was with Thomas than I ever did. We would be wealthy men today had we stayed together. I’d like to catch up with him when I get out of here. When did you see him last?’
Now confident that Longley, probably under the directions of Moses Heron, was pumping him for information about Buckingham Joe, Lancer gave a vague answer. ‘It must have been several months ago, I don’t really remember.’
‘Where would that have been?’ Longley enquired, the mask of friendliness he had worn until then noticeably slipping.
‘If I remember rightly it was at Haldon Races,’ Lancer lied deliberately. Speaking from the side of his mouth, he added a warning, ‘Moses Heron is circling us.’
With an almost imperceptible nod, pretending to appreciate the caution, Longley replied sotto voce. ‘We will talk later.’
I will make sure that we won’t, Lancer made a silent promise to himself.
Seven
LANCER FACED THREE magistrates when he arrived in court, none of the three being the Justice of the Peace named Merrifield before whom he had appeared on arrival at Dorchester. He was placed in the dock standing between two uniformed constables as the clerk of the court read out the charge in a monotone. Perhaps because he wasn’t really paying attention, the words droning around the courtroom seemed nothing to do with Lancer.
‘Is Mr Euart Owens in court?’ the chief magistrate asked officiously but unnecessarily, as it was obvious that only the policemen, the court officials and Lancer were present.
The police sergeant got to his feet to reply to the magistrate. ‘No, sir. Constables Githam and Price obtained a statement from Mr Owens that together with the overwhelming evidence produced by the said two officers, establishes a clear-cut case against the accused.’
‘Is there anything you wish to say?’ the magistrate asked Lancer.
‘There is nothing for me to say other than I did not steal the calf.’
‘Yers,’ the magistrate murmured the word in a drawn-out manner that signalled his utter disbelief.
Following this, the three magistrates took time to study the papers in front of them. While they were engrossed in that examination, Sergeant Foster cautiously did an animated display for Lancer by pretending to have a noose put over his own head and pulling it tight. When he had finished the charade he pointed at Lancer to indicate that hanging would be his fate. Aware that the police sergeant was nought but a cowardly bully, Lancer stared hard at his would-be tormentor until the imbecilic grin faded from the sergeant’s face and embarrassment made him eventually turn away.
The three magistrates began discussing the case among themselves. Lancer waited, totally unconcerned as to what the verdict might be. Whatever it was it would never amount to the punishment that guilt over Nancy Owens’ death was inflicting on him.
‘We have thoroughly considered every aspect of your case,’ the chief magistrate finally announced gravely. ‘We are appalled by the callous act of theft that you committed against a poor farmer in these difficult times when so many are struggling so hard to make ends meet. There is no facet of your behaviour that would in any way allow us to consider leniency—’
The magistrate broke off as the colleague on his right leaned close to him to say something sotto voce. A lengthy inaudible conversation ensued in which the third magistrate joined.
Lancer was jolted out of his reverie by the very real possibility that he would be sentenced to transportation to Australia. After many years in the army, he saw a convict colony as something similar: the kind of life he didn’t want to return to. For the first time since he had been taken back to Owens’ farm by the police, Nancy was not on his mind. He prepared himself for the worst as the conversation between the magistrates came to an end.
A belch, that was made more noticeable by his attempt at stifling it, rumbled out of the fat-lipped mouth of the chief magistrate as he went to speak. He waited for a second, less explosive escape of stomach gas, and then addressed Lancer. ‘I have been reminded that we have recently considered quite a number of cases very similar to yours. That similarity suggests, no, more than suggests mark you, that farmers giving employees an animal in lieu of wages may be a ploy of some kind. Therefore, we have decided to be compassionate in imposing a sentence on you. You will be taken from here back to Dorchester Gaol to await transportation….’
This hit Lancer like a hard punch to his stomach. He tried but failed to convince himself that whatever the magistrates’ decision he could accept it with an uncaring shrug. Strong in the face of enemy guns, heroic in hand-to-hand combat, he discovered that his nerves were getting the better of him in a fetid smelling rural court. He managed to concentrate on what the magistrate was saying.
‘… to Devon County Gaol, Exeter, where you will be imprisoned for three months.’
Relief flooded through Lancer, who had suspected that the magistrate had used phraseology and a deliberate pause to cause him anxiety. For the first time in weeks he felt good but this feeling collapsed as his escort snapped handcuffs back on him. Nancy Owens had swiftly returned to continue her haunting of him.
‘At the risk of being rejected, I think that we have reached the point where a decision has to be made, Sarai,’ a petulant Emil Edelcantz said, as he leaned forward to pat the neck of his horse.
Of all the grand scenery in the area this was Sarai’s favourite spot. She made no reply, not wanting yet another of his persistent proposals to spoil what was for her ever a divine experience.
They had left the seashore where they had enjoyed an exhilarating gallop along the edge of waves breaking gently on the sand. They had climbed a hill that was of different soil, into a new and pleasantly refreshing air, riding up into a different world. The atmosphere had continued to lighten and the soil grew pale with chalk, trees were few and huddled together. Reining up, they now sat side by side, physically close but widely separated by their incompatible inner selves.
The curve of downs below them was a drunken, absurd confusion of small red and yellow flowers and the fluttering white and golden wings of butterflies. There were a few fluffy-white clouds in the sky, and an unnatural clearness that betokened a summer shower.
An unearthly stillness raised Sarai into a higher consciousness. She felt as if she were passing through time as she looked with reverence down a wooded slope to where the river rushed and foamed. A late afternoon sun pictured roaring flames on the water far below. She knew that wherever she may go, whatever may happen in life, this scene would forever be a part of her. There was soil here on which no man had ever set foot. The downs held no water so no one had ever constructed a building or even pitched a tent. The Roman legions may have marched through here, a soldier or two leaving the column to relieve themselves behind a bush or tree, but no one stayed to love, or hate, or set up house, or gos
sip with the neighbours. These downs were free of the leftover human emotion that taints so many places, often to an ominous degree.
Her reverie was ended abruptly by the sound of Emil Edelcantz moving his horse away. Surmising that he was peeved by her lack of response to his proposal, she watched him ride slowly down the hill on the palomino horse that was his favourite while staying at Adamslee House. Not yet free from the effects of her communion with the mysterious, he seemed to be a legendary figure of her imagination. Sad to abandon her fantasyland to re-enter her increasingly unhappy world, she reined her horse about and followed him.
When she reached the stables he had already dismounted and stood waiting for her, a sulky expression on his face, unspeaking. Little Ben Morley, her groom was there to take the reins of her horse. Coming lithely down from the saddle, she strode towards Emil with a confidence that she didn’t feel.
On the way down the hill, she had appraised her present situation. Without Gray Sawtell as a distraction, life had become boring. In truth, referring to him as a distraction was inaccurate. Since his arrest she had analysed her feelings for the tough smuggler, and realized that she loved him. But the present day savage machinery of law and order meant that soon Gray Sawtell would be no more. Emil Edelcantz would make a poor substitute for a real man like Sawtell, but she had no other option. Living alone for most of the year on an isolated cliff top had lost the attraction it had once held for her. To continue in that way of life would probably see her finish up as mad as Oliver Adams, her arsonist ancestor.
‘Please forgive me, Emil,’ she pleaded. ‘I must have appeared to be most rude when we were on the hill. My only excuse is the effect that the view from up there always has on me.’
‘There is nothing for you to apologize for, Sarai, I understand perfectly what that delightful view means to you,’ he replied reassuringly, although she sensed an underlying tone of resentment in his voice.
Feigning a deep interest in him, she moved closer. Looking puzzled, he took a half-step backwards. Sarai could understand why. Perhaps more than anyone he knew her well enough to doubt anything she might say. But she could put on a good act when it was in her interest to do so.
‘You left before I could respond to what you said to me on the hill, Emil,’ she told him, placing a hand lightly on his arm.
Though there was an expression of excitement on his delicate aristocratic face there was also fear that she could be about to mock him, not for the first time. Struggling to control himself, he remarked, ‘Long practice permitted me to predict your answer, Sarai.’
‘You knew that I was going to agree to marry you?’ she enquired in fake amazement.
‘You mean…?’ he began, before his voice let him down.
‘I am serious, my dear Emil,’ she assured him convincingly.
‘I give you my word that you will never regret this moment, Sarai,’ he promised, as he took her into his arms.
Face pressed against his jacket, fighting back tears because it wasn’t Gray Sawtell holding her, she was already filled with the regret he promised she would never know.
In late evening outside Dorchester Gaol, Constables Githam and Price kept Lancer close between them as the three of them climbed up on the box of the Traveller coach that would take him to Exeter.
As they travelled through a night that was chilly for the time of year, Lancer realized how much imprisonment had weakened him. Having spent countless nights on battlefields in arctic weather, he now found himself shivering violently while riding on top of a coach during a summer night in England.
Noticing his discomfort, the coachman remarked, ‘It looks to me as if you are suffering, my friend.’
Githam merely glanced at Lancer uninterestedly but Price expressed genuine concern. ‘I am sorry that we haven’t a greatcoat to lend you, Lancer.’
‘Don’t worry, Constable, I’ll survive,’ Lancer replied with difficulty, through chattering teeth.
‘You should get the doctor to take a look at you when we get to the gaol,’ Price advised.
After that brief exchange there was no further conversation between the four people up on the box. It seemed an eternity to Lancer before they reached the outskirts of Exeter. Then they were passing the imposing entrance to Exeter Castle that in the moonlight framed a section of the Assize Courthouse. This was a fitting introduction to the Devon County Gaol that loomed up as a dark silhouette that intensified the grimness of the huge building.
As they pulled into the yard a side door opened and two warders came out ready to relieve the constables of their prisoner. Price reached out a hand to assist Lancer down from the box. But he managed it alone. Having reached the end of the journey he had recovered significantly, even though he found the prospect of another three months in prison daunting.
‘Lionel and me are close to starvation now, so I absolutely dread the thought of having a third mouth to feed,’ Arabella lamented, her unhappiness exacerbated by shame on discovering three weeks after her marriage that she was pregnant.
Chin dropping to his chest, Dr Rupert Mawby knew the probable consequences of agreeing with a distraught Arabella Heelan. But the alternative was to lie, to offer hope where there was no hope. Procreation in all animals other than man was a beautifully balanced system. When circumstances were adverse in the jungle, or on the prairie, all the wild creatures, the elephant, the lion, the buffalo or the coyote instinctively limited breeding until nature righted the deficiency. Not so man, the intelligent being. When bogged down in poverty and not knowing which way to turn, men and women went against all logic by speeding up their rate of reproduction. Other than London’s slums, there was no more depressing an example of this defect in nature than Adamslee.
Forced into cowardice by the situation, Mawby passed the buck by saying, ‘I will ensure that you get the best medical care throughout your term, Arabella. But you also need the kind of support that a physician is incapable of providing. With your permission I will ask the Reverend Worther to call on you.’
‘But I have sinned, Doctor. My child was conceived out of wedlock.’
‘You have been through a traumatic time of late, Arabella. I am certain that Reverend Worther will grant you forgiveness, just as Jesus was ready to forgive. You must not bear this alone. You must make sure that Lionel is here with you when the Reverend Worther calls,’ Mawby advised. ‘You must have his support.’
Tears welled up fast in Arabella’s eyes and spilled out to run down her cheeks. She attempted to excuse her husband as she said. ‘Lionel doesn’t say much these days. He is working all hours but brings home very little money. I try to talk to him about our financial difficulties, but he refuses to listen.’
‘He must face up to his responsibilities, Arabella.’
‘I know that, Doctor, but he just refuses to do so.’
‘What about the baby?’ Mawby probed. ‘How did he respond when you informed him that you were pregnant?’
‘He didn’t say anything …’ Arabella began, but a sudden onset of sobbing stopped her. Mawby slipped a comforting arm around her thin shoulders, and she managed to continue haltingly. ‘He has refused to discuss it ever since. Every time I mention the baby he walks away from me.’
‘I’ll ask Reverend Worther to speak to you both,’ a defeated Dr Mawby lamely murmured.
Still dispirited by the Nancy Owens tragedy, even after eight weeks had gone by, Lancer barely noticed that he had been moved from Dorchester Gaol to the Devon County Gaol. Yet he did show a spark of interest when on a landing one night just prior to lock-up time, he met the burly Abe Wilson, a former member of Sawtell’s smuggling crew.
Pleased to see Lancer and keen to bring him up to date on the Adamslee criminals, Wilson began with his own misfortune. ‘I could handle the smuggling lark right enough, but when Gray Sawtell got tooked and things were real hard, I tried highway robbery. I weren’t much good at it though. I seed this crusty-looking bloke coming along in a one-horse carriage and chanced my
luck. It was dead easy. I bashed him over the head and tooked his fat wallet. I’d just got to the nearest pub and ordered a drink but didn’t have time to take a bloody sip before this police sergeant and constable walked in and lifted me.’
‘Now you’re awaiting trial,’ Lancer guessed, only slightly interested.
‘Naw, that’s all over, Joby. All I’m waiting for now is transportation to Australia.’
‘I am sorry to learn that, Abe.’
Wilson shrugged. ‘It could be worse. There’s twenty-eight poor souls in here waiting to meet the hangman. Gray Sawtell and Willie Brickell will be joining them afore long. Their trial is due to happen any day now.’
‘That boy had nothing to do with the death of John Nichol, I am sure of that,’ Lancer declared, saddened by the thought of another young life being snatched away.
‘You are right there, Joby. Neither did Gray Sawtell.’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,’ Lancer said, shaking his head. ‘If not Sawtell, who else could have done it?’
‘You don’t know what really happened, Joby.’
‘Then you tell me,’ Lancer ordered urgently as he saw a warder heading in their direction.
Also noticing the warder, Wilson spoke rapidly. ‘It was that Heelan kid, Lionel. He’s got a wicked temper. For the first time in his life he had been earning good money, and Nichol had put an end to that by breaking up the smuggling.’
‘Why doesn’t Sawtell speak up?’
‘He intends to make sure Willie Brickell is cleared when he gets to court,’ Wilson said.
‘But Sawtell should be freed as well if he’s innocent.’
Shaking his head sadly, Wilson presumed, ‘That would mean young Heelan being arrested.’
‘That’s what should happen,’ Lancer stressed. ‘Otherwise Sawtell could be hanged.’
‘It is certain that he will be, Joby, but he’s determined not to point a finger at Lionel Heelan.’
The Toll of the Sea Page 12