Potato Factory

by Bryce Courtenay

  Sparrer was led out of the gallery, where the police constable cuffed him behind the ear before roughly throwing him out onto the street on his arse, though the other members of the Methodist Academy of Light Fingers were permitted to remain.

  Sparrer had barely landed when he felt a strong hand grab him by the collar and lift him to his feet. All he could see was the man’s waistcoat and fob chain as he frantically struggled to free himself.

  ‘Steady on, lad, I mean you no harm,’ a calm voice directly above him announced.

  ‘Lemme go!’ Sparrer yelled.

  To his surprise the hand holding him released its grip. ‘That was a brave thing you did in there,’ the voice added.

  Sparrer was about to run but then recognised the man as someone who had been seated near him in court. Sparrer dusted his coat and the seat of his pants. ‘Stupid, more like!’

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’ the man asked.

  ‘I ain’t done nuffink, mister,’ Sparrer whined.

  ‘On the contrary, you may have saved a man from the gallows.’

  ‘You a detective then?’ Sparrer asked, still suspicious of the stranger.

  ‘No, no, a reporter.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Charles Dickens. I thought I might do a small piece on you in the paper.’

  ‘Blimey! In a newspaper?’ Sparrer wiped his hand on his greasy lapel before taking the reporter’s hand. ‘Pleased to meetcha, Mr Dickens.’

  ‘Well yes, likewise lad. What you did took real gumption. Would you like to be in the newspaper?’

  ‘No thanks. Ikey says incognito be best, you don’t want no name in the papers.’

  ‘Incognito eh, that’s a big word. Do you know Ikey Solomon?’

  Sparrer squinted up at the reporter. ‘Maybe I does and maybe I doesn’t.’ His confidence restored, he now stood with one foot placed on the boot cap of the other and with both his hands jammed into the pockets of his coat.

  Charles Dickens took out his purse and offered a shilling to Sparrer.

  Sparrer sniffed. ‘Bloody ‘ell, fer a shillin’ I never seen ‘im afore in me life, mister!’

  Charles Dickens smiled and dropped the shilling back in his purse.

  ‘Fer a shillin’ ya gets me name,’ Sparrer added quickly, realising he’d overplayed his hand.

  ‘Your name? Is that all?’ Charles Dickens laughed.

  ‘For the newspaper! Ya can put me name in yer newspaper.’

  The reporter took the shilling out of his purse again and handed it to Sparrer Fart. ‘What’s your name then, lad?’

  Sparrer thought desperately. When he performed well at the Academy of Light Fingers Ikey would turn to the other lads and say, ‘Look at Sparrer, a veritable dodger, nimble as a ferret!’ Then he would pat him on the head and say, ‘Well done, dodger, a most artful dodgin’ performance, my dear!’

  ‘They calls me the Artful Dodger,’ Sparrer replied.

  ‘And you know Ikey Solomon, Mr Artful Dodger?’

  ‘That’s fer me to know and you to find out,’ Sparrer said cheekily, the shilling now safely deposited in his pocket.

  Charles Dickens sighed. ‘And how much will it take to find out?’

  ‘It be a long and fascinatin’ story what can’t be told straight orf, it’ll cost ya a daffy and a sov.’

  ‘I’m not sure I have a sovereign on me.’ Dickens reached again into his coat for his purse.

  ‘What’s the time then?’ Sparrer said, pointing to the reporter’s waistcoat.

  With his free hand the reporter reached down to his fob chain and then more frenetically patted the lower part of his waistcoat.

  ‘This yers then, mister?’ Sparrer asked. The hint of a smile played on his pinched little face as he held up a gold hunter by its chain. ‘Worth a lot more than a gold sov, now, don’t ya think?’

  ‘How the devil!’ Dickens expostulated.

  ‘Gotta be careful who ya picks up when they’s fallen down on the pavement, mister. Grab a boy by ‘is collar and ‘e’s got both ‘ands free, ain’t ‘e now?’

  Charles Dickens grinned sheepishly as Sparrer returned his watch to him. ‘A daffy and a sovereign it is then. I do hope it’s a good story, Mr Artful Dodger.’

  ‘Best ya ever ‘eard, mister,’ Sparrer Fart shot back as he dodged into the oncoming traffic in Newgate Street to cross to a tavern on the far side.

  Meanwhile in the New Court of the Old Bailey, Mr Phillips addressed the judge on the matter of Sergeant George Smith’s missing fingernail.

  ‘Your Honour, I request that the witness box be searched for a fingernail belonging to the witness.’

  There was much laughter from the gallery at this notion, for most of the public had not understood the meaning of Sparrer’s shouted accusation.

  Sir Reginald rose quickly to his feet. ‘With the greatest respect, your honour, the defence is both confused and confusing?’ He glared at Mr Phillips. ‘My learned colleague had first requested that the witness accept a new name, that of “The Reamer” and then asks that Mr Smith thrust his forefinger in the air. A most curious request to say the least! But then, when he perceives it to be a perfectly normal finger with a perfectly normal fingernail upon it, he demands that we all go on our hands and knees and look for a missing and imaginary finger part!’

  There was a roar of laughter from the court and this time the judge threatened to remove all from the public gallery if the misbehaviour continued. Then he looked impatiently at Mr Phillips.

  ‘Is that not substantially correct, Mr Phillips? Or do you have some motive which is beyond us in this court? Already you try my patience to a most precipitous point.’

  ‘Your honour, it will take but a moment. I crave your indulgence. What I hope to find is of the greatest significance to this case. It is my intention to show that the word of Senior Constable George Smith is not to be relied upon.’

  The judge looked stern. ‘I have already cautioned you against this sort of imputation and warn you that you will be charged before the bench with misconduct if you do not satisfactorily resolve the accusation you are making against Mr Smith. You may search the witness box with an officer of this court in attendance.’

  Ikey’s barrister leaned over and spoke quietly to his instructing solicitor who, accompanied by a constable, entered the witness box. It took only a moment for the police officer to find the torn part of a fingernail which had fallen to the floor at the feet of George Smith. The piece of nail was filed to a point and appeared to be almost an inch and a half long. He handed it to the solicitor, who then took it across to the clerk of the court.

  ‘Your honour, I suggest that the portion of fingernail which I now submit as evidence can be shown to have been formerly attached to the forefinger of the witness. I have several witnesses, including my client, who are willing to testify that the offending forefinger, with nail attached, was used for the purposes of searching the back passage of prisoners for contraband. It was intended that this action of reaming would render grievous bodily harm to the victims of this odious search. It is for this reason that the witness has been christened “The Reamer”!’

  ‘I object, your honour. This matter of nicknames has nothing whatsoever to do with the case at hand. I refer to my learned colleague’s original question which, if I recall correctly, was how the notes were discovered on the person of the accused!’

  ‘Your objection is sustained, Sir Reginald,’ the judge said and turned to the jury. ‘You will ignore the imputation made by Mr Phillips as to the usage of the fingernail, and reference to it will be struck from the record.’ He looked at Ikey’s barrister. ‘You will restrict yourself to asking direct questions, Mr Phillips. I shall not warn you again!’

  ‘Yes, thank you, your honour, you are most gracious,’ Mr Phillips said, appearing not the least chastened by the judge’s warning. ‘Mr Smith, can you tell this court whether the man you searched, known as Ikey Solomon, is in this court?’

  The senior constable nodded and pointed to Ikey.
‘That be him, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. And you conducted a thorough. . .er. . .body search upon this person?’ There was a roar of laughter in the court and the judge banged his gavel again.

  ‘It were the normal search, sir, for what we calls routine contraband.’

  ‘Where did you find the two counterfeit notes? Can you tell me precisely their location, Mr Smith?’

  ‘They were in the lining o’ the coat, sir.’

  ‘In the lining? In the lining of whose coat?’

  ‘The accused, sir, he wore a coat on the night ‘e were brought in.’

  ‘An expensive coat? Sewn into the lining?’

  ‘Yes, sir it were a good coat but no, not sewn, there were a tear in it. The notes were pushed down the tear into the lining, like.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little obvious, constable? Would you concede that a large tear which had not been repaired on an expensive coat was a rather too obvious place to hide the notes?’

  ‘That’s not for the likes o’ me to say, sir. That be where them notes were found and I did not say it were a large tear, sir,’ George Smith said tartly.

  Mr Phillips wheeled around and pointed directly at George Smith. ‘No, sir, with the greatest respect, I submit to you that the two five pound notes were planted!’ Mr Phillips turned towards the jury. ‘How very convenient to make a tear in his coat, the coat which the accused was forced to remove while he was undergoing a thorough body search! A tear into which, abracadabra, the two five pound notes suddenly appeared, politely stuffed within the lining of the coat to make the evidence your masters requested appear in the most convenient manner! Is this not a much more reasonable explanation of what happened, Mr Smith?’

  ‘No sir, it is not! The notes be found just like I said.’

  ‘Then you will demonstrate how you found these two notes please, Mr Smith.’ Ikey’s barrister turned to the clerk of the court. ‘We have asked that the accused’s coat be brought in evidence. Would you please identify it and hand it to the witness?’

  The clerk of the court stood up and turned to the judge. ‘Your honour, the coat in question was not taken in evidence from the prisoner at the time of his arrest.’

  The judge looked astonished and then addressed George Smith. ‘Mr Smith, did you not say that the counterfeit notes were found in the lining of the coat and that they had been so placed by means of a tear in the outer material?’

  ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘Am I to believe that the coat was then allowed to remain with the accused and was not confiscated as evidence?’

  George Smith looked decidedly sheepish. ‘We forgot, your honour, it were a cold night.’ Then he pointed at Ikey in the dock. ‘He were wearin’ it when he made his escape.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Smith, you may step down,’ Mr Phillips said.

  In his summary of the evidence the judge pointed out that the absence of the coat and the subsequent denial of the accused that a tear had ever existed in it constituted ‘reasonable doubt’ as to whether the banknotes had been placed in the lining by the accused or by the actions of some other person or persons unknown. Furthermore, without the evidence of the two notes there appeared to be nothing which linked Ikey with the crime of forgery. The etched plate and printing press found in the basement premises proved nothing beyond the fact that Ikey was the landlord and the forger Abraham Van Esselyn his tenant. He noted that all the receipts for the printing press and subsequent forgery materials were in the name or pseudonym of Abraham Van Esselyn whom, he reminded the jury, had been previously tried and found guilty. Finally, there existed not a shred of evidence to show how Ikey might have procured the Treasury paper on which the forged notes were printed.

  The jury took less than an hour to dismiss the charges of forgery against Ikey and the judge pronounced him not guilty for lack of evidence. Ikey’s coat of many pockets had saved his life.

  Only two more charges remained, those involving the purchase of goods known to have been stolen, and both were capital offences. Alas, with these Ikey’s luck finally ran out and he was found guilty on both charges. The hangman had secured his man at last. But the judge did not place the black hood upon his head; instead he sentenced Ikey to fourteen years’ transportation. This amelioration of Ikey’s sentence may well have come about to prove to the barrister that the judge was independent of the pressure which might be placed upon him by those fronting the bench, though to this sentence of transportation was added the clause that Ikey was not permitted to return to England after he had served out his time in Van Diemen’s Land.

  But the redoubtable Mr Phillips had not entirely given up. Ikey’s barrister instituted several legal quibbles on his client’s behalf, the majority of which concerned the disposition of stolen property, and challenged the various Acts of Parliament involved in Ikey’s conviction. This legal nitpicking served the purpose of postponing Ikey’s transportation for nearly a year, though during this period Ikey was not, as was the usual custom, sent to a hulk on the Thames estuary but remained under close guard in Newgate.

  The final outcome of this delay was that Ikey’s prison expenses for food and drink and other luxuries, namely The Times and reading matter on a variety of subjects, coupled with the exorbitant fees Mr Phillips imposed for his services, finally exhausted the funds Ikey had brought with him from Van Diemen’s Land. For the first time since he had been a young flash-man, Ikey had not a penny to his name.

  On the 31st of May 1831, Ikey Solomon, his spirit broken and his body in chains, set sail for Van Diemen’s Land on the William Glen Anderson.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A large crowd gathered at Sullivan’s Cove to witness Ikey’s arrival on the 1st of November 1831, but Hannah was not among them. She thought of herself as very badly done by, and she blamed Ikey for necessitating her departure from the Newman household and for her present incarceration.

  In fact, she had been rather fortunate, for she was not sent to the Female Factory but to the Cotton Factory, this second institution being somewhat better in its treatment of prisoners. Hannah was employed as a seamstress to make prison garments. Thus she was able to avoid meeting Mary Abacus. But this did not prevent her from constantly speaking of Mary as the person who had seduced her husband, and brought about the present and calamitous destruction of her entire family. She vowed loudly and often that she would wreak revenge on Ikey’s erstwhile mistress, whatever the price.

  For Mary, Hannah’s existence on the island hardly mattered. She heard from time to time of Hannah’s threats, but she expected no less from Ikey’s wife and thought little of them. She was unaware that Hannah had a new and powerful reason for hating her, one which had nothing to do with their shared past. Hannah’s children - her ten-year-old son David, Ann, who had just turned eight, Sarah six, and Mark four - were placed in the Reverend Smedley’s orphanage. David, Ann and Sarah found themselves in Mary’s classroom where they felt as much loved by her as any of the other orphans. Hannah’s children, the apple of her eye, were under the direct influence of the woman she hated more than any other, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Mary delighted in her task as teacher. Although many of the children were undernourished and stunted in their growth and so proved difficult to teach, some were bright and eager. But there were none so willing to learn as Ann, and none so naturally intelligent as her brother David. Both had received some schooling in England and so were much ahead of the other pupils, and Mary used them to instruct the younger children while, at the same time, giving them her special attention.

  From the outset David was fascinated by Mary’s abacus and begged to be allowed to use it. He had proved himself clever with numbers and could do much of the arithmetic Mary taught him mentally, not bothering with the slate on his lap. Ann, on the other hand, while competent with numbers, begged to be allowed to read. Finding books for an eight-year-old child was not an easy matter and the Reverend Thomas Smedley, still undecided about the merits of teach
ing the children God had intended to be the drones in the hives of life, did nothing to help the situation in the school.

  Saving souls was clearly the major work of God and, he told himself, was as freely available to the poor as it was to the rich, to the clever as well as the stupid. In his infinite wisdom God made his salvation unstintingly available to all. But at this point God’s universal design came to a halt. The qualities He gave to humans were dispensed, according to the needs of English society, which Smedley naturally accepted as being the closest to the divine intention.

  To some God gave wisdom, for the wise are needed in some small proportion. Some He made clever, for these too are a necessary ingredient in the proportions of a just society. Others are possessed of natural skills to furnish the whole with artisans, teachers, clerks and shopkeepers, but most He made to be hewers of wood and drawers of water. They were the necessary human clay and had been allotted the largest and lowest space in the human family. By tampering with God’s natural ordination Mary was attempting to change the balance of nature, and no good could possibly come of it. The saving of minds, Thomas Smedley concluded, was more likely to be the work of Satan than of a benign and loving God. The example he most often used to support his argument was that of the noble savage.

  Mary took the midday meal with the preacher and his spinster sister. Elspeth, a quiet soul, was not able to counter her brother’s aggressive nature and mostly kept her silence at the table. She was an excellent cook and took some care to see that Mary was well fed, always treating her with the utmost politeness though without venturing beyond the daily pleasantries.

  Smedley more than made up for his sister’s reticence. He possessed a viewpoint on all subjects except those which might interest a woman, and his opinions could almost certainly be counted upon to be of a negative persuasion. He used the dinner table as he might have done a pulpit, expounding on any subject he felt inclined to embrace without expecting argument or rebuttal from the two women who shared it with him.