The Captain's Girl

by Nicola Pryce

  True North

  Chapter Forty-six

  Bodmin court

  Wednesday 27th November 1793, 12:30 p.m.

  I could hardly breathe. We had no space, everyone pushing and elbowing each other. Without Hannah I would have been squashed, even trampled underfoot, but she knew exactly where she was going and how we would get there. ‘Quick…push past him…I’m sorry, sir, but if ye’d give me some room…’ She flashed her smile and we squeezed past. Only the front seats would do. We were right at the top of the hall, looking down with an almost perfect view.

  ‘That was terrible…honestly, what a free-for-all.’

  ‘We’re here now and don’t ye go anywhere. Just stand ye ground.’ She smiled, lifting her basket onto her lap. ‘We’ve whortleberry cake if we’re hungry and I’ve cider…and two apples.’

  ‘And the cherries on your bonnet! You’d better be careful – they’re so realistic, someone may eat them!’

  ‘Can’t thank ye enough for my bonnet. Ye like it, don’t ye?’ She shook her head, the cherries and ribbons fluttering freely. ‘I’m that glad it stayed on. That was a terrible crush.’

  I had never been so crammed in before, crushed against greasy jackets smelling of offal and pig fat; the reek of tobacco, the stink of sweat; a great seething mass of unwashed bodies pressing together. Everyone was eating, drinking and shouting. The noise was deafening, the heat almost too much to bear. The clock on the wall showed one o’clock. Another whole hour before it started.

  ‘I knew ’twas best to get here early. Are ye alright?’ She lifted the lace just high enough to see my eyes. ‘Ye don’t look very well.’ She reached into her bag. ‘I don’t suppose ye’ve ever been in a crowd like this before. Here, smell this lavender, I’ve brought two bunches…an’ they’ll be lighting the herbs soon.’ She held the small posy to my nose and I breathed in its welcome fragrance.

  The ceiling stretched above us, vaulted with dark beams, a huge arched window to the east. It was the medieval friary church, now a vast hall with platforms and benches crammed against the sides. We had climbed wooden steps to reach our vantage point and large gaps yawned between the planks of the floor. The rail looked makeshift, anything but safe. Hannah seemed quite at home, waving across the sea of faces at people she recognised. Already she had the cake unwrapped. ‘Like some?’ she said, taking a large bite. ‘They’ve squeezed in a deal more seats but I like it best here – ye get a better view. That’s where the judge sits and that’s the prosecution…and that’s the witness stand.’

  ‘You seem to know an awful lot – do you often come to watch?’

  ‘As often as we can – Adam an’ I come together. He wants to be a doctor, not a lawyer but he likes to know what’s going on. I watch the gentry.’ She pointed to the front benches and I got a sudden glimpse of Mrs Pengelly. Poor lady, she looked so frightened.

  A large gong sounded. Ten minutes to two. The front seats were already taken, only the jurymen’s benches and the seats for the prosecution remained empty. Hannah squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t mind me, I know ye’re one of them…look, they’re coming – that’s the jurymen…’tis about to start.’

  The crowd hushed and I watched the jurymen shuffle along the bench, settling down with an air of importance. One or two glanced up at the staring onlookers, most looked across at the empty dock, each one of them serious and unsmiling. A couple looked decidedly prosperous, a few with an air of authority. They were soberly dressed and I looked at Hannah. She was frowning. ‘They look like they’ve judged him already,’ she whispered.

  The clerk banged his staff. ‘Silence in the court. All rise for His Honour, Justice Sir Richard Goldsworthy. The court will now stand in silence.’

  Four men entered the court – Sir Richard Goldsworthy, in a long red robe and large white wig, another man in judicial robes and one wearing the black robes of a barrister. The fourth man was Father. I tried to rise, but my legs felt weak and I gripped the handrail in front of me. He was searching the crowd for a face. Phillip Randall was in the front row. Their eyes met and through my lace I saw the look that passed between them.

  I caught my breath in sudden realization. Father feared Philip Randall. He needed him, but he did not trust him. I had less time than I thought. Father was too astute to leave himself open to blackmail. If he had not already done so, he would soon make arrangements to have me moved to another madhouse. He would have me moved, again and again, each time, using different people, each time, with a new name.

  Sir Richard took his seat, spreading out his vermillion cloak in expectant silence.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  ‘Bring in the prisoner,’ shouted the clerk. There was jeering as everyone leant forward to watch James Polcarrow make his way across the court to the dock. He stood tall, erect, his clothes immaculate, but his face was drawn, his scowl deepening as he glared at Father. Sir Richard barely looked up, a mere cursory glance as he shuffled papers on the desk in front of him.

  The clerk unrolled his scroll:

  ‘James Polcarrow…you are indicted on the charge of High Treason. On the seventh day of November in the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and ninety three, you did wilfully, grievously, and with malice aforethought, prejudice the safety of the State by passing on, and receiving, information calculated to be injurious to your King and Country…and you did, wilfully, grievously and with malice aforethought, correspond with the enemy by receiving French spies onto your ship, with the express intent to bring them to the shores of your country and thus, you did, knowingly, and maliciously, endanger the life of the king. How do you plead?’

  My stomach was in knots. Sir James looked furious. He could barely bring himself to answer. ‘Not guilty.’

  ‘Honest, poor man looks that shaken. Are ye alright? Only ye look so pale.’

  I nodded. ‘It’s just the heat.’ But it was the sight of Father still making me so unwell. I gripped the rail as Sir Richard’s voice rose above the murmurs.

  ‘The prosecution will now begin. Mr Wallis, proceed, if you please.’

  Mr Wallis nodded. He was middle-aged, bespectacled, dressed in black, with barrister’s wig and crisply starched white bands at his neck. ‘Your Honour…’

  Matthew Reith’s voice soared across the courtroom. ‘If I may interject, Your Honour…’ Sir Richard looked up, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘My lord, we are not in the Dark Ages and I believe the justice in this court equal to, if not superior to any other court in the country. As such, I presumes all prisoners are considered innocent until they are proved guilty. I ask, therefore, that Sir James’ handcuffs be removed in accordance to the dignity we must afford an innocent man.’

  Stunned silence greeted his request, everyone staring at Sir Richard, who stared at Matthew through half-closed eyes. ‘Remove the prisoner’s handcuffs,’ he replied, nodding to the clerk. Matthew returned to his seat as Mr Wallis rose again from his.

  ‘Your Honour, members of the jury, this is no ordinary assize court. We’re not here to judge a man for theft, misdemeanour or even murder. We’re here to judge this man for the most heinous crime of all…treason. I will prove to you how this man, James Polcarrow, thinks nothing of endangering the life of his king and country. How he has maliciously, and knowingly, put each and every one of you, in the most gravest of danger. He is a traitor to his country…’

  ‘Objection, Your Honour.’ Matthew Reith rose to his feet.

  ‘Objection granted…’

  ‘I will prove to you that this man is a spy…A dangerous French spy who ferries other spies backwards and forwards to our Cornish shore, not twenty miles from this very building – not twenty miles from your wives and children.’ He held up both hands, quietening the sudden surge of outrage; men were hurling insults, waving their fists. James Polcarrow shook his head in silent disbelief.

  An innocent man, only there because of Father.

  ‘That poor man, it’s wicked what people shout…but Mr Reith’ll clear hi
m – he’ll find a way. Honest, ye should hear him, he’s that good.’

  ‘I call for Dr Obie.’ The name echoed down the corridor and a florid man came forward, dressed in sober clothes, black jacket, black breeches and a simple white cravat. ‘Take the stand, if you please, Dr Obie.’

  Dr Obie’s voice was loud, authoritative, swearing the oath with no prompting. He had clearly done this before. He looked confidently round the court, up to our gallery, his manner leaving no-one in any doubt he was trustworthy. ‘Dr Obie,’ began Mr Wallis, ‘you’re an eminent doctor, a member of the Royal Society of Physicians, no less?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘You live and work in Fosse where you have a large practice and you’re known for your excellent cures…as well as your tinctures and your well-known tonic for dropsy. You are a man of honour, I believe?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘And you had not quarrelled or “fallen foul” of the accused or any other people living in Polcarrow – and by that I mean his wife or Lady Polcarrow, his stepmother? I believe you brought her child into the world. Am I right?’

  ‘I did, sir. And there was no quarrel. I would have dropped everything had I been summoned.’

  ‘But you were not summoned, were you, Dr Opie? On the night of Thursday seventh November you were, what, ten minutes, fifteen minutes from the house and yet you were not called to help a man and his wife who suspected they were dying of mushroom poisoning?’

  ‘I was not, sir.’

  A gasp filled the room. Mr Wallis turned towards the crowd, lifting both eyebrows to encourage their incredulity. ‘Thank you, doctor. No more questions.’ He looked at Matthew who shook his head. ‘And no questions from the defence, it seems. Your testimony is greatly appreciated. You may go now.’ He flexed his hands in front of him and nodded to the clerk. ‘I call on Dr Trefusis.’

  Dr Trefusis was young, slim, tall and anxious, obviously unused to giving evidence. He kept his eyes on the floor, never once looking at Sir James. His voice was educated, firm, but clearly nervous. ‘Dr Trefusis, you are a young man. Forgive me if I suggest you are just starting your career and yet to make your name.’

  Dr Trefusis coughed. ‘Yes, sir, that is true, though I’ve extensive experience and I’m appointed physician to the new hospital. Age should not always be held against the young when starting a career.’

  ‘And you live and work in Truro?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Yet on the day we speak of…the seventh of November you were in Fosse?’

  Dr Trefusis’ voice faltered. ‘No, sir. I was in Truro. I was woken in the middle of the night and made as much haste as I could. I reached Polcarrow the next day.’

  Mr Wallis scratched his forehead, his eyebrows drawn tight with puzzlement. He put his hand up to quieten the whistles. ‘Dr Opie might have attended them within fifteen minutes and yet you arrived the next day? How do you account for that, Dr Trefusis?’ He looked to the jury. ‘I’ll tell you why. You were summoned because it was an elaborate hoax. You’re personally acquainted with Sir James and a friend of Mr Reith.’ His voice grew louder. ‘You were summoned because there were no patients to attend, were there? Empty beds…no one there. You were summoned because a man starting his career does what he’s told. Am I right?’

  ‘No, sir…I mean, yes, sir.’

  ‘It was a hoax,’ Mr Wallis shouted, the jeering so loud he could hardly be heard. ‘A hoax, because Sir James Polcarrow and his wife had other business to attend…other business that involved sneaking out of their house through the smugglers’ tunnel we all know exists, in order to board their ship to go to France – to pick up French spies. Tell me, yes or no, were Sir James and Lady Polcarrow ill from poisoning?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Yet you told everyone they were?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Were they even there? Did you see them at all?’

  ‘No, sir. They were not there.’

  ‘Thank you, no more questions.’ Mr Wallis sat down, flicking his coat-tails behind him. The jurymen were shaking their heads. If they looked grim before, they now looked thunderous.

  Matthew Reith rose to his feet. ‘Tell me, Dr Trefusis. Were you told, right from the start, that Sir James and Lady Polcarrow would not be there?’

  ‘I was, sir. I was asked to pretend they were dying…’

  There was complete silence, no-one moved. ‘And why was that?’

  ‘Sir James Polcarrow needed to get to Falmouth. He had heard Robert Roskelly had newly escaped from Bodmin and he believed him to be in Falmouth. He needed to find him.’

  ‘And you were prepared to go along with their plan?’

  Dr Trefusis looked straight at Sir James. ‘I was. I consider it my honour to serve Sir James. His generosity to our new hospital is unmatched by any other benefactor.’

  ‘Thank you, no further questions. You may step down.’

  Mr Wallis rose, his frown deepening. ‘Gentlemen, a good cover is needed for a good lie. If you’re going on a clandestine journey, is it not expedient to tell everyone you’re going to Falmouth? We’re dealing with a man of intelligence, not a common man – a man who knows how to cover his tracks, keep the law off his trail.’

  ‘I don’t like him one bit,’ whispered Hannah. ‘But why lie like that? Sir James should’ve just gone to Falmouth and no-one would be the wiser.’ She nodded at the jurymen. ‘They don’t like it, neither – not one bit.’

  ‘I call on Mr Josiah Troon,’ shouted the clerk.

  Josiah Troon entered. So this was the sort of man Father bought. He was definitely a sailor, dark, black hair, weather-beaten face. His wrists were tattooed, his shoulders hunched. I could barely look at him. Lying, lying toad. He had not even opened his mouth but already I felt my fury mounting. He could not read so repeated the oath after the clerk. Not a Fosse accent, sounded more like Falmouth.

  Mr Wallis smiled encouragingly. ‘You are Josiah Troon, hired seaman on the cutter L’Aigrette?’

  ‘I am, sir,’ Josiah Troon replied, wringing his hat in his hands.

  ‘And how long have you been in service on this vessel?’

  ‘No more than two weeks. I was dismissed…that is… they said they didn’t need me no more.’ He stared at his boots.

  ‘Tell me, again, Mr Troon. On the evening of the seventh of November, Sir James Polcarrow and his wife came aboard their ship and you sailed from Fosse, on, as yet, an undisclosed heading.’

  ‘Tis the truth, sir.’

  ‘Tell me, why was it an undisclosed heading?’

  ‘Sir James took the tiller and we’d no notion where we was headin’. He didn’t tell us but we thought ’twould be Jersey…because ’twas Jersey the last time.’

  ‘But it wasn’t Jersey, was it, Mr Troon? When did you realise you were heading to France?’

  ‘We didn’t, not rightly. Not even after Sir James gave over the tiller…but we’d a notion somethin’ was wrong. T’was a rough sea, the waves strong – and ye can’t always be sure where ye’re headin’. Ye have to account for the tide.’ He glanced up, quickly looking down again.

  ‘I understand your nervousness, Mr Troon. You’d no notion where you were going, you’d not been told…but as king’s evidence you may fear no repercussions. The court is not judging you. It recoils with the same horror even hearing what you were made to do. You’re a sailor and proud of your country?’

  He was a big man, thick-set, bulky frame, yet there were tears in his eyes. He put his hand across his heart. ‘I love me country, sir. I’d defend it with me life…I never knew… honest to God…I never…never…knew what he was plannin’ or I’d not have gone.’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t, Mr Troon, nor would anyone else in this room. Nor anyone else in the country…because we do not spy for the French…’ He waited for the whistles of support to die down. It was theatre, sheer theatre – Sir Richard’s red gown, the elaborate wigs, the gesturing to the crowd. He was playing the audience
.

  ‘And what happened on that journey?’ He continued when enough time had elapsed. ‘Tell the court when and where you stopped.’

  ‘We stopped in a cove, alongside an abbey. By then, we knew ’twas France. Sir James told us we was to take on a few barrels – we was made to believe ’twas brandy we was goin’ for—’

  ‘But it wasn’t brandy, was it, Mr Troon? Who boarded the boat and where did they come from?’

  ‘Monks, sir, three of them. All clothed in brown with hoods. Ye couldn’t see their faces, but we heard them right enough, an’ they weren’t speakin’ the king’s English.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, sir. I had no sight of the charts. I just do the sailin’ not the navigatin’ but I know ’twas France.’

  ‘It must have been a terrible ordeal for you, Mr Troon. The court’s very grateful you put your country before your own safety and came forward with this testimony. Without you, James Polcarrow…an accused spy would still be betraying his country.’ Another roar of approval; a deafening, foot-stamping, thunderous bellow ripping through the hall. People were whistling, clapping their hands. Mr Troon smiled shyly, keeping his head down. I could imagine his brief. Act humble…be scared…make the crowd grateful you’ve come forward.

  Matthew Reith jumped to his feet, no trace of a frown. He was smiling, rubbing his hands, holding up his open palms to quieten the crowd. ‘Mr Troon…forgive me, but you said Sir James was at the tiller?’ He emphasised the last word, looking round the court, smiling like a fox. ‘Perhaps you’d like to repeat that a little bit louder. Could you turn to the jury… and remember, Mr Troon, you are under oath…could you turn to the jury and say, very loudly…that Sir James was on the tiller and that you also took turns to hold the tiller.’ He smiled at Sir James, as if in triumph.

  ‘I don’t rightly understand ye…’ Gone was his look of sheepish nervousness, in its place a look of sheer panic.

  ‘You did sail the boat, didn’t you? It’s a long way to France and back. Sir James couldn’t have sailed the whole way…you said yourself he gave over the tiller.’