by John Marsden
‘Then I very much hope you won’t get hungry, sir,’ was all I could think to say. As he continued to scrutinise me, without speaking again, I thought that he must expect something more, so I added: ‘I . . . don’t have any food to give you, sir . . . but if I get some, I’ll certainly share it with you . . .’
It was the wrong thing to say, for he flung me across the room, where I collided with a gangling sort of young man who had his back to me. ‘Watch what you’re about,’ he growled, pushing me from him with a curse. I landed on the hearth in front of the fire; indeed, I had to jerk myself quickly in the opposite direction to avoid rolling into the coals. I began to perceive that I was in danger of being used as some sort of ball. I crawled away from the fireplace, dazed and sore, looking for refuge in the shadows, as injured animals do.
Then Lord Blood was on me again. He crouched over me and pulled me by my hair up to a sitting position. ‘You can expect me tonight,’ he said, his wild eyes staring at me. ‘I always taste the new meat in here. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, although I was not sure that I did.
‘Then be ready,’ he said, slamming me with all his strength into the wall.
Luckily I was already close to the wall, so the damage was not as considerable as it might have been. Nonetheless my head, already sore from my fall in Billingsgate markets, now hurt even more, and the alcohol fumes he had breathed all over me made me nauseous. I lay there, feeling sick and frightened, and wishing that I had not embarked upon so perilous a path. It seemed that I had exchanged Mr Weekes for Lord Blood, and the bargain did not strike me as a particularly good one.
This suspicion was confirmed within just a couple of hours. As darkness crept through Newgate, stealing across the floor and up the walls, leaving nothing but the hellish glow of the coals to throw any light upon the miserable scene, I tried again to find a corner to nestle into, but was quickly made aware that at night-time corners were highly valued, and their occupants did not welcome company. So I found a spot against a wall and made myself as small as possible. All too soon, however, I heard the light rattle of shackles as Lord Blood sought me out.
In my brief life I had been exposed to a variety of vice, of course, but I understood little. I was like a stranger who moves through a large house in the middle of the night. All he sees of the contents of the house is whatever falls within the radius of his torch. He may see this armchair, and that coffee table, and in the flickering light he may get a glimpse of a vase and a coal scuttle, but he does not see the portraits on the wall or the candelabra or the sofa, and thus he has no knowledge of their existence. And consider, if this man is a savage from some primitive country where men know not houses or furnishings, what will he make of the contents of such a place? How will he comprehend their uses?
I still dwelled in that place of primitive innocence, so that although I had seen certain goings-on here, and other goings-on there, much more than was right for a boy my age, nonetheless the images I had were fragmented and incomplete, and my understanding was completely undeveloped.
However I understood pretty much what Lord Blood wanted from me; indeed, had I not when he first approached me I would have done so within a short time, for he was not ambiguous about his requirements. I did not understand the urgency that possessed him, but that was not a matter to which I paid particular attention. As he uncovered himself and made his demands, I looked to my right and then to my left in the hope of finding someone who might come to my aid, but quickly realised the futility of such a search. In the dim light it was clear that my neighbours were looking in every direction but towards me.
As he pressed himself upon me, nausea arose within me, but I complied as best I could. However, I was only shortly engaged with him when revulsion overtook me so completely that my stomach convulsed and I emptied its meagre contents down his front. This, I am pleased to say, had the effect of immediately quelling his ardour, but it also earned me a fearful beating while he berated me in rage for befouling his fine clothes.
As I lay in the darkness, sore and bleeding, I came to an awareness of my folly in imagining that I might be better off here than in Hell. Truly had I left a cesspool for a cesspit. There would be no sanctuary in the commons of Newgate. I fell asleep against the wall, to the occasional thin wails of the baby I had observed upon first entering the place, and awoke in the morning to find that it was dead.
Chapter 18
It is a great convenience of the judicial system that Newgate Prison and the Old Bailey, the latter known by the name Justice Hall, though it does not always merit such a title, are neighbours. They exist side by side, and we can assume that they are on the friendliest of terms, for there is frequent intercourse between them, and they each seek to serve the other.
At some stage an official of the Old Bailey informed me that the grand jury had approved a true bill in my case, which apparently signified that my trial was imminent. I intended to plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the court, as it seemed unutterably foolish to contemplate any other course. I clung to the hope that I would avoid the gallows and be transported. I held true to a vision of the colony of New South Wales as a kind of paradise that would restore me to a life of peace and contentment, such as I fondly imagined I might have experienced in my infancy.
During my time in Newgate I received only one piece of helpful advice, which came from a man with the unusual name of Carmichael Lance. He had all the appearance of a refined and scholarly gentleman, but he was rather a puzzle to me, because his presence in the commons indicated that he had no money. He had been convicted of forgery and sentenced to death, and so should have been in the condemned cells. However, crime in London was thriving to such a degree that the condemned cells were filled to overflowing, and the health of the residents was considered to be jeopardised by the unsanitary conditions. Naturally the authorities did not wish to endanger the lives of those about to be executed, and so in the interests of their own welfare, Carmichael and various others slated for the gallows were quartered with us.
I met Carmichael when for no accountable reason he offered me a share of a haunch bone of beef someone had brought in for him. I was exceedingly grateful, for most of the meals were deplorable and I had become very hungry; in fact I was dizzy and light-headed from lack of food. Every shred of that beef was delectable to me; I fancy I can still taste it now.
The next day Carmichael told me about his crime, to which he seemed indifferent. He was quite sanguine about his prospects, having petitioned the Bank of England for a discount on his sentence. He assured me that such petitions were frequently successful, and sure enough, three days after our conversation he was notified that the bank had agreed to commute his sentence from death to transportation for fourteen years, which he regarded as a good bargain.
When I told him that I was going to plead guilty he shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, no, my boy, that would be most ill-advised.’
‘But why? I was caught with the purse in my hand, and although I have no knowledge of the watch, the judge won’t believe that.’
‘It has nothing whatsoever to do with whether you’re innocent or guilty,’ he replied firmly. He looked away from me, shaking his head, and spoke as if to an imaginary person located halfway up the wall. ‘What a foolish boy it is.’ He looked back at me with twinkling eyes. ‘As if innocence or guilt has anything to do with justice. That may do for the provinces, lad, but not here. My dear Barnaby, you will find that at the Old Bailey even the judges encourage the most incorrigible felons to plead not guilty. The point is, cases need to go to the jury. When the trial is by jury the judge can listen to all the evidence, and the verdict, before he decides the sentence. Most judges don’t want to put on the black cap if they can help it. It spoils their appetite for their victuals. Your judge will look for reasons to keep you away from the gallows, and if the jury can help him in that noble task, then so much the better
for everyone.’ I think he saw the shadow which passed over my face when he mentioned the word ‘gallows’, because he quickly added: ‘I really think you can rest easy about a death sentence. The Great British Public has rather exhausted its fondness for executing children. The most likely outcome is that the jury will commit pious perjury, and the judge will be mightily relieved if they do.’
‘Pious perjury?’ I asked. ‘What’s that?’
‘My dear Barnaby, what is an innocent like you doing in this den of iniquity? Do you know nothing of the workings of the judicial system? Pious perjury is the result of juries being as chary of capital punishment for minor offenders as are judges. Not infrequently a jury chokes on the idea that their verdict will mean death for a prisoner. And so they return a verdict which makes it impossible for the judge to order the gallows. In your case, they may well convict you of stealing an amount which is less than five shillings in value. This watch for example . . . how much does the man say it’s worth?’
‘Forty guineas.’
Carmichael raised his eyebrows. ‘That much? Well, it would be easier for the jury if it were five guineas. But nonetheless, if they take a shine to you they will almost certainly do their best to find a way out of your difficulties.’
‘But how can I get them to take a shine to me?’ I asked.
Carmichael laughed. ‘The more you try, the less likely you are to succeed. Be polite and respectful, but put the idea of pleasing them out of your head.’ He laughed again. ‘Mind you, I invariably treat juries with contempt, and judges too, and look where it’s got me. I adopted a far more courteous tone in my petition to the bank. I was positively obsequious.’
He was the only adult in Newgate who was kind to me, and I was sorely disappointed when he was taken away the day following his remission. It seemed that a fleet was about to set sail for Botany Bay, and he had been assigned a place on one of the ships. He was well pleased by the news. ‘I’ve bypassed the Hulks,’ he told me. ‘A very good thing to do. Too many men leave the Hulks feet first, and that’s an uncomfortable prospect for one like myself, who by and large finds life an enjoyable business.’
Two days later I took my place in the Old Bailey dock. I went in with my heart in my boots. I was still but a slightly built lad, and the courtroom seemed almost infinitely vast to me. An immense gulf separated me from the judge, and although there were many chairs and tables between us, for clerks and lawyers I believe, few were occupied. The jury was to my right, seated in three rows, four men in each row. Beyond them, and stretching around behind me, were a dozen or so spectators. I despised them for their idleness, and their inquisitiveness, and wished they would be off about their business.
As I waited for the judge to enter, a series of loud coughs caught my attention. It sounded like a juvenile who was thus afflicted, but after a while the coughs became so irritating that I turned around. How great was my amazement when I saw none other than Quentin and the Ferret sitting proudly in the public gallery. They had not been there when I’d first looked. As soon as they caught my eye they grinned triumphantly, waved, and made gestures of optimism.
I have no idea how they found out the date of my trial, but I was greatly heartened by their presence. I motioned for them to go around to the gallery behind the jury, so that I could see them throughout the proceedings. Much did it cheer me during the ordeal of the hearing to be able to look at their familiar faces.
The judge entered. I was relieved to see that it was not Sir Bennett Cousins. In contrast, this was quite a small man, peering over the bench with sharp eyes and bobbing his head like a sparrow on a tree branch looking for an insect crawling through the grass below.
The trial began. When asked for a plea I whispered, ‘Not guilty,’ and was told sternly to repeat it so that all could hear. The owner of the purse and watch, a Mr Mullins, prosecuted the case against me, and in the same terse manner he had used at Billingsgate gave a short description of the theft and my subsequent arrest. He then called several bystanders as witnesses. It did not seem to occur to anyone to question my identity as the thief. I suppose to most members of the public one young ruffian dressed in rags looked much the same as another. I wondered fleetingly how the boy who actually took the items would feel if he could see me now. It had been his lucky day when he ran past me in the fish market.
I was invited to question the witnesses, but could not think of anything to put to them. When Mr Mullins finished presenting his case, the judge asked me if I wished to speak. Trying hard to raise my voice in the intimidating atmosphere, I said: ‘If you please sir, I did take the money, but not the watch.’
It sounded feeble even to my ears, and I was greatly surprised when the judge seemed to write my words down and sit looking at them for some time. Then I suddenly thought of something else. Hesitantly I added: ‘Sir, I did say to Mr Mullins when I was caught that I hadn’t taken his watch. After all, if I did take it, I would still have had it, like I had the money.’
The judge turned to Mr Mullins and asked him: ‘Did the prisoner tell you at the time of his arrest that he had not taken the watch?’
Mr Mullins looked sulky. ‘Not sure . . . No memory of that,’ he said.
I was annoyed, because I was sure he was lying.
The judge then surprised me even further when he recalled each of the witnesses and asked them if they had seen me with the watch. None had. Mr Mullins was looking increasingly indignant, and finally he rose to his feet and said to the judge: ‘Sir, forty guinea watch . . . extraordinary coincidence . . . I lose watch just as boy purloins purse? Surely, sir . . .’
‘Sit down, sir,’ responded the judge, quite sharply. ‘You have put your case, the jury has heard it, and they can make up their own minds.’ I had the feeling that the judge had not ‘taken a shine’ to Mr Mullins. He looked now at the jury. ‘It is time for me to sum up,’ he said. ‘You have heard the evidence regarding the purse. You have heard the words “I did take the money” from the prisoner’s own lips. You may think it significant that he did not dispute the evidence of the witnesses that he stole the purse and its contents. You may well think that you need not waste much time arriving at your verdict on the charge as it relates to that.
‘However, the situation regarding the watch is somewhat more difficult. Is it conceivable that the watch went missing from some other cause than theft by the prisoner at the bar? After all, things go missing all the time, from a variety of causes. It is not unknown for example,’ and here he looked sternly at Mr Mullins, ‘for a complainant to take advantage of a crime in order to make a claim on an insurance company for property that is in fact still in his possession.’
As Mr Mullins clambered to his feet, red-faced with indignation, the judge waved him back down and went on hastily. ‘Of course there is no question of such an eventuality in this case and I mean no reflection on the honourable gentleman prosecuting the prisoner. Courts are indebted to members of the public who perform their civic duty in these cases, and thus help rein in the excessive degree of crime in this city. I merely make the point that there can be many explanations for complaints of missing property. Members of the jury, you have heard no specific evidence relating to the watch, other than Mr Mullins’s statement that it is lost. You must ask yourself whether this is enough to justify a conviction upon this charge, bearing in mind that, given the value of the items in dispute, a verdict of guilty would require from me nothing less than the maximum sentence allowed by the law, that being a capital one. Nevertheless, if you feel that a verdict of guilty is justified, you must say so, without regard to the tender years of the defendant in the dock, and the consequences which may befall him. Now, if you have no further questions for me, I invite you to consider your verdict. You may retire if you feel it necessary, and if you wish to do so. Should that be the case, the usher will escort you to the room designated for the purpose.’
With that, we all rose, so that the ju
dge could make his exit, a thing he was evidently incapable of doing whilst we remained seated. After he had gone, the jury filed out. It seemed that they did indeed need time to agree on my fate. I looked across at the Ferret and Quentin. They were gazing at me with rapt attention. Perhaps the seriousness of the situation, that they might be about to hear a sentence of death imposed upon their friend, had just dawned on them. Nevertheless, I felt heartened by the judge’s summing-up. Naive as I was, and ignorant of the law, it seemed to me, after my conversation with Carmichael, that the judge was going as far as he could in inviting the jury to take the path of ‘pious perjury’.
I was right, and Carmichael was right. After about fifteen minutes the jury returned, followed shortly afterwards by the judge. The foreman stood and announced the verdict. I was guilty of stealing the purse and its contents. The jury valued the contents of the purse at four shillings. Although there had been no evidence as to the value of the purse itself, the jury assessed it as being worth sixpence. Total: four shillings and sixpence. I was not guilty of stealing the watch. For the sake of sixpence the possibility of a death sentence was averted. I wondered briefly at a justice system which would take a life for a five shilling crime, but not for a crime valued at four shillings and eleven pence. It seemed that in the British legal system, a single penny could make the difference between life and death.
There was little time for such reflection, however. The judge had turned to face me and was addressing me. ‘Prisoner at the bar,’ he said. ‘You have been found guilty, quite rightly, of a serious violation upon an innocent member of the public. The people of London are entitled to go about their business without having their pockets picked at every opportunity by idle ruffians such as I find you to be. There has been a notable increase in this type of offence lately, and it is timely to make an example of dissolute young persons such as yourself who come before the court. I am going to remove you from this kingdom, so that the citizens of London can be kept safe from your depredations. You are young; I abjure you most earnestly to reflect upon your misbegotten ways, and to resolve to tread the path of righteousness from this day forward. Given your youth, there is still time for you to repent and begin a new life. I will ensure that you have an ample period in which to do so. I hereby sentence you to seven years transportation to the colony of New South Wales.’