The Disgrace of Kitty Grey

by Mary Hooper

  In the days following we talked of little else but the promised clothes. They had still not arrived, however, when I received a message to say that my trial was to take place the next morning, and would be the tenth to be heard that day. Martha was very cast down by this news; firstly at the thought of Betsy and me going from the gaol (for Betsy and Robyn had become the best of friends) and also because she herself had been held in prison for several months and, as she frequently said, her newborn babe had never yet breathed the fresh air of freedom. The several witnesses to her crime having disappeared, she was hoping that a prison official would take up her case and petition for her release.

  Mrs Goodwin took it upon herself to advise me on my court appearance. ‘You must look as meek and demure as possible,’ she said. ‘Pay particular attention to the judge. Be sure to call him “Your Honour” and curtsey every time you address him.’

  I nodded, already terrified. I was anxious to get my court appearance over with, of course, but the thought of any punishment alarmed me very much. I was not a brave person and the stocks, the pillory, the lash all seemed equally terrible. I was not allowing myself to think, even for one moment, about the ultimate penalty. Surely, if there was any justice in the world, that would not be allowed to happen?

  The following morning manacles were put back on my legs and I was chained with about twelve other prisoners, both men and women. Together we shuffled in a line to the Old Bailey, a forbidding building right next to the prison, separated from it by a passageway with high brick walls, where we were to stand trial.

  Mrs Goodwin had lent me an extra shawl (her best one, she emphasised, stolen some years ago from an exclusive draper’s in Paradise Row) and I had tied it around my head, for the weather was bitterly cold and even the few breaths I took ’twixt gaol and courthouse caught painfully at the back of my throat. I was feeling very down, both because I feared what sort of sentence I would receive, and also because I had spent several distressing moments with Betsy clinging to me, sobbing and asking me not to go. I had promised her that I would return as soon as I could, and in the meantime entrusted her to Martha’s care.

  There was a little crowd waiting outside the Old Bailey to watch the arrival of the day’s prisoners, and I believe it was then, blinking around me in the daylight, that I felt at my very worst and most degraded. I looked, I knew, like a common beggar, for I was dressed in ill-matched bits and pieces, with filthy, knotted hair and a grimy face, and did not need the little group of society people standing there in their furs and velvets to make me feel any worse.

  We prisoners entered a type of waiting room, which turned out to be just below the court itself, and then came a long wait during which, being occupied by our own thoughts, none of us spoke a word to each other (saving a madman with us who said, over and over again, ‘Jack’s a pretty boy!’ in the manner of a parrot). One by one, each member of our party had their shackles knocked off and went up the wooden ladder into the court, and – from listening hard – I heard each of them addressed in a commanding voice by someone I took to be the judge. Twice I heard laughter: once when the madman had to answer a charge of burglary and would say no more than his parrot phrase, and once when a girl who had been chained next to me, by the name of Sarah, was accused of being a pickpocket, and admitted that she had been arrested twenty-six times before. I did not hear all the sentences given, only that Sarah was to be transported for twenty years, one man was to be branded, and the madman told he would be sent to Bethlem Royal Hospital for the rest of his life.

  It was with great trepidation that I finally heard my name called. My shackles were removed and I was prodded up the ladder. Trembling, holding on to a rail to steady myself, I found I was standing in a wooden box affair within a vast church-like space. Alongside were polished wooden benches holding legal men in black and, on the first floor, a public gallery containing the type of befurred members of society who had gathered to stare at us outside. The fug of tobacco hung in the air and there were bowls of vinegar placed about, which (Mrs Goodwin had already told me) were precautions against gaol fever being passed from prison to court.

  A dark-gowned clerk of the court told me to remove the scarf from around my head and instructed me to turn in a certain direction. I found out later that this was so that the daylight from a mirrored reflector could fall on my face and allow the court to see my expression, thus helping them decide whether I was guilty or not.

  I realised I was facing the judge, a burly figure in robes and a lavish wig, and, remembering Mrs Goodwin’s words, I sank into a deep curtsey.

  A different clerk asked my name and then my address and, not knowing what to say, I answered that I lived in Newgate Prison. This provoked some laughter, so I amended it to Bridgeford Hall, in the village of Bridgeford, Devonshire.

  ‘You are accused of arson,’ the clerk said, ‘in that you did feloniously and wickedly set fire to a room in a lodging house belonging to Daniel Burroughs, Esquire. How do you plead?’

  ‘Not guilty, Your Honour,’ I said.

  ‘And what is your defence?’

  ‘I did set fire to an old chair . . .’

  There was a murmur in the court.

  ‘. . . but it was only in the fireplace, Your Honour, whereas arson makes it sound as if I had lit up the very house. I had to light a fire because my child was sick and very cold and I was frightened for her life.’

  ‘Most people use coal on their fires, not chairs,’ the judge remarked, and there was some laughter at this.

  ‘I did not have the money for coal,’ I said clearly. ‘I bought some firewood, but it burned quickly and I did not dare leave her to go out and buy more.’ The judge did not comment so I added, ‘It was a very old chair, Your Honour – not worth more than a few coppers.’

  ‘It was a good and sturdy chair!’ came an objection from elsewhere, and I looked to see my enemy, the horrid Mr Burroughs, standing behind a table on the courtroom floor.

  ‘If it had been sturdy, Your Honour, then I could not have broken it up so easily,’ I said very politely.

  The judge looked down at the papers before him. ‘Sturdy or no, you should not have burned it, for it didn’t belong to you.’ He looked over towards one of the court clerks. ‘Is there anything against this girl? Has she any previous convictions?’

  ‘I have found nothing, Your Honour,’ said the clerk. ‘There was some business about chickens, but it seems that Mr Burroughs cannot prove he ever had any.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She is unmarried and has a child,’ said the clerk, ‘so her morality is in doubt.’

  The judge studied me. ‘You have a child?’

  I hesitated, then answered, ‘Yes, I have, Your Honour.’

  He shook his head. ‘You have embarked on a life of vice at a very young age.’

  ‘Indeed! ’Tis a disgusting and immoral state of affairs!’ Mr Burroughs barked.

  I could feel my face reddening. ‘She is . . .’ I began, but didn’t go on. This wasn’t just because I didn’t want Betsy to go into an orphanage, but also for more selfish reasons: I’d got used to her being close to me now, my little companion and friend. She was my only link with home – and with Will.

  The judge addressed the jury, who were twelve men sitting six by six in the body of the court. One looked asleep, two others were chatting between themselves and one was smoking a pipe. ‘This young woman is clearly guilty,’ the judge said, ‘but whether of arson or the less serious crime of common theft it is for you to decide.’

  ‘May I speak for her character, Your Honour?’ came a voice, and I was both pleased and grateful to see Mr Holloway standing on the floor of the court.

  ‘Quickly, then,’ said the judge.

  ‘This young person was employed by me for several days as a milkmaid, and was a conscientious and careful worker. I believe she would not have committed this crime if her child had not been sick and she had not been desperate.’

  The judge nodded.
‘The jury may or may not take this into consideration.’

  Mr Holloway continued, ‘I think you will find that Mr Burroughs, the landlord, has brought other cases against young girls who have taken rooms in his house. He seems to take against them for little or no reason.’

  The judge looked at Mr Holloway sternly. ‘It is not Mr Burroughs who is before the court this morning.’

  ‘No. I beg your pardon, Your Honour,’ said Mr Holloway humbly. He flashed a glance at me. ‘I would just like to say that if the court finds Miss Grey innocent of all the charges, I would be willing to employ her again.’

  My heart leapt – only to sink again at the judge’s next words. ‘The court cannot dismiss the charge, for she has admitted that she took up the chair and burned it. An example must therefore be made of her behaviour.’ He gestured towards the jury. ‘You may now decide on your verdict.’

  The jury stood up and got into a huddle and, it seemed to me, did not spend more than a moment discussing my case before they all sat down again.

  ‘Do you find Katherine Grey guilty or not guilty of arson?’ the judge asked.

  Their spokesman stood. ‘Not guilty, Your Honour.’

  ‘And what of the charge of theft?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  I closed my eyes briefly. When I opened them the judge was regarding me coldly.

  ‘Kitty Grey,’ he said, ‘our streets and our city must be rid of women such as yourself. You are sentenced to seven years’ transportation to Parts Beyond the Seas.’ He nodded to one of the clerks. ‘See that she is shackled and taken back to gaol. She can leave on the next boat.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  I was in a daze when I returned to the prison. Betsy was happy to see me back, but after kissing me heartily a few times, returned to play with Robyn. I was glad of this – that she could not properly understand the implications of the sentence that had been handed down to me.

  ‘Seven years Beyond the Seas,’ I whispered to Mrs Goodwin and Martha in response to their enquiry. ‘Seven years . . .’

  Martha gave a little scream and Mrs Goodwin said, ‘That means for life, of course. For I’ve never heard of anyone coming back again. Once you get beyond anywhere, how could you return?’

  ‘I would rather be hanged!’ Martha said roundly. ‘If my sentence turns out to be transportation, then I’ll tell them to do away with me instead.’

  I looked at her, then pointed first to Robyn, then to the baby at her breast. ‘Would you really?’

  She went quiet for some time, regarding me glumly. ‘Well, maybe not. ’Tis an awful fate, though, to be eaten by cannibals,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Tush!’ Mrs Goodwin said. ‘Why would they send people there to be eaten? If the idea is to kill you as soon as you arrive, then why wouldn’t they kill you here and save the expense of a ship?’

  We were silent at this.

  ‘I was talking yesterday to one of the turnkeys,’ Mrs Goodwin said, ‘and he told me that they are preparing a ship which will sail to this land, Australia, with only women aboard.’ She turned to me. ‘More than likely you will go on this.’

  ‘Only women? To sail the ship?’ Martha asked, incredulous. ‘The women will be asked to climb the masts and put out the rigging?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ said Mrs Goodwin. ‘The women will be cargo. They’re being despatched to settle with male prisoners who’ve already been deported.’

  ‘Never!’ said Martha with another little scream, while I drew in a shocked breath.

  ‘They have men aplenty in the colonies, but need more women there in order that they may raise families and help populate the country,’ Mrs Goodwin went on.

  I thought about what this might mean. ‘Raise families? But do girls get to choose who they’ll raise a family with? Can they say no to a man if they wish?’

  She shrugged. ‘I have no idea whether ’tis a free-for-all or if the women have any choice in the matter. If the men are allowed to choose anyone they wish, then those women who look healthy and capable of bearing a clutch of children will be chosen first.’

  Robyn and Betsy ran up then with some tale or other of a man who had, this morning, got out of the gaol by hiding in an empty beer barrel and going out on a brewery dray.

  When they’d gone again Mrs Goodwin continued in her well-modulated voice, ‘When a prisoner has served out his sentence in Australia, or at least proved trustworthy, he is to be given a wife, a plot of land and a chance to make something of himself. ’Tis a tidy plan for the authorities: they make space in our prisons over here, rid the London streets of those with doubtful morals and at the same time help populate the colonies.’

  ‘But to go to such a country!’ said Martha. She shuddered. ‘And perhaps to become an old man’s darling.’

  ‘In my mind, ’tis a deal better than being hanged,’ Mrs Goodwin said.

  But I felt as Martha did. I did not want to be chosen by just anyone and have to give him a clutch of children. Even when I spoke later to Sarah, the industrious shoplifter who had been sentenced to be transported for twenty years, and she said that perhaps we’d be chosen by young and handsome highwaymen, I found little comfort. I wanted to do my own picking and choosing. Thinking about this long into the night, I found it maddening to realise that, given the choice of anyone in the world, I would still have chosen Will.

  I had no knowledge of when we might be moved to the ship but, asking around the women’s ward later, discovered several other girls who had already been sentenced to transportation. Seven years was the minimum term, but one girl of no more than twelve years of age had got thirty years in the colonies, and two had got life. As Mrs Goodwin had remarked, however, it surely made little difference whether you were sentenced to two years or two and twenty, for no one knew anyone who had come back. The journey out there would take over a year, people said, and along the way the ship would stop in places that were mighty hot and very strange, with all sorts of gigantic animals and coloured birds, and – stranger still – creatures such as a very small race of people who talked in a language that couldn’t be understood by anyone. Sarah said she was excited at the thought of seeing such sights, but I was not and thought that I’d rather have seen one of my precious cows than an ugly creature covered all over in scales.

  The day after, Mrs Fry arrived with a consignment of clothing on a little handcart. I was relieved to see her standing at the gate waiting to be admitted, for I’d feared that Betsy and I would be taken away before she came back and be shipped off to Australia in the tattered garments we stood up in. I still did not want to go, of course. I feared the very thought of travelling to the other side of the world, but I certainly did not want to go in rags.

  Mrs Fry had managed to accumulate a huge number of gowns, some with matching hats. On us expressing surprise at this, she said that she had been collecting the garments for some time, and mostly they had been donated by wealthy society ladies who had recently changed their style of gowns from the overblown crinoline shape in brocade and rich fabrics to the newly fashionable, and far simpler, empire line. Those who had embraced this fashion with a wardrobe of new clothes had, with a little prompting from Mrs Fry, donated their old garments to needy prisoners. As most were made in heavy fabrics they would be quite warm, although we would not, of course, wear either hoops or layers of petticoats underneath.

  Some girls did not want new clothes. Some were past caring about such things, some were half-mad and snarled if you went near them, several were heavily pregnant, others had lost all self-respect and were content to languish and decay in whatever tawdry item they’d happened to be wearing when they’d arrived in Newgate.

  I managed to secure a tidy day gown for myself and two smocks for Betsy, while Mrs Goodwin and Martha were also pleased with their gowns – the former especially, as she’d obtained a blue bonnet with three vertical ostrich feathers which she took to wearing on top of her wig. This grand style attracted the attention of the Wednesday visitor
s, who would listen, enthralled, to her tall tales of a titled husband who’d perished, a great house burned to the ground and costly jewellery lost – and usually give her a silver sixpence by way of compensation.

  Mrs Fry had a calm and smiling presence. She called us all ‘ladies’ and, in front of her, we behaved as if we were. We did not grab at the clothes, or shove each other out of the way to get to the best things, but found ourselves saying politely, ‘I think you might find this more suitable . . .’, ‘This is surely your colour’ and ‘I believe this may be your size’.

  Martha’s baby, who had now been named Elizabeth in honour of Mrs Fry, was given several new and unused miniature nightgowns. I did wonder why they were unused, but kept this thought to myself.

  Some women put on their new garments straight away and paraded up and down as if they were shopping at the Royal Exchange, but as I’d been told that on arriving at the ship we would be allowed to wash ourselves, I’d decided to keep my new gown (grey cotton, with a tucked front and pearl buttons) until then. I wondered how I would keep it safe, but then Mrs Goodwin told me that for a couple of pennies one could buy a wooden crate from the Newgate turnkeys and your things could be stored below ground.

  When Mrs Fry had distributed all the clothes and her barrow was empty, I approached her to ask her advice about getting a letter to my family, for I needed to tell them what had happened and inform them where I was bound. By now, I thought, they would probably have reached the conclusion that I’d died. Sometimes, if I was feeling especially morbid, I would picture my dear mother dressed all in black, journeying to London to lay flowers on a pauper’s grave, which vision would always reduce me to tears.

  ‘There is a scribe available in the gaol,’ Mrs Fry said in answer to my query, ‘and for tuppence he will write any letter you wish.’ She smiled at me kindly. ‘The shock of hearing that you’re in prison and about to be transported will be very great, but it will be infinitely preferable to them believing you’re dead. Can your parents read?’