By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  She’d tried so hard to find someone who would intercede for her brother, but it was no use. The king, Lord Liverpool, Lord Harrowby, and a half-dozen other members of both the House of Lords and the House of Commons completely ignored her, if they didn’t outright laugh at her.

  Mr. Nash was sympathetic to the situation, but only offered her the same sad shake of the head to tell her she was on a fool’s errand.

  Amid the years of famine, unrest, and rioting, England sought a way to put a final ending on the turmoil. This trial was the government’s statement that it was quelling all insurrection in the country.

  Wesley accepted the food with perfunctory thanks, although it didn’t look as though he was eating anything she brought him. Of more concern to him was money to purchase ale and “other supplies” as he could find in the prison.

  Belle dropped another pouch into his outstretched hand.

  She arrived at court as early the next day as possible, to ensure a seat along the banister overlooking the trial. It went much as she expected, with a supreme look of satisfaction as the same judgment was rendered on all of the suspects.

  Guilty.

  Except that justice was parceled out differently to the various conspirators, according to their roles in the plot. Thistlewood, of course, had the harshest sentence brought against him: to be hung by the neck until dead, then beheaded.

  Perhaps his head would be posted where he once intended the members of Parliament’s heads to be staked.

  The Jamaican-born Davidson and three others were also found guilty of high treason, and sentenced to hanging and beheading. But the embers of hope were stoked again in Belle when several other men were found guilty, but because of their lesser roles in the conspiracy, they were sentenced to deportation for life.

  Deportation! Was it possible that Wesley could find mercy by deportation to Australia or America? Belle was mentally calculating what would have to be done in order to close down the London shop to start anew in one of those countries, but was diverted by the judge, who placed a black cap on his own head before pronouncing Wesley’s fate.

  Guilty of high treason, with a sentence of hanging by the neck until dead, followed by ceremonial beheading, outside Newgate Prison two days hence.

  Belle heard no more, for the world collapsed around her in a violent torrent of blood rushing in her ears, blocking out the clinking of chains as the prisoners were filed out of the courtroom for the final time.

  The king and Privy Council met, as was the custom in death sentences, to determine whether some of the conspirators should be offered a reprieve. To no one’s surprise, all of the sentences were upheld, yet Belle held out hope that the king would extend mercy to her brother at the last minute, if for no reason other than the fact that he was brother to the Pavilion’s draper.

  She paid her final visit to Wesley in Newgate. He had been moved into a condemned cell, which had the ironic benefit of larger, more private quarters, with a better bed and more windows, although here the thick walls were covered with nail-studded planks.

  But a condemned man spent his last hours alone, without the chaotic company of dozens of other prisoners around him. Belle would have thought all of those other people might be of comfort at such a time, but prison officials apparently thought otherwise.

  Wesley’s mood was strangely calm as he sat on the edge of his bed with Belle next to him.

  “You don’t understand, Belle. They want us to make peace with God, without distractions. I suspect that’s entirely too late for me, don’t you?” His upper lip cracked from dryness as he smiled, sending a small rivulet of blood into the corner of his mouth.

  She took his hands. They were damp and sticky, in sharp contrast to the dryness of his mouth, and giving the lie to his placid demeanor. Her brother was as terrified as she was. “I am so sorry, Wesley, truly I am. I tried everything I could. No one would pay me any mind.”

  He shook his head. “No, I didn’t think anyone would.”

  “I still think a pardon could come at the last moment. It’s happened before.”

  “I doubt it. Others have also tried to help me, with little result. I seem to have made one bad decision after another. At least I’ll die knowing that I prevented taking anyone else with me.”

  Belle was moved by his concern for her. “I wish I could take this punishment for you, Wesley. How preferable it would be to end my own life than to see yours gone.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Belle. You warned me not to involve myself in anything illegal. But I had my own selfish goals, and here we see the outcome. I just wish I weren’t shaming our family name.”

  “I’ll never be ashamed of you. You made a mistake, is all.” She lifted one of his clammy hands to her face, but he pulled it away.

  “A mistake? A mistake is ordering cotton when you intended to order velvet. A mistake is cutting three yards when you mean three and a half. What I did was make a colossal blunder. The Duke of Monmouth couldn’t have been more foolish when he tried to take the throne of England.”

  But what difference did the level of Wesley’s crime make now? “I can’t believe it’s all come to this. How will I live without you, Brother?”

  “More nonsense. You’ll be much better off without me, I think. You should marry Mr. Boyce. He’s fond of you. You should have seen the secretary he made, thinking it was for you. He’ll take care of you, Belle.”

  “I don’t require anyone’s assistance.”

  “Sister, he’s not like me or Clive. I admit now that my intention was to take the business from you. And Clive wanted you to abandon it altogether. But I don’t think Mr. Boyce has that kind of design on you. Think how complementary his cabinetmaking shop would be to our—your—draper shop.”

  Belle laughed uneasily. Hadn’t Put said much the same thing to her? “This is hardly the topic of conversation for such a moment. We should be discussing what else I can do for you.”

  Wesley disengaged his hands and turned away from her. Placing his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and rested his chin in his palms. “There’s nothing else that can be done for me, Belle. Lord, how I wish I hadn’t listened to Dar—others. If I’d paid the slightest attention to you, I wouldn’t be sitting in this rathole today.”

  He put both hands to his neck. “What do you imagine it feels like, Belle? The rough rope around your neck, slowly choking you to death? Do you think you black out quickly? That you’re in blissful unconsciousness before you actually die?”

  No, she didn’t think that. Although the hangman’s noose was intended to quickly break a man’s neck and prevent suffering, many a man had struggled mightily against the rope, sometimes for up to a half hour. The heavier a man, the more forceful his drop, and the more likely that he would die quickly. But Wesley, poor Wesley, was so thin and gaunt now that he would probably flutter in the breeze endlessly. Belle shuddered. No, no, she couldn’t let that happen.

  She spoke quietly, hardly believing her own words. “Brother, there is one last service I can provide you. I can pay to have someone posted underneath the gallows, to pull on your legs when you drop. So that the end is more ... immediate. Do you want me to do this?”

  He sat straight again to face her. A single tear coursed down his face. “Yes, Sister. I deserve no mercy from you, but if you will grant me such a favor, I will be eternally grateful. Eternally grateful, ha! Grateful in hell.”

  “I only wish I could do more.”

  “Tell me, will you be there tomorrow?”

  She’d dreaded this question. How was she ever going to manage watching her brother executed before her very eyes? She swallowed the sob that so desperately wanted to escape her throat.

  “Of course,” she whispered. “I will be your rock and your fortress. Just look for me.”

  “You can depend upon it.”

  Belle spent the remainder of her time with Wesley giving what meager comfort she could. Eventually he told her to go, that he wanted to rest and prepare himsel
f for the ordeal the next day. She clutched his pitiful frame, as much to comfort herself as to soothe him.

  As she left the prison, she passed another woman being led in by one of the prisoner-wardens. The well-dressed woman was sobbing uncontrollably into a handkerchief as she was led to the row of condemned cells.

  Poor thing, Belle thought. Must be one of the conspirators’ wives. How much more horrible to be one of these men’s wives than his sister?

  Put handed the newspaper to his cousin, pointing to the article he’d just read regarding the trial. Every detail had been noted by a journalist sitting in the gallery. Put was purchasing every paper he could find, trying to figure out what role his secretary played in the conspiracy.

  He’d finally found it. The conspirators gave the secretary to Lord Harrowby and his wife as an anniversary present in order to gain access to his home. By all accounts, it appeared that the secretary was still inside the earl’s home.

  Fine recompense for knowingly opening your home to murderers.

  Lord Liverpool boasted that he’d discovered the desk’s secret compartment and that it held the damaging evidence they needed to prove that Thistlewood’s plans were far more devious than originally thought, for it showed that his ultimate plans to bring down the government went back years, not mere months.

  The newspaper account mentioned just the one compartment had been found, and surely it was Wesley who put those papers in there, since he was the only one who knew about it. Yet Put had shown him a second hidden compartment below the first.

  I wonder ...

  Frances read the article, looked up at him, and shrugged. What does it mean to you?

  Put started to explain, but stopped. Perhaps it was better if he kept his thoughts to himself for now.

  May 1, 1820

  London

  Wesley’s execution day was sunny and warm, and the fragrance of profusely blooming violets everywhere mocked Belle as she walked back to Newgate for the last time. Their sweet, unmistakable scent reminded passersby of the everlasting cycle of plant life every growing season, life that brought sustenance to all and was so easily reborn by the scattering of seeds.

  But of all the seeds Belle had scattered to save Wesley, none had taken root. Except the one she planted to serve his last request. She just hoped now that the man would hold to his promise and hadn’t just taken her money and ambled off to the nearest tavern. She also hoped that her description of Wesley’s worn and scuffed shoes was enough for the man to recognize her brother as he fell through the trapdoor.

  She brushed the thought from her mind. There was still time. The king may have reconsidered and was sending a messenger even as she approached the prison. Or perhaps Lord Liverpool and the other members of Parliament had considered her request and were meeting with the court right this very minute to bring a special judgment of mercy on Wesley.

  A small flicker of hope rose in her once again. They might still decide to deport Wesley. She would go anywhere with him. America, Australia, a pestilence-ridden island in the middle of the ocean, anywhere. If only someone in authority would grant Wesley one more chance.

  Was there anyone she’d missed in her pleas for clemency? She didn’t think so. Dozens of doors had slammed in her face, dozens more faces had either scowled or laughed at her.

  A crowd was already gathering around the gallows, rolled out of storage and brought out for today’s event. As she drew closer, her heart nearly stopped to see that in addition to the set of five nooses, five coffins were laid open on the platform, a structure at least twelve feet high and completely enclosed underneath.

  Several more coffins were stacked up on the ground next to the scaffold to await the second batch of prisoners.

  Belle bristled. What purpose did this serve? Why must the condemned men’s final resting places be evident to them as they ascended the tall platform? Must they be tortured even further in their final moments of life?

  Stop it. Salvation is at hand, you know it is.

  Several constables on foot, plus one on horseback, meandered through the crowd to maintain order, occasionally shouting at a spectator or brandishing a stick. The people were mostly peaceful, though, and laughed good-naturedly at the pompous officers.

  Yes, everyone seemed downright exultant about the proceedings, much to Belle’s disgust. Everyone except for a woman about thirty feet away. She already wore a dress of black bombazine—a sign of the poor woman’s deep distress—wait, that was the same woman she’d seen leaving the prison last night. The woman’s face was swollen from crying, and she scanned the gallows furtively, waiting for her loved one to emerge from the prison.

  Overwhelmed by sympathy, Belle went over to her, to comfort her in some way. But before Belle could reach her, the woman turned and locked gazes with her. To Belle’s shock, the woman’s eyes changed from deep sorrow to a murderous rage and she snarled, “Stay away from me!” at Belle before melting away into the crowd.

  Belle froze in place. Did the woman have her confused with someone else?

  She was interrupted from her thoughts by a hand on her back. She turned to find Put standing next to her, his eyes not hate filled at all, but dark with worry and concern.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find you here,” he said. “Thought you could use some company at this moment.”

  “I’m fine. Wesley is at peace, I think, and if he is, why then, so am I. Besides, there could still be a reprieve.”

  Put nodded, unconvinced. “Nonetheless, I’ll stay here with you if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all.” Belle turned back to the gallows so he wouldn’t see the tears of gratitude forming in her eyes for the presence of the man who had been right all along about Wesley, and whom Wesley had deemed a good choice of a suitor.

  The first group of prisoners was brought out, unchained but with their hands bound in front of them. The crowd reaction was a combination of boos, taunts, and cheers. As they ascended the platform, Belle could see that Wesley was among them.

  He was in the same clothing he wore last night. The lines of dissatisfaction and pain were erased from around his eyes. As she told Put, he was at peace.

  He must also sense that a reprieve is on its way.

  Belle fought her way forward in the crowd, and Put stayed with her. Finally she was close enough that if Wesley would just look her way, he’d see her.

  Please, Wesley, over here. I want you to know I’m here.

  But her brother stared resolutely ahead, through the opening of the noose that dangled in front of his face. What was wrong? He said he would look for her. Belle waved a hand, but Wesley was oblivious to his surroundings, as though he’d already departed the scene.

  A man pushed his way through the crowd, brandishing a newspaper. “Buy an execution special! Read their confessions and last words! Only a penny!”

  Belle gasped as the man waved the broadsheet in front of her. “How about you, mistress? Care to read about the prisoners’ last moments?”

  “How could you possibly know what they—” she started, but stopped when Put grabbed the man and threw him bodily off to the side, warning him loudly, “Don’t let me hear your hawking again, do you hear me? Else you’ll find yourself in bad circumstances with my temper.”

  The man scurried away with his stack of broadsheets. Belle opened her mouth to thank Put, but he shook his head to let her know it wasn’t necessary. She was openly trembling now, between the seller’s audacity and her concern that the moment of execution was coming without any sign of a messenger from the king or anyone else.

  After some nattering about justice served and the saving of His Majesty’s kingdom, the presiding official asked if any of the men had last words. The mulatto, Davidson, was in deep conversation with a chaplain and completely ignored him. The man Belle recognized as Thistlewood nodded his head, and he was allowed to address the crowd from the edge of the platform. Incredibly, he pulled an orange from his pocket and began sucking on i
t casually as he spoke. But his words were those of a crazed, delirious madman consumed with his own sense of greatness, and he was soon booed by the crowd and forced to terminate his speech to return to face his noose.

  Thistlewood smiled his contempt at the crowd and roared out snatches of a song about Death or Liberty. After running out of lyrics, he turned to the executioner, nodded, and said, “Do it tidy.”

  How had Wesley ever fallen under the spell of such a man?

  Yet he seemed confident. Maybe he knew for certain that this was not going to be a day of hanging.

  Hope pushed its eternal way back into her heart again.

  The other prisoners declined an opportunity to speak, and the nooses were thrown about their necks. A drummer began the steady staccato beat that would overpower the sound of the men dropping to their deaths.

  Where was the messenger? Was he delayed? Did the executioner not realize there was to be a reprieve?

  Was she deluded in thinking there would even be a reprieve?

  Dread recklessly shoved hope out of the way.

  Belle trembled. Her resolute determination to stay focused on Wesley through everything was wavering, especially since her brother hadn’t thus far noticed her in the crowd.

  Her mind’s effort to maintain sanity turned to practical matters. Was the man she paid perched now under the gallows, waiting for Wesley’s poorly shod feet to appear?

  Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded with the ferocity of one of Put’s wooden mallets. In all of her frantic plans to save Wesley, she’d forgotten to plan for his burial in the event that he was not rescued. What would happen to his body? What would they do with the coffin set aside for him? Would he be thrown into some unidentified mass grave with the others?

  Lord, why me? Why Wesley?

  She turned her face to the sky to glare at the brightly smiling sun, its rays a mockery of the tragedy being played out before her. She looked back at her brother, who finally turned her way. She once again lifted a hand in greeting. Wesley’s eyes shifted as he took in the fact that she waited there with Put.