A Place Called Freedom (25 page)

Mack was hungry, but he found he had little appetite. He was too worried. He wanted to know what Gordonson thought of his chances at the trial. He forced himself to be patient and drank some beer.

When they had finished eating, Gordonson’s servant cleared away and brought pipes and tobacco. Gordonson took a pipe, and so did Peg, who was addicted to this adult vice.

Gordonson began by talking about Peg and Cora’s case. “I’ve spoken with the Jamisson family lawyer about the pick-pocketing charge,” he began. “Sir George will stand by his promise to ask for mercy for Peg.”

“That surprises me,” said Mack. “It’s not like the Jamissons to keep their word.”

“Ah, well, they want something,” Gordonson said. “You see, it will be embarrassing for them if Jay tells the court he picked Cora up thinking she was a prostitute. So they want to pretend she just met him in the street and got him talking while Peg picked his pocket.”

Peg said scornfully: “And we’re supposed to go along with this fairy tale, and protect Jay’s reputation.”

“If you want Sir George to plead for your life, yes.”

Cora said: “We have no choice. Of course we’ll do it.”

“Good.” Gordonson turned to Mack. “I wish your case was so easy.”

Mack protested: “But I didn’t riot!”

“You didn’t go away after the Riot Act was read.”

“For God’s sake—I tried to get everyone to go, but Lennox’s ruffians attacked.”

“Let’s look at this step by step.”

Mack took a deep breath and suppressed his exasperation. “All right.”

“The prosecutor will say simply that the Riot Act was read, and you did not go away, so you are guilty and should be hanged.”

“Yes, but everyone knows there’s more to it than that!”

“There: that’s your defense. You simply say that the prosecutor has told half the story. Can you bring witnesses to say that you pleaded with everyone to disperse?”

“I’m sure I can. Dermot Riley can get any number of coal heavers to testify. But we should ask the Jamissons why the coal was being delivered to that yard, of all places, and at that time of night!”

“Well—”

Mack banged the table impatiently. “The whole riot was prearranged, we have to say that.”

“It would be hard to prove.”

Mack was infuriated by Gordonson’s dismissive attitude. “The riot was caused by a conspiracy—surely you’re not going to leave that out? If the facts don’t come out in court, where will they?”

Peg said: “Will you be at the trial, Mr. Gordonson?”

“Yes—but the judge may not let me speak.”

“For God’s sake, why not?” Mack said indignantly.

“The theory is that if you’re innocent you don’t need legal expertise to prove it. But sometimes judges make exceptions.”

“I hope we get a friendly judge,” Mack said anxiously.

“The judge ought to help the accused. It’s his duty to make sure the defense case is clear to the jury. But don’t rely on it. Place your faith in the plain truth. It’s the only thing that can save you from the hangman.”

24

O
N THE DAY OF THE TRIAL THE PRISONERS WERE
awakened at five o’clock in the morning.

Dermot Riley arrived a few minutes later with a suit for Mack to borrow: it was the outfit Dermot had got married in, and Mack was touched. He also brought a razor and a sliver of soap. Half an hour later Mack looked respectable and felt ready to face the judge.

With Cora and Peg and fifteen or twenty others he was tied up and marched out of the prison, along Newgate Street, down a side street called Old Bailey and up an alley to the Sessions House.

Caspar Gordonson met him there and explained who was who. The yard in front of the building was already full of people: prosecutors, witnesses, jurors, lawyers, friends and relatives, idle spectators, and probably whores and thieves looking for business. The prisoners were led across the yard and through a gate to the bail dock. It was already half full of defendants, presumably from other prisons: the Fleet Prison, the Bridewell and Ludgate Prison. From there Mack could see the imposing Sessions House. Stone steps led up to its ground floor, which was open on one side except for a row of columns. Inside was the judges’ bench on a high platform. On either side were railed-off spaces for jurors, and balconies for court officers and privileged spectators.

It reminded Mack of a theater—but he was the villain of the piece.

He watched with grim fascination as the court began its long day of trials. The first defendant was a woman accused of stealing fifteen yards of linsey-woolsey—cheap cloth made of a mixture of linen and wool—from a shop. The shopkeeper was the prosecutor, and he valued the cloth at fifteen shillings. The witness, an employee, swore that the woman picked up the bolt of cloth and went to the door then, realizing she was observed, dropped the material and ran away. The woman claimed she had only been looking at the cloth and had never intended to make off with it.

The jurors went into a huddle. They came from the social class known as “the middling sort”: they were small traders, well-to-do craftsmen and shopkeepers. They hated disorder and theft but they mistrusted the government and jealously defended liberty—their own, at least.

They found her guilty but valued the cloth at four Shillings, a lot less than it was worth. Gordonson explained that she could be hanged for stealing goods worth more than five shillings from a shop. The verdict was intended to prevent the judge from sentencing the woman to death.

She was not sentenced immediately, however: the sentences would all be read out at the end of the day.

The whole thing had taken no more than a quarter of an hour. The following cases were dealt with equally rapidly, few taking more than half an hour. Cora and Peg were tried together at about midafternoon. Mack knew that the course of the trial was preordained, but still he crossed his fingers and hoped it would go according to plan.

Jay Jamisson testified that Cora had engaged him in conversation in the street while Peg picked his pockets. He called Sidney Lennox as the witness who had seen what was happening and warned him. Neither Cora nor Peg challenged this version of events.

Their reward was the appearance of Sir George, who testified that they had been helpful in the apprehension of another criminal and asked the judge to sentence them to transportation rather than hanging.

The judge nodded sympathetically, but the sentence would not be pronounced until the end of the day.

Mack’s case was called a few minutes later.

Lizzie could think of nothing but the trial.

She had dinner at three o’clock and, as Jay was at the court all day, her mother came to dine and keep her company.

“You’re looking quite plump, my dear,” Lady Hallim said. “Have you been eating a lot?”

“On the contrary,” Lizzie said. “Sometimes food makes me feel ill. It’s all the excitement of going to Virginia, I suppose. And now this dreadful trial.”

“It’s not your concern,” Lady Hallim said briskly. “Dozens of people are hanged every year for much less dreadful crimes. He can’t be reprieved just because you knew him as a child.”

“How do you know he committed a crime at all?”

“If he did not, he will be found not guilty. I’m sure he is being treated the same as anyone foolish enough to get involved in a riot.”

“But he isn’t,” Lizzie protested. “Jay and Sir George deliberately provoked that riot so that they could arrest Mack and finish the coal heavers’ strike—Jay told me.”

“Then I’m sure they had good reason.”

Tears came to Lizzie’s eyes. “Mother, don’t you think it’s
wrong?”

“I’m quite sure it’s none of my business or yours, Lizzie,” she said firmly.

Wanting to hide her distress from her mother, Lizzie ate a spoonful of dessert—apples mashed with sugar—but it made her feel sick and she put down her spoon. “Caspar Gordonson said I could save Mack’s life if I would speak for him in court.”

“Heaven forbid!” Mother was shocked. “That you should go against your own husband in a public courtroom—don’t even speak of it!”

“But it’s a man’s life! Think of his poor sister—how she will grieve when she finds out he has been hanged.”

“My dear, they are miners, they aren’t like us. Life is cheap, they don’t grieve as we do. His sister will just get drunk on gin and go back down the pit.”

“You don’t really believe that, Mother, I know.”

“Perhaps I’m exaggerating. But I’m quite sure it does no good to worry about such things.”

“I just can’t help it. He’s a brave young man who only wanted to be free, and I can’t bear the thought of him hanging from that rope.”

“You could pray for him.”

“I do,” Lizzie said. “I do.”

* * *

The prosecutor was a lawyer, Augustus Pym.

“He does a lot of work for the government,” Gordonson whispered to Mack. “They must be paying him to prosecute this case.”

So the government wanted Mack hanged. That made him feel low.

Gordonson approached the bench and addressed the judge. “My lord, as the prosecution is to be done by a professional lawyer, will you allow me to speak for Mr. McAsh?”

“Certainly not,” said the judge. “If McAsh cannot convince the jury unless he has outside help, he can’t have much of a case.”

Mack’s throat was dry and he could hear his heartbeat. He was going to have to fight for his life alone. Well, he would fight every inch of the way.

Pym began. “On the day in question a delivery of coal was being made to the yard of Mr. John Cooper, known as Black Jack, in Wapping High Street.”

Mack said: “It wasn’t day—it was night.”

The judge said: “Don’t make foolish remarks.”

“It’s not foolish,” Mack said. “Whoever heard of coal being delivered at eleven o’clock at night?”

“Be quiet. Carry on, Mr. Pym.”

“The delivery men were attacked by a group of striking coal heavers, and the Wapping magistrates were alerted.”

“Who by?” said Mack.

Pym answered: “By the landlord of the Frying Pan tavern, Mr. Harold Nipper.”

“An undertaker,” said Mack.

The judge said: “And a respectable tradesman, I believe.”

Pym went on: “Mr. Roland MacPherson, justice of the peace, arrived and declared a riot. The coal heavers refused to disperse.”

“We were attacked!” Mack said.

They ignored him. “Mr. MacPherson then summoned the troops, as was his right and duty. A detachment of the Third Foot Guards arrived under the command of Captain Jamisson. The prisoner was among those arrested. The Crown’s first witness is John Cooper.”

Black Jack testified that he went downriver to Rochester to buy coal that had been unloaded there. He had it driven to London in carts.

Mack asked: “Who did the ship belong to?”

“I don’t know—I dealt with the captain.”

“Where was the ship from?”

“Edinburgh.”

“Could it have belonged to Sir George Jamisson?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who suggested to you that you might be able to buy coal in Rochester?”

“Sidney Lennox.”

“A friend of the Jamissons’.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Pym’s next witness was Roland MacPherson, who swore that he had read the Riot Act at a quarter past eleven in the evening, and the crowd had refused to disperse.

Mack said: “You were on the scene very quickly.”

“Yes.”

“Who summoned you?”

“Harold Nipper.”

“The landlord of the Frying Pan.”

“Yes.”

“Did he have far to go?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Where were you when he summoned you?”

“In the back parlor of his tavern.”

“That was handy! Was it planned?”

“I knew there was going to be a coal delivery and I feared there might be trouble.”

“Who forewarned you?”

“Sidney Lennox.”

One of the jurors said: “Ho!”

Mack looked at him. He was a youngish man with a skeptical expression, and Mack marked him down as a potential ally in the jury.

Finally Pym called Jay Jamisson. Jay talked easily, and the judge looked faintly bored, as if they were friends discussing a matter of no importance. Mack wanted to shout “Don’t be so casual—my life is at stake!”

Jay said he had been in command of a detachment of Guards at the Tower of London.

The skeptical juror interrupted: “What were you doing there?”

Jay looked as if the question had taken him by surprise. He said nothing.

“Answer the question,” said the juror.

Jay looked at the judge, who seemed annoyed with the juror and said with obvious reluctance: “You must answer the jury’s questions, Captain.”

“We were there in readiness,” Jay said.

“For what?” said the juror.

“In case our assistance was needed in keeping the peace in the eastern part of the city.”

“Is that your usual barracks?” said the juror.

“No.”

“Where, then?”

“Hyde Park, at the moment.”

“On the other side of London.”

“Yes.”

“How many nights have you made this special trip to the Tower?”

“Just one.”

“How did you come to be there that particular night?”

“I assume my commanding officers feared trouble.”

“Sidney Lennox warned them, I suppose,” the juror said, and there was a ripple of laughter.

Pym continued to question Jay, who said that when he and his men arrived at the coal yard there was a riot in full progress, which was true. He told how Mack had attacked him—also true—and had been knocked out by another soldier.

Mack asked him: “What do you think of coal heavers who riot?”

“They are breaking the law and should be punished.”

“Do you believe most folk agree with you, by and large?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think the riot will turn folk against the coal heavers?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“So the riot makes it more likely that the authorities will take drastic action to end the strike?”

“I certainly hope so.”

Beside Mack, Caspar Gordonson was muttering: “Brilliant, brilliant, he fell right into your trap.”

“And when the strike is over, the Jamisson family’s coal ships will be unloaded and you will be able to sell your coal again.”

Jay began to see where he was being led, but it was too late. “Yes.”

“An end to the strike is worth a lot of money to you.”

“Yes.”

“So the coal heavers’ riot will make money for you.”

“It might stop my family losing money.”

“Is that why you cooperated with Sidney Lennox in provoking the riot?” Mack turned away.

“I did no such thing!” said Jay, but he was speaking to the back of Mack’s head.

Gordonson said: “You should be a lawyer, Mack. Where did you learn to argue like that?”

“Mrs. Wheighel’s parlor,” he replied.

Gordonson was mystified.

Pym had no more witnesses. The skeptical juror said: “Aren’t we going to hear from this Lennox character?”

“The Crown has no more witnesses,” Pym repeated.

“Well, I think we should hear from him. He seems to be behind it all”

“Jurors cannot call witnesses,” the judge said.

Mack called his first, an Irish coal heaver known as Red Michael for the color of his hair. Red told how Mack had been on the point of persuading the coal heavers to go home when they were attacked.

When he had finished, the judge said: “And what work do you do, young man?”

“I’m a coal heaver, sir,” Red replied.

The judge said: “The jury will take that into account when considering whether to believe you or not.”

Mack’s heart sank. The judge was doing all he could to prejudice the jury against him. He called his next witness, but he was another coal heaver and suffered the same fate. The third and last was also a coal heaver. That was because they had been in the thick of things and had seen exactly what happened.

His witnesses had been destroyed. Now there was only himself and his own character and eloquence.

“Coal heaving is hard work, cruelly hard,” he began. “Only strong young men can do it. But it’s highly paid—in my first week I earned six pounds. I
earned
it, but I did not receive it: most was stolen from me by an undertaker.”

The judge interrupted him. “This has nothing to do with the case,” he said. “The charge is riot.”

“I didn’t riot,” Mack said. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts, then went on. “I simply refused to let undertakers steal my wages. That’s my crime. Undertakers get rich by stealing from coal heavers. But when the coal heavers decided to do their own undertaking, what happened? They were boycotted by the shippers. And who are the shippers, gentlemen? The Jamisson family which is so inextricably involved in this trial today.”

The judge said irritably: “Can you prove that you did not riot?”

The skeptical juror interjected: “The point is that the fighting was instigated by others.”

Mack was not put off by the interruption. He simply continued with what he wanted to say. “Gentlemen of the jury, ask yourselves some questions.” He turned away from the jurors and looked straight at Jay. “Who ordered that wagons of coal should be brought down Wapping High Street at an hour when the taverns are full of coal heavers? Who sent them to the very coal yard where I live? Who paid the men who escorted the wagons?” The judge was trying to break in again but Mack raised his voice and plowed on. “Who gave them muskets and ammunition? Who made sure the troops were standing by in the immediate neighborhood? Who orchestrated the entire riot?” He swung around swiftly and looked at the jury. “You know the answer, don’t you?” He held their gaze a moment longer, then turned away.