An Experiment in Treason (32 page)

Three ships sailed into Boston Harbor loaded with tea. A mob gathered at the wharf where they tied up, to make certain that they were not unloaded. Yet more was done. That night, three “raiding parties” of fifty men each appeared, made up of individuals with faces darkened with soot and decked out in feathers, who claimed to be Indians. Each of the raiding parties boarded a separate ship. They brought up the cargo and dumped the precious tea into the waters of Boston Harbor. No resistance was offered, and no force was necessary. It was all done in a matter of a few hours.

“Who was it?” said Sir John. “Sam Adams and his crew, I’ve no doubt.”

“It doesn’t say. I don’t think they really know. But you have to admit, sir, that the entire business does have to it a certain comic element.”

He scowled. “Oh, I suppose so. Whoever it was thought of masquerading them as Indians showed a bit of spirit and some imagination, yet I’m sure that the king and the prime minister will not be amused.”

“Even so, sir, I think — “

“Hang it all, a mob is a mob, say I. Perhaps no force was used, but that was because the captain and the crew complied. If they had not, then there probably would have been shots fired and swords bloodied. They’re a violent bunch, those colonials.”

“You are generally hesitant to distinguish any one group or race as more violent or immoral than the rest. I’ve heard you say quite often that all are about the same in the proportion of good to bad. Do you feel that the Americans are an exception to that?”

“Well, the circumstances of their lives — Indian raids and so on — encourage a reliance upon firearms for protection, I suppose.”

“In the hinterlands, perhaps,” said I, “but Boston and Philadelphia are large cities. There are others — New York, Baltimore, and Char — “

“I know, dammit! I’m not entirely ignorant of geography. But just look at this fellow, Burkett. He’s an absolute monster — murdering, mutilating. There’s no end to the brutishness of the man.”

“Aren’t you generalizing rather recklessly? Near all of the Americans are English, are they not? A good many of them were even born here.”

Sir John let forth a great sigh. “I shall not argue the matter further,” said he, “for I admit that in the heat of the moment I have just now said a number of things that were intemperate and unconsidered. But you see? I admit it, now that I have cooled down a bit. Yet there are those of us true-born Englishmen of a more choleric and vengeful nature than mine, and some of them hold high positions in the government. Think of Lord North and Lord Hillsborough; think of their sovereign. Given such provocation, they will not forget, nor will they forgive. I fear that those in the North American colonies — Americans, as they call themselves — are in for a bad time of it, and — oh, my …”

There he broke off, as if a thought had just struck him. From the expression that appeared on his face I judged it to be a particularly distressing thought.

“What is it, sir?”

“They may be planning to strike at him who is nearest at hand.”

“Sir? I don’t quite understand.”

“God help Benjamin Franklin.”

Later that day, long after Sir John had concluded his court session, we were blessed with another of the infrequent visits of the Lord Chief Justice to Bow Street. He was as blustering and rude as ever. He, who could manage a certain style and grace within the four walls of his house in Bloomsbury Square, became ill-mannered the moment he ventured forth into the world outside. As it happened, he had been hearing cases all day at Old Bailey, which seemed to put him in a particularly foul mood. Wearing the black hat more than once in a day would sour anyone, I suppose.

Sir John and I were sitting in his chambers when, without overture, the drama of Lord Mansfield’s entrance began. The door to the street slammed open. We heard Mr. Fuller come forward and ask how he might be of assistance.

“By getting out of my way,” came the sharp reply.

The voice was immediately identifiable — loud, harsh, and rasping. Sir John mouthed the name “Mansfield” quite soundlessly, and I whispered my agreement. I rose and took a place near the door, that I might be out of his way when he entered. We heard the click of his heels and the tap of his walking stick upon the wooden floor growing louder as he came closer. Then, without troubling to knock, he came charging through the open door.

“Who is there?” Sir John asked, rising from behind his desk.

“‘Tis I,” said the Lord Chief Justice. “Who did you suppose?”

“Ah, Lord Mansfield, how good of you to drop by. You seem to be somewhat disturbed. Won’t you sit down and tell me about it?”

“Yes, by God, I will.”

With that, he began to squat precisely where he stood. I could do naught but tuck a chair Swiftly beneath his backside and hope he came down properly upon it. Luckily, he did.

“Yes, Sir John, I am disturbed, though not directly because of you.”

“Well, I’m glad of that, truly I am.”

“It is Lord Hillsborough who has my dander up. I had little use for the man before I talked to him, as you urged, and now I have even less. You, better than most, know what it is to be lied to. When one sits upon a court of any degree, he develops a sure sense of discrimination between truth and untruth, a certain feeling of nausea.”

“A bad taste in the mouth,” suggested Sir John, “a bad smell in the nostrils. I told a fellow so not long ago.”

“Exactly! Well, sir, I talked to Lord Hillsborough, and sure as I sit here before you now, that man lied to me in the most flagrant manner. He did not even make the effort to conceal his contempt for my questions.

“He told me that he was shocked at your report on his fellow, Burkett, and he had the audacity to call to question the information you gave me. And, by the bye, I am now willing to concede that indeed I have sent men to the gallows with less hard evidence against them — though not without compunction. Still, when one knows, then one knows — if you follow me.”

“Perfectly well.”

“Yet what annoyed me most — nay, angered me — was the manner in which he gave his answers. Throughout our interview, he wore a sly smile, something quite like a sneer, as if he were drawing me into complicity in the matter. At one point — well, I’ll tell you exactly when it was. He insisted that of course he appointed Burkett only to help you, Sir John, and instructed him to stay in close contact with you, and share whatever information he might gather on the theft of the letters with you. He declared he had been very explicit in that. And in saying that, do you know what he then did?”

“No idea, none at all.”

“He had the audacity to wink at me. He asked if Burkett had done as he was told and kept in contact with you. ‘No,’ said I, ‘he has been too busy searching for victims and murdering one said to have some share in the burglary.’ Then did I tell him of the murder of him who had brokered the crime, sparing none of the ugly details. Pretending shock, he reminded himself that he must speak to Burkett about that. ‘That sort of thing should be discouraged,’ said he, referring to the mutilation of the body, as if making a jest — certainly in bad taste. I asked him if he had indeed seen Burkett since the day he brought him to me, and he admitted he had not. ‘But you know,’ said he, ‘that is the way I prefer it. When I give an order, I like it carried out without a lot of consulting and conferring. I may have said as much to him. But of course,’ he did add, ‘I said nothing about murder or mutilating.’ And that, of course, was said with a smirk, as well as all else.”

“I stand shocked but not surprised,” said Sir John. “I fear I have long had a low opinion of him.”

“It seems that that low opinion is now so widely held that he is losing his place in government.”

“Oh? How is that?”

“Piecemeal,” said Lord Mansfield, making a bit of a jest himself.

“They have reheved him of responsibihty for the American colonies. He is being forced to resign over some silly land matter in Illinois, or Ohio, or one of those Indian parts of North America.”

“Who is taking his place?”

“Lord Dartmouth.”

“A good choice,” said Sir John. “He is a reasonable man and has influence with the prime minister.”

“Indeed he should. The two are stepbrothers.”

“I’d forgotten.” (This I doubted, reader; Sir John seemed to forget nothing.) “It may bring some relief to this fellow, Franklin.”

“I doubt it,” said Lord Mansfield. “You’ve heard about this new outrage, of course? All that tea dumped in Boston Harbor?”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“I have heard that all in the government are now so powerfully set against this Massachusetts colony and its agent, Franklin, that they have set a trap for him.”

“Oh? What sort?”

“Well, it seems that for some time he had withheld a petition put forward by the Massachusetts legislature for the removal of the governor — appointed by the king himself, of course — Thomas Hutchinson.”

“He of that packet of letters?”

“Yes, yes of course. Franklin had held it back, waiting for a more favorable time to present it. The departure of Lord Hillsborough and the entry of Lord Dartmouth upon the scene must have seemed the best opportunity he was likely to have, and so he made application to present the petition. As was proved by the news from Boston, there are no opportune times in regard to such matters. He has been summoned before the Privy Council to defend it and himself.”

“It and himself?” said Sir John. “I do not follow.”

“He has been told that he must answer also for the packet of letters which he sent off to Boston, for they maintain that the letters prompted the petition calling for the governor’s removal. And so Franklin is to appear with counsel to confess his sins. They are out, in short, to crucify him. I do truly believe that this is but prologue to a trial for treason — and in spite of myself I pity the poor fellow.”

“A crucifixion, eh? And who is to drive in the nails?”

“Why, our new solicitor general — or had you not heard?”

“Who might that be?”

“None but Alexander Wedderburn.”

“Wedderburn has replaced Dexter?” Sir John asked, all agog at this information.

“As I said. Sir John.”

“Then has a hyena taken the place of a lapdog. When and where will this take place?”

“In a week’s time at Westminster, in the Cockpit.”

Having delivered his news, Lord Mansfield rose and prepared to depart. Yet Sir John would not have him leave without informing him of the latest development in this case, which seemed to grow like some evil plant whose roots spread underground in all directions only to pop up above the surface where least expected and least desired.

“What sort of development do you speak of?” asked the Lord Chief Justice.

Again, Sir John asked me to supply the details, which I did, editing them down to the bare facts of George Burkett’s arrival in Robertsbridge and Ned Ferguson’s death there.

“Now, who was this fellow Ferguson?” Lord Mansfield asked, addressing me direct.

“He was one of the two burglars who purloined the packet of letters,” said I.

“And how did you hear where he had gone to hide?”

“His partner,” said Sir John, “supplied us with that information when he surrendered to us.”

“And where is he now?”

“In custody.”

“Well, send him up to me at Old Bailey, and we shall at least get one of these fellows hanged.”

“Let us speak of that later, shall we?”

“As you wish. Sir John. I must be getting on in any case. By the bye, do you wish me to put in for two places for you and your assistant in the gallery of the Cockpit for Franklin’s appearance?”

“Do so, by all means, ” said Sir John. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The Cockpit? What could that mean? Was I to believe that members of the House of Lords and the House of Commons met there in Westminster to pursue the ancient English pastime of cockfighting? Surely that seemed beneath their dignity. (Little notion had I then how without dignity were both bodies.) During the next week I pursued the question with Sir John, yet without much satisfaction.

“What is it, sir, this place called the Cockpit?”

“Why, it is a committee room in Westminster Palace. They conduct business there.”

“But why do they call it the Cockpit?”

“Well, it’s … it’s …” His words hung in the air for near a minute as he attempted to come forth with a proper answer to my question.

“You know, I really have no idea why it is called in such a way.”

Unbeknownst to me, Clarissa heard my query to Sir John. She gave the question some thought and asked Mr. Donnelly to put it to Mr. Goldsmith, who seemed, as she said, “to know quite all about everything.” The answer came back that in the time of Henry VIII, that particular room had indeed been used for cockfighting, and to this day it has retained the name, though its purpose is now altogether different. Or perhaps not quite so different as all that, for the two hours spent by Benjamin Franklin in the Cockpit had all of the drama and intensity of such a clash, even if it lacked something of the brutish nature of that sort of conflict.

Sir John feared for Franklin’s safety. Upon hearing from me of the gruesome death of Isaac Kidd, he had posted an armed constable at the door of Mrs. Stevenson’s house in Craven Street, in which Dr. Franklin made his home and office. During the day, there were groups of hecklers to be sent upon their way, and at night, there was always the possibility of a visit by George Burkett; and so it was young Mr. Queenan during the day, and the taciturn veteran Constable Brede at night. Only some of this I was aware of till later. I did know, however, that as time grew nearer to the hearing in the Cockpit, the magistrate grew increasingly concerned regarding the threat of George Burkett at the event and immediately afterward.

I recall quite well that Sir John had once said that if one were to murder another, it might well be best done in a great throng. I have not the words or his reasoning exact, but he felt that within a mob much may be concealed, including the killer, his weapon, and his mode of attack; and once the deed was accomplished, the mob would provide him with his means of escape, for he had but to melt into the multitude to become invisible.