Blind Justice (3 page)

My attention went, as did Sayer’s, to Bledsoe. The gaze he returned to his partner in perjury was the fiercest I have seen any man give another. In it was the threat of murder. The import of it was not lost on Sayer. He simply said, “No, m’lord.”

“I thought not. Considering Mr. Bledsoe’s reputation, you have probably made a prudent decision. However, under the circumstances, I have no choice but to sentence you to sixty days for contempt of court.” Sir John banged dow n with great finality, making it official, and Sayer was led away by the big man with the club. This left only Bledsoe and myself before him.

“Mr. Bledsoe, take this as a warning. If ever you appear before me again seeking a bounty on the head of some poor unfortunate you have gulled, as in my heart I am sure you did this boy, then I shall find you out, sir, and I shall have you publicly thrashed by our Mr. Bailey, who is a bigger man than you and a far better one. And I shall throw you into Newgate for more years than either you or I can count. One thing I shall not do, however”—and this, oddly, he directed at me—“is have you clapped in the stocks and pelted, for that is not fit punishment for any man, not even such a sorry one as you. The case against Master Proctor is, of course, dismissed… .”

As he banged out his judgment, the room once again went into such turmoil that I believe I was the only one who heard as Sir John Fielding added the words that changed my life: “And he is remanded to the custody of the court.”

What had he in mind? The word just spoken, “remanded,” quite unfamiliar to me, had to my young ears the sound of “command” and “demand,” both terms of coercion. Though I understood it little, I liked it not.

Not knowing what more to do nor where else to go, I simply held my place before the bench and waited. I stood gazing up at the blind man who had but moments before exposed my false accuser and saved me from gaol. What manner of man was this Sir John Fielding? By the set of his features, no less than by his actions, he appeared to be of a kindly nature. As he waited for the next case to be called from the docket, his face had an air of amused expectancy. One would have guessed by the tilt of his head that he was staring off at some distant point above the crowd.

His attitude altered not in the least as the clerk rose to read off the last matter of the day. Yet the small man—Mr. Marsden by name, as I was soon to learn—caught sight of me as he set to bellow forth, and so leaned over to remind Sir John of my presence before him. There was the pause of a moment as the magistrate considered; then he leaned down and spoke into Marsden’s ear. The clerk nodded and gestured grandly to the bank of seats behind me where he wished me to take a place. Room was made for me between two drabs. And so between them I sat, vaguely aware of their veiled glances of assessment, as I fixed my attention on Sir John and his court.

Marsden summoned to the bench one Moll Caulfield, street vendor, and her accuser, a Covent Garden greengrocer, one Isaiah Horton by name. It was a simple matter of money between them.

The facts were not in dispute. The widow Caulfield had been extended credit by her supplier, Horton, and through misfortune or mismanagement, had fallen somewhat in arrears in the discharge of her debt. Horton was now not only unwilling to extend her further credit, or to do business with her in cash, he was also demanding full payment of the debt or that she be sent off to debtors prison.

“And what is the size of the debt, sir?” Sir John asked Horton.

“Three shillings sixpence.”

“So little? And what is the advantage to you if she go to prison for it? She is not likely to find the opportunity to pay you there.”

“As an example, m’lord. I’ve carried her long enough. The rest who owe me must be made to know I am not to be trifled with.”

“Ah, an example! Our Mr. Slade-Sayer was also very keen on examples, as I recall. Tell me, Mr. Marsden, has the court still in its possession the purse of that Mr. Sayer who called himself Slade?”

“It has, m’lord.”

“And what was the amount left in it?”

The clerk hauled up the woolen bag from the floor and once more dipped in and counted. “Two shillings thrupence and a farthing.”

“Yes. That would come close to satisfying the debt, and since Mr. Sayer will have no immediate use for the amount, I rule that it be handed over to Moll Caulfield as an act of charity on Mr. Sayer’s part. We take this into consideration and reduce his sentence to thirty days. But this leaves her short by a bit. The court acknowledges this and …” He plunged his hand down into the voluminous pocket of his coat and came up with two coins which he handed over to the clerk, Marsden. “The court donates one and three to her cause. The farthing she may keep for her trouble.”

“May God bless you for this. Sir John,” Moll Caulfield wailed.

A smile wrinkled his sober mien. “I hope so, Moll. Truly I do.”

“And love apples for you as you like them from this day forth,” she promised.

He nodded. “And now, Mr. Marsden, divide the money. The debt is satisfied. The case is closed. This session is ended.” He slammed down the mallet once only but with great finality. Then he stood and descended from his perch with sure steps and disappeared through a door at the rear of the large room.

Satisfied, the spectators also stood and began milling toward the doors. Still I held my place. The drabs departed, bidding me farewell and good fortune. I watched the clerk hand over the three-and-six to Isaiah Horton, greengrocer, and award Moll Caulfield, street vendor, her farthing; then he beckoned me over.

“Sir John wishes to see you in his chambers,” said he to me, then turned and pointed. “Through that door, young sir, and across the hall.”

I thanked him and made straightaway for it. Knocking, I was bade to enter and did so. Truth to tell, it was quite a plain room. A few law books were crammed into a case. The walls were bare of pictures or further ornamentation. Sir John I found much altered in appearance. He had doffed both tricorn and periwig and sat fuzzy-headed close by a table, his stockinged feet propped up on a chair before him. On the table stood no more than a bottle of strong, dark beer. The first sound he emitted in greeting was a considerable belch. Yet it was immediately followed by this salutation: “Ah, Master Proctor, is it? Come, come, sit down here.”

He gave the chair a gentle kick and dropped his feet to the floor. I took the place he had made for me and sought to express my gratitude for his generous disposition of my case. But he halted me halfway through my little speech with a wave of his hand.

“Quite unnecessary, quite unnecessary,” said he. “Our man Bledsoe was the prime mover in this affair. I’m put on my guard whenever he appears before me. Mark my words, I’ll have him in gaol soon.”

“Yes, Sir John.”

“But he is no longer your worry. You must give some thought to your future.” He paused a moment to consider, and as an aid to his cogitation, availed himself of a mouthful of beer from the bottle. “What are we to do with you, young man?”

“Sir?”

“With your father dead, you’ve no kin, I take it.”

“None that I know of.”

“I’m sure you’ve no wish to return to Stoke Poges.”

“Oh, none, sir,” said I, earnestly. “Why, the very thought that I might—”

Again, he silenced me. “You’ve no worry there, believe me, boy. But you simply cannot remain alone and on your own here in London. It is a dangerous city. Master Proctor. You have appeared before me today in all innocence accused of thievery. Left on your own here, you might appear here again in six months time, yet not so innocent as before.”

In my ignorance, I was shocked at what I judged to be his low opinion of me. Thus I sought to convince him: “Sir John, I should never stoop to thievery. I’d indeed rather starve first!”

“Ah, Jeremy Proctor, let me offer to you some advice. If you remember it well and carefully examine its implications, you may find yourself well on the way to wisdom. My advice is simply this: Never say never. You cannot possibly know the circumstances in which fortune may thrust you, nor can you be certain of how you will react to any given set of circumstances.” In the course of this peroration, he leaned forward earnestly so that his face was only inches from mine. In spite of the band of black silk covering his face from the bridge of his nose to his eyebrows, I had the distinct feeling, as I often did on occasions afterward, that he was staring directly into my eyes. But then he pushed back suddenly and grabbed up the bottle, treating himself to yet another deep draught. Having drunk his fill, he raised the bottle in my direction and admonished me once more with it: “Mark my words,” said he. “Never say never.”

I liked not the notion that my fate was so much in another’s hands, yet had it to be so, there was none I could imagine whose hands I would trust better than Sir John’s.

By and by, his considerable head, which had sunk slightly with the weight of thought, elevated itself, and he spoke to me as though inspired by a fancy: “Have you ever wished to go to sea?”

“Why… why, no,” I stammered out my reply.

He sighed audibly. “I thought not. When I was your age I thought and dreamed of nothing more. And indeed I went to sea in time, and … Ah, but that is another story—and a very old one at that.”

I thought that passing strange. He seemed so complete in what he was—a magistrate, a blind man—that I could not conceive of him being otherwise.

“I have sent boys in your predicament to sea,” he continued. “Though some, I allow, were older than you and were keen for the life. I have no wish to send a boy where he has no wish to go.”

“Perhaps I would custom myself to it,” I offered.

“Perhaps.”

I hesitated then, not knowing the propriety of what I wished to suggest. But finally: “Is there some way I could be of use to you? I’m good with sums. I can read, sir, and write a good hand. And I even know some French.”

“Ho! French, is it?”

“And I can set type.”

That gave him pause. “There we may be on to something. Of course, your father, the unfortunate printer, would have taught you, would he not?”

“He did, sir.”

“Well, Jeremy, in all truth, I pride myself that I need no special help from anyone—man or boy—to get me through my daily round. In short, I must decline the generous offer of your personal service—though not, I confess, without some hesitation. No, I sincerely believe work as apprentice to a printer would fit your talents and background better.”

I felt it only right to inform Sir John that even as I had my unfortunate meeting with Bledsoe, I was seeking a print shop in order to inquire after employment. “My father told me I was as fast with a stick as some journeymen. He … he taught me well.”

Sir John reached out toward me and, groping slightly, found my arm, to which he gave a gentle touch. “I’ve no doubt of it, boy.” Then, abruptly, he was all business: “There is a man I know. He is less than a friend and more than an acquaintance. But he has great influence in the printing trade. A word from him would establish you with any one of several printers. I dislike asking a favor of him, but pride must be put aside on such occasions. So, Jeremy Proctor, there will be time enough for such matters on the morrow. It will be Tuesday, and Mr. Saunders Welch sits in his court. The chief magistrate of the Bow Street Court has an entire day to himself, part of which he shall devote to your cause. You have his word on that. In the meantime I have a spare bed in my garret, and you will be most welcome as my guest.”

Thus it was settled. Sir John summoned Benjamin Bailey and sent me off for a tour in his care. I found, when we two emerged in the street, that the day had all but passed. Nevertheless I looked with interest at all around me and gave particular attention to Covent Garden as we passed it on our way. I had no notion to find such country greenery displayed here in this great city. And I asked Mr. Bailey if there were many such places about.

“None but this,” said he, “and a good thing, too.”

“Why is that, sir?” I asked.

“Well, m’lad, the truth of it is this. Full many a blackguard can hide himself among the stalls and stands come nightfall. And the lanes what lead into the square are many so narrow that it makes this a most difficult precinct to maintain.”

“Maintain?”

“Patrol. Keep clear of the lower element. And the fact that there’s gentlefolk lives here and the court so near, well, it’s sometimes an embarrassment is what it is.”

I had no doubt of Mr. Bailey’s ability to handle what he called the lower element. Obviously a man of intelligence, he was most notable, however, for his size and strength. He stood well over six feet and must have weighed twelve stone or better, and in his best days (which were then not long past), he could have given the great Daniel Mendoza himself a considerable tussle. Yet with me he was then, as ever afterward, extremely gentle.

As night fell, the flow of people in the streets seemed much diminished. I noted that some passersby gave us a wide berth, though others who knew Bailey by sight and name were quick to give him a cheerful greeting. They seemed to take heart in his presence—as, I confess, I did myself.

“Is his house nearby?” I asked after we had covered some distance.

“Whose house would that be, m’lad?” Mr. Bailey seemed preoccupied with all on the street about him. He glanced watchfully to the right and left as we moved on.

“I meant Sir John’s.”

“Oh, well, yes. Sir John. He lives back where we started from, above the court. I thought to give you some notion of the surroundings. Seen enough, have you?”

We circled back to Bow Street, I marveling at the vast structures fixing the limits of the Garden, wondering what they housed. “Has he always lived here? Sir John, I mean.”

I caught Mr. Bailey’s quick smile down at me. “Well, now,” he said, “that I can’t rightly say. Perhaps previous on the Strand for a time. Here in the city, before he married, he lived with his brother, who was the previous magistrate of the Bow Street Court until he took ill and died. It was they who put together the Runners.”

“The Runners?”

“Aye, the Bow Street Runners, constables, as fine a band of thief-takers as ever sent a ruffian to heel. We rule the streets of London, m’lad. Or rather, Sir John rules them through us. It’s our pride we’ve made them safe to walk after dark—most of them, anyway.”

Mr. Bailey stopped beneath a street lamp and grinned down at me. “1 can see we wasn’t well met, we two. Allow me to introduce meself to you proper. Master… Master Proctor, is it?”

I nodded, somewhat abashed.

“Then I present meself to you. Master Proctor. I am Benjamin Bailey and am no less than captain of the Bow Street Runners, and I am at your service, sirT With that, he snapped a smart salute that bespoke his military background. I hen he ended his performance with a great, grand wink.

I was much delighted—so much indeed, that I attempted to return his salute in my own unpracticed way. But there and then Mr. Bailey set about to correct it, raising my elbow, flattening my hand, until he was satisfied. “There,” said he, “we’ll make a Runner of ye yet.”

Wishing to believe it might be so, my heart leapt. “How old must I be?”

He perceived the eagerness in my eyes, for he immediately set about to put me to rights. “Oh, well, a bit older, I fear, and a bit bigger. But ye’ll be there quick enough. Take it from Benjamin Bailey.”

My arm drooped down as did my spirits. But Mr. Bailey would have none of that. He clapped me firmly on the shoulder and set us walking again. “Ah, young Master Proctor, I was young as you meself once. And I well remember that like yourself I couldn’t wait to get on with things. Now I know I was wrong.”