Hugh Kenrick (46 page)

The six men rose and were led out of the chamber to another room. Grainger busied himself with reading documents. Jones sat with his head in his hands.

T
HE JURY SAT IN A SMALL ROOM AROUND A TABLE LIT BY A SINGLE LAMP
. The room was hot and airless, made more so by the restlessness of the jurymen. Benjamin Worley said, “I do not like the way this thing is being handled.”

“Nor do I,” said another juryman, yawning. “But, there you are.”

The foreman picked up the poster and held it up before Worley. “Do you agree with this tripe, sir?”

“No,” said Worley. “It is vicious pap. But the Crown did not prove that these men made that poster, not to my mind.”

“Oh, but the Crown did prove it,” said another man. “They thought the thoughts, and made the poster possible.”

“They spoke the thoughts, as these affidavits prove,” said another, glancing at the daunting pile of documents that sat in the center of the table.

“And their thoughts were made public.”

Worley glanced around at his fellow jurymen. “The one thing has nothing to do with the other. Justice Grainger mixed them all up. I’ve never heard anything like it before. It’s as wrong as old fish.”

“I see,” said the foreman. He had been specially selected by King’s Counsel for his known powers of persuasion. Parrot had used him before on similar but more minor cases. The foreman had had some property judgments ruled in his favor as a result. This time, though, in a note slipped to him by the bailiff—who had accepted a crown for the favor—Sir James had promised to endorse his candidacy for alderman of his parish on the next election, and to contribute to it, if he could deliver this jury. The note was safely tucked away inside his frock coat, to be used to remind Sir James of his promise.

The other jurymen, like him, were tired, though their minds seemed to be numbed, too, by the amount of argumentation thrown at them today and the prospect of having to wade through it here. Only Worley seemed to be pulled by the strings of propriety and fairness. The foreman was certain he could wear him down, so that they could return a unanimous decision. He opened the Society’s ledger of minutes and smiled at Worley. “You say it’s
as wrong as old fish, sir. We say it’s as right as rain. Let us see if we can reason this out.”

*  *  *

After a while, Justice Grainger looked down on Jones with an expression of sympathy. “Forgive me for not first explaining my method to you, Counselor,” he said with conversational kindness, “but I have decided here to test the waters of collateral justice.” Parrot and the lawyers looked up with interest.

Jones raised his head. “Collateral justice, milord?”

“Yes. It is a novel notion. I first heard it voiced by a member of the Commons at a concert some time ago. I believe it was at his own house, but cannot remember the fellow’s name. Sir Henry Parnell, or Panelli, or some such.” He paused in an effort to remember the name, the place, or the occasion, but could not. “By it,” he continued, “provable crimes may be collected and punished together with proven felonies, in a form of gross attainder, so to speak. Its purpose is economy and the swift administration of justice. So many men commit multiple crimes, that we are forever prosecuting them, and see them too often in the dock. You objected to the wording of my instructions to the jury, no doubt from surprise.” He shook his head. “Of course, the notion cannot be applied to all cases, only to special ones, such as this one, at the discretion of the presiding magistrate.”

Jones said, “I demolished the Crown’s case, milord.” His eyes narrowed in thought, and he added, “The notion you have explained and introduced is insidious. It would eat its way down to common law and destroy all justice.”

Grainger sighed. “You find the notion of collateral justice noxious to you now, Counselor, but later in your career you may find it a useful device. Do not reject it with such passionate foolhardiness.”

“I would sooner give up the law than indulge it, milord,” replied Jones.

Grainger clucked his tongue. “I, for one, would be sorry to see you go.”

Sir James Parrot chuckled and leaned forward to half-whisper in mock confidence to Jones over the space that divided their tables, “If you go, sir, I suggest haste. I understand by the advertisements that Mr. Garrick is seeking players to stage
Much Ado About Nothing
, at Drury Lane, and that the clownish role of Constable Dogberry has yet to be assigned.”

Jones smiled, and replied so that the whole court could hear, “Like Richard of Gloucester, learned colleague, you mistake base gloating for wit
and honor. It does not become you.” The serjeant-at-law rose and left the room to have a pipe outside.

*  *  *

An hour and a half later, the foreman handed a folded paper to the bailiff, who handed it to a clerk, who handed it up to Grainger. The judge said, “The accused are summoned to the bar.”

When the prisoners were returned to the dock, Grainger looked at them and said, “The jury has found for an indictment of you men for blasphemous libel, and I so charge you with the felony. How do you plead? One at a time, please. The clerk will read out your names.”

And, one by one, the prisoners answered, “Not guilty, milord.”

“You men are summarily arraigned. The marshall of the court may dismiss the jury.” Grainger turned to the jurymen. “Thank you, gentlemen. You are discharged from your duties, which you performed admirably.”

All but one of the jurymen rose and bowed in acknowledgment. Benjamin Worley simply blinked at Grainger with incomprehension, then glanced up at the prisoners, and finally at Counselor Jones. He dropped his head in shame. The foreman and the others had browbeaten him and worn him down so that he could no longer think clearly, and he had agreed from exasperation to the indictment. The words on the poster, in the minutes, and in the affidavits were still swirling in his mind. The marshall of the court bent to take him by the arm and led him out after the others.

There was a general rustling of paper and garments as the court settled back to listen to Grainger. The magistrate toyed with his spectacles, then said, “As you know, this court, in this particular case, which dealt with matters crowding the subjects of libel and treason, is vested with the power of reaching a verdict of innocent or guilty if the grounds of the indictment warranted it, and of proclaiming that innocence or guilt on the court’s own recognizance, in lieu of a trial by full jury, and contingent upon the evidence presented by the Crown. It is my judgment that said evidence, in a full jury trial, would only be reintroduced with the same likely finding. I therefore arraign and charge the prisoners with blasphemous libel, and in so doing find them guilty of that felony—”

Jones rose so quickly that he nearly toppled his table.

Grainger frowned. “What now, Counselor?”

Jones could barely control his stammering outrage. “On what grounds
do you…does the court assume this…power?”

Grainger leaned forward as though he wanted to spit the words into the barrister’s face. “On the grounds of the prisoners’ obstinate refusal to surrender the names of their three accomplices, and that refusal comprises willful contempt of this court, and that empowers me, sir! Read your statutes!” He swept up his gavel and struck it once. “I fine you five pounds for interrupting the reading of a sentence!”

“But the prisoners do not know those names—”

“Ten pounds!”

“Milord, the prisoners are not—”

“Twenty pounds!” shouted Grainger. “How much are you worth, Counselor? We can go on all night, if you wish!”

Jones looked at the prisoners. Robert Meservey smiled sadly and shook his head. The barrister sank to his chair. His junior counsel fidgeted with the paperwork before him. For a while, no one in the courtroom looked at anyone else.

Grainger put down his gavel, cleared his throat again, and continued. “—With blasphemous libel, and in so doing find them guilty of that felony. This conviction entails a fine of one hundred pounds, in currency or in kind, for each prisoner, in addition to seven consecutive days on the pillory at Charing Cross, at the convenience of the sheriff, from sunrise to sunset, that place being nearest to the scene of the prisoners’ perfidy, and to three years each of labor in one of His Majesty’s prisons, employed in a manner deemed by the executive of that place most beneficial to the nation and conducive to penance and redemption. The prison terms are commutable to transportation to one of His Majesty’s possessions in North America, contingent upon opportunity and the discretion and convenience of the authorities.”

Grainger set aside his notes. “Have the prisoners anything to say for themselves?” It was the first time he had addressed the men in the dock. He could see only five pale faces and the bare suggestion of their bodies in the gloom. From outside, through the high window of the hall, came the sound of the bells of St. Mary le Strand, marking the hour. It was nine o’clock.

The prisoners were silent. Grainger could see that their faces were drained of care and hope. His mouth twitched into a smile of approval. This was right and proper, he thought: The men who had so much to say in the ledger of minutes were rendered speechless. He waited another moment, then reached for his gavel to adjourn the court and to order the marshall to
arrange the prisoners’ transfer of custody. He noted the crack in the head of the gavel, and smiled wryly. It was Temple property, and he must remember to reimburse the Master of the Temple for a new one.

A voice boomed from the darkness far in the rear of the hall: “Long live Lady Liberty!”

The prisoners’ heads jerked up at the words, and their faces became alive with recognition. Serjeant-at-Law Jones was also roused from his own morose thoughts: He, too, recognized the voice.

The prisoners stood straight, and raised their cuffed hands together, as if they were holding tavern glasses. As one, they answered, “Long live Lady Liberty!” Then they laughed, and tossed the imaginary glasses over their shoulders.

Grainger was stupefied by the incident, and too late ordered the bailiff to investigate the disturbance. By the time that man rushed with a lantern to the rear of the hall, everyone heard footsteps and a door slamming shut.

*  *  *

The incident enabled Dogmael Jones to console the sobbing wives and relatives of the prisoners, and to caution the solicitor, Mr. Bucks, and the spectators about their muttered curses and epithets. It gave him the strength to speak with the prisoners in the antechamber, where they were to wait until taken to a new prison. Robert Meservey said, “You defended us at some cost to yourself, sir. We had not expected that.”

“Do you wish me to file an appeal? It would be heard in King’s Bench again, but not for some time. I’ll speak to your families.”

The men shook their heads. “Even had we the means, sir,” said Brompton, “it would do us no good.”

“Justice was not their object,” said Sweeney.

“It was silence,” said Brashears in a labored voice. He managed a smile. “But we had the last word! Thanks to Muir!”

Jones smiled tentatively, sharing the secret knowledge with the men. Then he frowned, and said, “I have failed you, as he did not.”

“No,” said Mendoza, reaching out to pat Jones’ arm. “No, sir. Don’t think a bit of that. My excellent man, you were royally sponged!”

When Jones returned to the courtroom to gather his things, Grainger paused in the midst of signing papers and documents. He said, “A word with you, Counselor.” He shooed away the clerk who was assisting him.

Jones approached the bench, and waited.

“While you conducted a very thorough defense of these villains,” said the magistrate, “you seem to have forgotten an important aspect of law. I know your record, and have heard of your style. The line of questioning you employed may have served ordinary matters very well. This, however, was an important Crown matter, and Crown matters of this type demand arguments and conduct of the prosecution, defense, and bench that are above ordinary reasoning.”

Jones’ brow furled in thought. After a moment, he asked, “Above it, milord, or apart from it?”

Grainger sniffed once, then said, “You forget yourself, sir.” He waved the clerk back, and bent to read a document, absently reaching for a quill. “Goodnight to you.”

W
HEN THE
S
ARACEN GENERAL
A
MROU CAPTURED
A
LEXANDRIA IN
638 A.D., he ordered the surviving books in its great library to serve as fuel for the conquerors’ heated baths. Neither he nor his lieutenants, nor any member of the numerous rival Christian sects now subject to Mohammedan law, bothered to ponder the fate of the knowledge recorded on those rolls. Amrou regarded himself as a practical man, and was not content to merely burn the ancient repository. Fire was a useful thing: Why waste it on showy destruction? The books kept the baths warm for many months, until the last word was consumed, never to be recovered. It was a signature event of the Dark Ages.

Once the Pippins had been disposed of by the Crown, they were remanded to the custodial quicksands of criminal administration, and forgotten. The proscribed books and the eleven volumes of the minutes of the Society of the Pippin, seized by the Crown, were sold to a ragman’s concern to be repulped into paper and reconstituted for official forms and documents. Words of wisdom and tantalizing insights dissolved in the ragman’s boiling vats, to be replaced by words of permission and command. In the Age of Enlightenment, it was an instance of the doomed bicameral alliance of church and state.

The London Gazette
, and a handful of other newspapers that regularly reported official news, briefly mentioned the special session of the King’s Bench and the conviction of the five men for blasphemous libel. The item was inserted in columns devoted to Commissions of Bankrupt notices, property disposals ordered by the Courts of Chancery and Exchequer, and advertisements for the public auctioning of property.

Among these mundane items was the announcement of the revocation of the license of “a public house, formerly known as the Fruit Wench, at the head of Villiers Street. Prospective bidders may inspect the property and its contents and register for the sale upon payment of a fee of five shillings.” Mabel Petty had been found guilty by a justice of the peace of having encouraged lewd and bawdy behavior, and fined eight pounds. She and her daughter sold the property to a speculator and eventually moved to Bristol to begin anew.

Sir Bevill Grainger retired to await his expected peerage, and divided his time between his garden and developing the idea of “collateral justice.” The junior attorney-general and junior solicitor-general returned to the humdrum business of conventional legal matters, and occupied themselves with preparing less spectacular Crown cases for the opening of the Michaelmas Term in the fall.

Serjeant-at-Law Dogmael Jones, haunted by the trial, lost much sleep. He tortured his mind in an effort to understand the disadvantage under which he had conducted his defense of the Pippins. He managed to narrow it down to a conflict between the notions of liberty of speech and public places, but the legal resolution maddeningly eluded him. He became a close friend and advisor of the families of his former clients, and even helped Beverly Brashears’ wife manage her husband’s bookshop. His reward for losing the case was a summons from the Court of St. James’ to receive a knighthood. He was tempted to spurn the honor, but knew that to do so would imperil his career. He became Sir Dogmael Jones.

There appeared in the
London Evening Auditor
, shortly after announcement of the convictions, a verbose tribute to Brice Blissom, late son of the Marquis of Bilbury, by William Horlick, for which he was paid £50 and a promise by the father to subsidize the writing of a new parable, in poetic essay form, about a prodigal son turned repentant.

There also came by post to the office of Sir Miles Goostrey an anonymous letter describing two of the missing Pippins. “Pshaw!” scoffed the under-secretary of state to the junior attorney-general. “Here’s another crank missive from someone who claims that Miltiades and Muir are a young man of fair appearance and plumb means, and a tall Negro man with the airs of an Ethiopian prince! Yesterday one came in swearing that they were the Young Pretender and the grandson of Algernon Sidney! Gadso, what some people won’t do to puff themselves up!” The letter had been sent by William Horlick, who was both disappointed that the Crown did not press its search for the missing Pippins, and fretful about a chance encounter with one or both of his former colleagues in public.

The Pippins were condemned to wait their turn at the pillory in the sweltering, fetid confines of Newgate Prison, as other felons had been scheduled for the punishment long before their own arrests. Newgate differed not a whit from the Fleet and King’s Bench Prisons. It was governed by the warden and his staff of turnkeys, but ruled by the underworld.

The Pippins, accustomed to freedom, did not easily adjust to the
arrangement established by the more brutal elements of the place, and were marked as fair game by both the governors and the rulers. Two weeks after their arrival, Beverly Brashears verbally objected to the larcenous ethics of a turnkey, and was put into the prison’s own stocks in retaliation. When guards came back to release him, he was dead. The broken rib had punctured a lung, and he drowned in his own hemorrhaging. Jacob Mendoza, already weakened by enteric fever, was beaten up by two inmates arrested years before during the anti-Jewish riots, when they discovered his “origins.” When he protested that he was an atheist, they nearly killed him. He did not awaken the morning after the assault. Robert Meservey was unable to determine whether his friend had succumbed to his injuries, or to the fever.

Sir Dogmael Jones, when he heard of the deaths, tried to use his new influence to have the three surviving Pippins transferred to Ludgate Prison, which he knew was a far more humane and civilized place. His requests were rebuffed in a manner he could not decide was indifference or spite.

Glorious Swain waited. His world had been shattered, leaving him lonely, isolated, and voiceless. He had written a letter of thanks to Dogmael Jones, expressing his appreciation for the barrister’s courage and care, and confessing that he had been the one who led the Pippins in their final toast, “having taken advantage of my complexion and some darkish attire to retire to the darkest recesses of that now ignoble hall, to hear the progress of the trial. I know that our
faux bonhomme
, Mathius, is at liberty, and can identify me. I shall keep my public business to a minimum. I enjoyed your rendition of Richard of Gloucester; it was almost as worthy as Mr. Garrick’s, though I believe you made no friend of Justice Grainger, whom I am certain did not miss the parallels you were imputing. Your most gracious admirer, ‘Muir.’”

Swain knew that he could roam the streets of London at will, without risk; and also that if he made a single move to help his friends, he would be crushed by the same machinery that had crushed them.

“What ails thee, friend Swain?” asked a Quaker acquaintance one day when he had finished teaching a class of children at a nearby chapel. “Thou was once a sun of smiles and good cheer. Lately, thy visage is as warming as a gibbous moon.”

“Some Titans have fallen in mortal combat with the gods,” Swain answered plaintively, “and I am unable to offer them rescue or succor.”

He kept as close a watch on Windridge Court as his unpredictable
employment allowed. He was determined that the gods would not claim the Titan most precious of all to him.

*  *  *

Hugh Kenrick returned to London on the sixth of September, in the early evening, a week earlier than he had planned. He was happily occupied for a number of days with school, business, and family matters. His family, including his uncle, would follow soon, and he had been charged with readying Windridge Court for their arrival. The house needed to be cleaned, victuals restocked, Horace Dolman promoted to major domo, and a new man hired to replace him. His parents were planning to have concerts this season, and he interviewed several troupes of musicians. His uncle would be sitting at Lords again, until Parliament recessed the next year, and so he visited Mr. Rickerby on Cutter Lane to renew the arrangements for his room there. His father wanted him to divide his time among school, Lion Key, and Formby, Pursehouse & Swire’s Bank; Hugh called on Mr. Pursehouse and began his introduction to the business of loans, interest rates, and capital investments. It had been decided that he would attend Leyden University in another year; he visited Dr. Comyn to inform him of this decision, and to learn from the instructors the new term’s schedule of instruction.

It was only when he noticed, from the window of a hackney taking him to Lion Key, a painter atop a ladder blotting out the signboard of the Fruit Wench that he sensed something was amiss.

At Lion Key, Benjamin Worley greeted him effusively, and during a walk along the Keys brought him up to date on the business. “Oh, everyone’s in a mad rush to fill orders for the colonies and Europe and load up the merchantmen before things get testy at sea between our navy and the French! Insurance rates have gone up, as you can imagine. Why, even the French are insuring their merchantmen against damage and capture by our own navy, right there in the Royal Exchange! The bloody cheek of it! I’ve had news that Frederick’s occupied Dresden and beaten the Saxons and Austrians in a terrific battle near Lobositz, and that Russia might side with the French just to spite us.”

Hugh and Worley stepped out of the way of a dray carrying bales of cotton. “But,” continued Worley, “as if that weren’t enough, fate picked me to sit on a grand jury to indict some freethinkers, and that ruined me for
two days, and let my sons make some blunders in the office. Couldn’t sleep much after the trial, milord! Even lost my appetite, big as it is!”

“A trial of freethinkers?” queried Hugh.

“Yes. Some club of them known as the Society of the Pippin, or Pippins. Charged with putting up a most scandalous poster in parts of the city that libeled His Majesty and his ninny of a grandson, and practically called the Bible the devil’s work. No small beer, wouldn’t you agree, milord? Well, I only saw the thing during the trial, not where it was said to be posted. King’s Counsel and the defense had a right good dust-up over it, one claiming that the men put the poster up, or at least were responsible for the words on it, the other, a lively fellow called Jones, claiming that the Crown hadn’t proved its charges. I would have laid a pound in Jones, and I was ready to acquit, and thought the others would, too. But in the end, it became so confusing, and I was tired, and the foreman argued that, all things considered, their mere denial of action wasn’t proof that the Pippins didn’t put it up… So, we found for blasphemous libel.” Worley sighed. “Somehow, we were flammed, and so was that advocate, Jones, but I don’t know how. The judge had the rum lay on the matter, I can tell you! Put a hex on the advocate’s case. I could tell that right from the beginning…”

Hugh asked, “Where are they now?”

“The Pippins?” replied Worley. “At Newgate, I hear. But they won’t be there for long. They were ruinously fined—a hundred pounds each!—and will probably end their days trimming timber at the Deptford docks, or beating hemp at Bridewell. Were given three years apiece. It’s not a hanging offense, but once the Crown’s finished with them, I’ll wager they’ll wish it was one!”

“How many men were charged?”

“Five, milord.”

“At which court?”

“King’s Bench, in a special session at Middle Temple, which was convenient for me. Didn’t need to traipse all the way up to Westminster Hall.” Worley hailed a passing fruitseller and bought an apple from the woman. “The whole matter put a sour taste in my mouth, milord, I don’t mind saying,” he said, examining the reddish orb in his hand, “unlike these beauties. Extraordinary experience!” he remarked with a shake of his head. “Wish I hadn’t been summoned that time!” He took a bite from the apple.

“What was the barrister’s name again, Mr. Worley?”

“Jones, milord. Odd first name. ‘Dog meet,’ or was it ‘Dogs ale’? Or
some such,” said Worley. “Oh, yes! I remember! Dogmael! Dogmael Jones!”

Hugh turned to the merchant and said, “Forgive me, Mr. Worley, but I must look after something. I shan’t be back today.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned again and strode quickly back up Thames Street.

On the Strand, he stopped the hackney and ordered the driver to wait. The painter had by now finished drawing the outline of a ram’s head on the signboard. Hugh went inside the tavern and asked for the proprietor, who told him that Mabel Petty’s license had been revoked, that she had sold the place to him, and moved from the quarters above. “To Bristol, sir, if I recollect. She has relatives there, I think she said.” Hugh nodded thanks to the man, and walked out. “Hope to get your custom, sir!” the proprietor called after him.

Hugh stood, immobile, outside the tavern. His world was vanishing. Two porters carrying a sedan chair brushed by him, almost knocking him down. He barely noticed the jostling.

His mind was bursting with questions, throbbing with building anger, more anger than he had thought himself capable of feeling, an outrage more intense than that which he felt toward his uncle. He could not decide which answer to his questions was more important: Why had he not been arrested? But Worley had given him no sign that he even suspected he was connected with the Society. Why were his friends arrested? For a poster? What poster? Only five men had been arrested, tried and convicted. Which ones, and where were the other two? Had they fled? Were they to be tried separately?

He looked up at the waiting hackney driver. Hugh told him to take him to Windridge Court. He would recover from the shock there, collect his thoughts, and decide on a course of action.

But Dolman met him as he came into the house, and handed him a sealed note on a salver. “A dusky gentleman called about an hour ago, milord,” he said, “and asked me to give this to you the instant you returned.”

Swain! Hugh recognized the handwriting in the address. He snatched the note up and opened it. “See me at home,” it read. “Most urgent. G. Swain.” Hugh turned and raced back out the door and across the courtyard to hail another hackney.