Hugh Kenrick (43 page)

*  *  *

Two of the men, Brashears and Brompton, looked more haggard today
than the others on their march to the Middle Temple. The junior attorney-general was tempted to force a plea from one or all of the Pippins, and perhaps get descriptions of the three missing members. A day after Serjeant-at-Law Jones’ visit to his clients was reported to him, his deputies arrived at the prison with orders to interrogate Brashears and Brompton in the press yard. Brashears was stripped and staked to the floor of the yard and measured stone weights were put on his chest. He was informed that five pounds would be added to the weights, every hour, if he remained silent when questioned about a plea or the descriptions. In the throws of agony, he maintained enough of a presence of mind to break silence and assault the deputies and prison hangman break with choice Shakespearian epithets, such as “Weigh on, you milk-livered ratsbane!”

Brompton, meanwhile, was strapped into an iron chair, and pelliwinks—iron clamps that could be tightened with screws—were applied to all his fingers and some of his toes. The pelliwinks crushed first his nails, then the bone, as the pressure was increased each time he refused to answer a question about a plea or the descriptions. He, too, assailed his torturers, with more contemporary epithets, such as, “No betrayal from me, you lumpish, dog-hearted dewberries!” He fainted after half an hour of questioning, and was carried back to his cell.

After ten hours of pressing, Brashears nearly died from asphyxiation, and he, too, was returned. Brompton, when he recovered, looked at the throbbing pulps of his mashed fingers, and knew he would never again play an instrument. Brashears coughed violently for a while, spitting up blood, and later complained of a sharp pain in his chest. He did not know that he had a broken rib, and that it was lacerating one of his lungs, until Meservy probed his torso.

The deputies did not molest the other Pippins; they felt abused by the prisoners.

When the Pippins arrived at the Middle Temple, they were taken to a small room adjacent to the courtroom, and allowed to sit on a bench as best their fetters would permit. They heard voices in the courtroom, but could not distinguish the words being spoken. Mr. Bucks, the solicitor, came in, and got permission from the sheriff’s men who were guarding them, to give the prisoners draughts of brandy and a pipe of tobacco to share. He gave his clients a look of reassurance, then returned to the courtroom through the connecting door.

*  *  *

Sir James Parrot, King’s Counsel, had nearly completed his arguments for the Crown side when the Pippins arrived. Serjeant-at-Law Dogmael Jones, advised by Mr. Bucks of the arrival of the prisoners, interrupted Parrot long enough to ask the bench if they could be brought into the dock. Judge Grainger replied that this could be done when King’s Counsel had finished his arguments.

Parrot had produced a copy of the poster, and, statement by statement, was tracing their origins back to the ledger of minutes. The poster statements, together with their sources, were unique and dissimilar, their likes not to be found anywhere else in the corpus of English political and religious writing, and could have no other origin but the Society’s minutes. Therefore, he argued, no one else but a Pippin could have composed the poster statements. No one but a Pippin would even possess the “peculiarly addled mental talent for adapting the ledger statements for propagation to a literate but an unfamiliar and impressionable audience.” Parrot digressed for a while, to read off, in terms of offended righteousness, the locations where the posters had been found and where bundles of them were discovered by the authorities.

Judge Grainger, at this point, glanced at Serjeant Jones, expecting him to note a discrepancy. Jones, however, gave no sign that he attached any special importance to the oversight.

Parrot continued. “The fact that the Crown has been unable to locate the printer party of the felony in no way dilutes the culpability of the Society or its members. It is the only aspect of this matter that has foiled the best efforts of the Crown’s investigation. It may be taken as a mere measure of the stealth with which the accused have acted, and I commend them for it.”

All in the courtroom chuckled at this remark but Jones, his junior counsel, Mr. Bucks, and an elegant black man, who sat far in the rear of the room. Jones had noticed the black man earlier in the proceedings, but, not wishing to call attention to him by acknowledging his presence, studiously ignored him. He suspected that he was one of the missing Pippins, or at least was a servant of that person.

The moot room of the Middle Temple had been designed to resemble an actual courtroom. The jury sat on a bench on one side of the modest room, the counselors and their juniors at tables facing the dais and
Grainger’s bench. Recording clerks and officers sat below the judge’s bench. Opposite the jury were two raised docks, one for prisoners and one for witnesses. On the walls were emblazoned the coat of arms of distinguished members of the Middle Temple, alternating with portraits of some of England’s most famous jurists. About thirty spectators, including friends and family of the prisoners, sat listening in benches and pews allotted for the public. Grainger so liked the venue that he entertained the idea of campaigning to have the King’s Bench moved here permanently.

Parrot began his summary. “In conclusion, the Crown begs the court to indict the members of the Society of the Pippin”—here he paused to read off the names and club names of the prisoners—“for having falsely, seditiously, maliciously, and factiously printed and distributed in public, or for having caused to be printed and distributed in public, on the night of August the first of this year, a poster inviting a general uprising and the forcible and violent dissolution of the monarchy and of the church, mocking the sacred moral foundations of our tranquil polity, and libeling the character of His Most Gracious Majesty, George Rex the Second our Sovereign, and of his grandson, George William, the Prince of Wales. The Crown begs to ask for the most severe penalty that may be lawfully imposed upon the accused.”

Sir James paused, glanced slyly at Jones, then gestured to his junior counsel, who took a mass of papers secured with red velvet cord from a red bag, and handed it to him. “The Crown has elected not to call witnesses, milord, as it would consume time and contribute little to the Crown’s case, although it reserves the right to call witnesses later in these proceedings.” He hefted the papers in his hands. “I present to the court a dozen affidavits, taken and sworn before officers of the Secretary of State, attesting that their signatories heard the statements on the poster, together with other, similarly scurrilous statements, uttered by the accused in the public house known as the Fruit Wench, on various dates preceding the appearance of the poster itself.” He approached the bench and handed the papers to a clerk, who in turn handed them up to Grainger. Parrot smiled and bowed to Jones. “My worthy opponent may choose to have these affidavits read in court at any time, at his own risk.” He stepped away from the bench and bowed to Grainger. “Milord, the Crown rests.” With another bow to the jury, he went to his table and sat down next to his junior counsel.

Justice Grainger untied the papers and glanced through a few of them. He then said that the defense would be heard after an hour recess, and rose
to retire. Jones sat for a moment, and smiled. The stranger in the rear of the room had given him an idea for a better opening statement. He stood up and left the courtroom to see his clients.

His eyes narrowed when he saw them. Brompton’s hands were an obscene sight, wrapped in bloody bandages, while Brashears looked like he was at death’s door. “Were you interrogated?” he asked the men.

“Only Peter and Beverly,” answered Meservy.

“I see.” Jones knew that it would be useless to protest the torture, even though the men responsible for it, the junior attorney-general and the junior solicitor-general, were present in the courtroom, seated at their own special tables. His protest would not even be recorded by the clerk. He turned to the solicitor, who had accompanied him, and reached beneath his gown into his coat for some coins. “Find a market, please, and get these men something to eat and drink.” Mr. Bucks nodded and left. Jones glanced at the sheriff’s men, then said to his clients, “The generous friend whom you have never met is auditing the trial, sirs.” It was a warning to the men, when they were taken into the courtroom, not to give any sign of recognition.

“And no one else?” asked Sweeney cryptically.

“No one but your wives and mistress are among the spectators, and some of your tradesmen colleagues. And some students. No one else,” he added just as cryptically. Jones noticed that Sweeney’s shirt was in tatters. “Mr. Sweeney, did you bandage Mr. Brompton’s hands?”

“No, sir. Dr. Meservy here did the honor. The prison surgeon wanted half a pound for the service. I merely provided the cloth.”

Jones grimaced in disgust. “I’ll see if I can get a surgeon to properly attend to you, Mr. Brompton, after the trial.”

When Mr. Bucks returned with some fruit and bottles of port for the prisoners, Serjeant-at-Law Jones briefly reviewed his arguments with his junior counsel, then stepped outside for a pipe and fresh air.

Mr. Bucks joined him a few minutes later. “What do you think, sir?” he asked.

“Sir James is in his best form today,” answered Jones.

“Those affidavits—do you think they are genuine?”

“Some may be,” answered the serjeant-at-law with a shrug of his shoulders. “He would need only one to prove intent to breach the peace, but apparently he has decided that, for flavor, a thick sauce is preferable to a humble herb.”

After a moment of silence, the solicitor remarked, “He’s eligible for an elevation now, you know—Milord Grainger, that is. Word is it might be the Viscountcy of Wooten.”

“That fact sits dully in my mind every minute, sir.”

A clerk came out and informed them the prisoners had been taken to the dock, and that the trial was about to resume. Mr. Bucks followed the clerk back in. Jones tapped out the contents of his pipe, tucked it away, patted his wig, and smoothed the folds of his gown, then turned and marched through the doors after them.

“T
HE DEFENSE SIDE CASE MAY NOW PRESENT ITS ARGUMENTS FOR WHY
the accused should not be indicted for and charged with the crimes cited by King’s Counsel, which are,” said Justice Grainger, turning to the jury, “libel, blasphemy, and conspiracy to breach the public peace. Other offences may come to light in the course of these proceedings.” He turned to face Jones. “Counselor, you may proceed.”

Serjeant-at-Law Dogmael Jones rose and bowed to Grainger, Parrot, and the jury. As he bowed, he felt a twinge of apprehension. He was thirty-six years old, Parrot was fifty-one, and Grainger, sixty-six, but he did not think his relative youth was a disadvantage here. He did not think that his experience, stock of legal knowledge, and powers of argumentation were at a disadvantage; he had, in the past, won victories over jurists and counselors with twice his tenure at the bar. He did not believe that the jury was prejudiced against him or his clients, or at all predisposed; his junior counsel had ferreted out information about the jurymen, and identified all as upstanding, honest, reputable merchants, above bribery and subornation.

He was Welsh, and even though he had spent much of his youth and all of his adult life in London studying and practicing law, he still retained a faint lilt in his speech. But he did not place much importance on it, and did not think his colleagues at the bar did, either. Scottish and Irish barristers and attorneys practiced in London, and won and lost suits and cases with the same frequency as did English lawyers. That was one reason why he loved his profession: It was a sieve of absolutes that could block all irrelevancies, and through which only justice was allowed to flow.

Could
, he reminded himself. Now he was caught between the pelliwinks of an expected peerage, on the one hand, and the Crown’s resolve to smother and discourage any affronts to it, on the other, without seeming to be an enemy of the liberty of speech. He had fought the latter phenomenon before, sometimes winning, sometimes losing. Yet, today, he felt at a disadvantage, for while everything looked proper and in its rightful place, he felt somehow, for the first time in his career, that he was a party to something counterfeit, and, because of that, he must lose.

With a nod to his clients in the dock, he turned to Grainger. “Milord, before I begin, may it please the court if I pose a personal but relevant question to my knowledgeable colleague, the King’s Counsel?”

Judge Grainger merely gestured with a hand in the affirmative.

Jones smiled at Sir James Parrot. “Counselor, would you agree that the alleged actions of the accused were worthy of Iago?”

Parrot frowned. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Iago,” prompted Jones, “the villain in
The Tragedy of Othello
?”

“Oh,” replied Parrot. He frowned again, wondering what trick Jones was playing on him, then managed an amused smile. “Why, yes, sir, I must say that their actions were worthy of that wretched, unworthy creature.”

Jones smiled at the expectant face of the barrister. “Thank you, learned Counselor.”

Neither Parrot, nor Grainger, nor anyone else in the courtroom could see the purpose of the question. Many thought that it could only damage his case.

Jones then launched his arguments, subjecting the Crown’s case to a barrage of consecutive challenges. He first expressed serious doubts about the legality and even moral appropriateness of general warrants, a subject on which the Crown had always been sensitive.

Judge Grainger ruled that while the legality of general warrants had been a longstanding and difficult question, this was not the time or place to ponder their legality or their moral provenance. “That issue, Counselor,” he explained with some condescension, “is a proper subject of discussion for legal philosophers.”

“And where, milord,” replied Jones, “are these sages? If they have been remiss in addressing this subject, or have swept it under the scholar’s rug for their heirs to find, it seems to me that a court of law comprises the only time and place to address it. If we have been abandoned by philosophers, ought not common men, such as ourselves, to become their own philosophers, readers, and guides?”

Judge Grainger grunted once in dismissal of the idea. “Perhaps, Counselor,” he said gruffly, “but not today, nor on this matter. The point is nullified.”

Jones renewed his attack on general warrants, questioning the power they gave a government to punish all manner of expression, and concluded by positing that the sustained legality of the warrants could, hypothetically, enable an offended subject to sue “printers, publishers, and authors, who
would never otherwise presume to offend the Crown, for but wearing clocks on their hose or rings on their ears.”

King’s Counsel rose to object to this line of argument, claiming that it introduced an element of levity into a very serious matter, and also subjected the power of authorities to mockery. Judge Grainger sustained the objection.

Jones smiled wickedly. “
Levity
, milord? Then I must apologize to the court for its introduction, and conform to the
gravity
of the moment.” He took from beneath his gown a folded sheet of paper, opened it, and said, “I now read to the court an excerpt from a most calumniatory libel, only one of innumerable inventions by a notorious scrivener.” He began reading from the paper in his hand, but soon was gesturing to dramatize the lines. He became an actor, and the whole court sat stunned and mesmerized by his performance. Occasionally he would glance pointedly at Judge Grainger, as though communicating some parallel between the magistrate’s situation and the lines.

Jones omitted the rest of the soliloquy, and ended with, “Can I do this, and not get a crown?” He looked around, and saw that the courtroom was waiting for him to continue. He calmly refolded the paper, and put it in his gown pocket. “Am I not right, sirs!” he exclaimed, turning suddenly to the jury with a pointed finger, causing its members to shrink back. “The man who put those murderous words into the mouth of a king, ought to be
brought in on a general warrant, and made to eat every page of his poisonous pen, for he had a habit of libeling, in that manner, more kings and princes than any of us will ever see in our lifetimes!”

“What king?” demanded Grainger impatiently. “What is the point of all this?” He had never before in all his career witnessed such a display in court.

“Why, Richard of Gloucester, milord,” answered Jones amiably. “In
Richard Duke of York
, act three, scene two. Surely you knew that. Forgive me the compressed fragments of his address.” He paused, then addressed the jury again. “And my point is this: It is calumny!” he roared with a passion which no one could be sure, least of all Judge Grainger, was genuine or feigned. “It is a libel on the dead, who cannot bring action against the living! There is Richard the Third, a perfectly good king for the time, no better and no worse than any who preceded or followed him, painted in the blackest of tones as a grasping schemer and cut-throat! It is mere lore that he possessed a ‘misshaped trunk’ and a withered arm, and mere conjecture that he ordered his nephews murdered in the Tower! As for his other infamies, well, these were the common practices of his day. And how many worthy men today become intimate with their nieces, and consume them on dubious bridal beds, and risk no public censure? That prince, I say, was blameless, and his good name and reputation ought to be restored! However, Mr. Shakespeare is beyond the reach of general warrants—but not all the actors, theater managers, and publishers who even today perpetuate the lies! If the Crown wishes to be consistent in the prosecution of liars and libelers and besmirchers of good names—”

Grainger picked up his gavel and angrily struck it once. “Counselor, you are again mocking these proceedings, and I insist—”

“—If the Crown be consistent,” Jones bellowed over the judge, “it would punish all men party to those lies and libels, and banish the Bard from our lives! Was not Richard a king of
this
nation, but is not the universal portrait of him a libel and a blasphemy? Is he not deserving of the respect paid our present sovereign, and of the protection afforded by our laws and courts? Yet, he has been put on an eternal pillory—with Iago!”

Parrot, his mouth pursed in fury, jumped up and strode to the bench. “Objection, milord!” He turned and wagged a shaking finger at Jones. “Everyone knows, sir, that Mr. Shakespeare’s tragedies and histories are mere drama, and do not advocate any particular religion or mode of politics or ethic!”

“Perhaps, esteemed Counselor!” replied Jones. “But you yourself conceded a damning judgment on Iago, who is no less a fictive portrait than that of Richard! No less than the one the Crown has created of the accused!”

Parrot’s face grew red, and his eyes became orbs of hate.

Jones continued. “You cannot deny that a damning judgment was passed on Richard! Why, more citizens have cringed at his cadent, blazoned evil than have been lured and duped by the statements on the poster wrongly attributed to the accused! And those statements, by the bye, are far more peccant and confusing than the worst speech by the Bard’s maddest creation!” Jones flapped his arms once in seeming outrage. “Shakespeare has committed a grosser libel than have the accused, yet while his libel is repeated to paying audiences, and called nonpareil prose, the accuseds’ alleged libel is called hurtful and perilous to the Crown, and subject to punishment!” He turned from Parrot and addressed Grainger. “Where is the equity in that, milord? I say, impound and impeach the Bard, just as the Crown has the accused—or pass not judgment at all, and stay the busy pens of men who sign general warrants!”

Grainger banged his gavel three times in anger. “Cease, Counselor! The objection is sustained!” With a glance at Parrot, who smiled in triumph despite the quivering redness of his face, he sent that man back to his table, then turned to glower down at Jones. “You, Counselor,” he said, pointing a finger at the barrister, “will cease these theatrical displays! If you engage in another instance of histrionics, I shall forbid you to speak further, and instruct the jury in its duty! You will observe the comportment required in this court! Is this clear?”

Jones nodded and bowed modestly. “Forgive my theatrics, milord.” He turned to address the whole court. “But before I took up the heavy tomes of the
Areopagus
to puzzle out justice, I contemplated taking up the prompt-book to seduce the gallery. On occasion, I succumb to the sweet memories of that juvenile affection.”

A man in the jury clapped once, then remembered where he was and quickly folded his arms. Grainger threw the juror a contemptuous look, but Jones faced the man with a smile and performed a stage bow. Parrot muttered to his junior counsel, “He ought to have followed that ambition!”

Grainger let out a sigh of relief, and sat back in his chair as though tired from some physical exertion. “Continue with your arguments, Counselor,” he ordered, “and mind what you say.”

Jones bowed again, then turned to address Parrot. “A question for the King’s Counsel,” he said, assuming a more restrained, business-like demeanor, though with the faint suggestion of a friendly challenge on his face. “When copies and bundles of the poster under consideration were found in all the places claimed by the Crown, did the Crown find any on the persons of the accused, or in their homes or places of custom?”

A collective gasp rose in the courtroom. Parrot glanced quickly up at Grainger. The judge briefly shut his eyes, regretting the self-deceit that had allowed him to believe that Jones overlooked this point. Parrot rose and said, “Objection, milord! The question is…irrelevant.”

Jones chuckled. “Irrelevant, Counselor—or late in the asking?”

Grainger’s eyes slid darkly to silently reprove Jones, then he grimaced and shook his head. “Objection overruled, Counselor,” he sighed. “King’s Counsel must answer the question.”

Parrot bit his lips and faced Jones. “No, sir, not on their persons, nor in their homes or places of custom.”

“Nor anywhere in the vicinity of places frequented by any of the accused, such as the Fruit Wench, or the Royal College of Surgeons, or Mr. Brashears’ club of booksellers on Chandos Street?”

“No, sir.”

“Were any of the accused observed placing the poster in the places cited by King’s Counsel?”

“No, sir.”

“Has the Crown any witnesses it might have called who would swear to having seen any of the accused place the posters in these or other public places?”

“No, sir, it does not.” Parrot looked up at Grainger, hoping to be rescued from the line of questioning.

“Who filed the suit against the accused, sir?”

Grainger leaned forward and said, “King’s Counsel need not answer that question, as the answer may subject that person to recriminations or vendetta suits.”

“Brice Blissom, the Marquis of Bilbury, is deceased, milord,” advised Jones, “and beyond recrimination or redress of the injuries and costs borne by the accused.”

Grainger snorted. “You have violated a Crown confidence, Counselor, and the court will take that violation into consideration when it weighs the jury’s return.”

Jones shrugged, and faced Parrot again. “Other than signing documents necessary to the filing of a suit, Counselor, did the late Marquis sign a deposition or affidavit swearing that he observed one or any of the accused placing a poster in a public place?”