The Iron Master (50 page)

Then, upon the eve of the trial, she found joy in another direction. For Ambrose arrived in Lancaster, with the sweetest and most steadfast of messages from Cicely and Jarvis and the children, and paid the jailer so handsomely that they were able to sup together. He had brought with him an artist who sketched for Ambrose’s newspaper, and while they talked over a bottle of wine the lad drew that portrait of Charlotte which is best known: chin propped upon her manacled hands, her hair a little untidy, one slipper coming away from her foot as she sits with her face turned towards her son, but having such an air of grace and brightness about her that anyone who knew Charlotte would say, ‘Ahl He has caught her admirably!’

The jailer must have lined his purse well that evening, for Ambrose visited his former headmaster also, and carried the first private message that Jack and Charlotte had been able to exchange since they were arrested. And as the young man tactfully contrived to make a great show of opening another bottle of claret Jack read the letter twice. Then Ambrose folded it carefully, and put it back in his coat pocket, and the artist was brought in again, and executed a remarkable likeness: strong and brooding. And shook his hand, and wished him well, and left headmaster and pupil together.

‘Well then, my lad,’ said Jack affectionately, ‘how goes the world?’

‘Oh, upside-down and inside-out, as usual, sir.’

‘You can speak plain,’ said Jack. ‘I shall not come out of this alive, but we could save your mother — if she would let us.’

‘I fear not, sir,’ Ambrose replied. ‘The charitable machinations of my uncle, the ironmaster, have gone somewhat awry. I come as herald of news which will reach you officially tomorrow morning. You and my mother are to stand trial together, on the first day. Justice plans to begin, as it were, at the beginning, with Jack Straw. And to end with Jim Ogden and Ned Ludd. Thus bringing every insurrectionist into the net. They have more stomach for punishment than we had supposed … ’

*

The courtroom was already stuffy at eight o’clock in the morning, and many a lady would faint later on. Four judges sat in majesty, five counsel for the prosecution were ready to draw blood. The defence lawyers looked very collected. In the dock, decently separated, stood Jack Ackroyd and Charlotte Longe. Depicted in pencil by artists of the day they seem very human. He stands easily, with his hands chained behind the tails of his coat. She gracefully, with her hands chained before her. You cannot tell what age they are, except that youth has passed them by. They seem ageless, and although there is a space between them they stand together, the link is almost tangible.

‘ ... in that the Accused, and a great number of False Traitors whose names are yet Unknown, did secretly Form an organisation known as the Red Rose Society, later Called after its Password —
Jack
Straw
. And over Many Years did unlawfully, viciously and seditiously Pursue … ’

Dorcas took out her smelling-bottle and contrived to sniff it without attracting William’s attention. And though she was pleased to escape his notice she could not help thinking that Ned would never have missed that surreptitious dip into the velvet reticule. The courtroom was exceedingly noisy. Folk were walking about and eating oranges, chatting to their neighbours. A child cried and was hushed. A dog was chased out, but not before he had urinated against the door-post.

Counsel opening the case for the prosecution rose, giving the impression that he needed no evidence whatsoever and could convict on sight. Still, he must satisfy those who did not know as much as he did about politics and people.

He had decided to use Jack Ackroyd as a stick with which to beat social reform, and Charlotte as an example of the monstrous new woman. He would begin, he said, with the man known commonly as Jack Straw. The court would notice that he did not say gentleman, for gentility was foreign to such a person. Jack Straw had been the youngest son of a weaver, better to have remained in that station of life to which it had pleased God to call him.

He then painted an idyllic portrait of Millbridge before the Fall, which those who had lived in lower stations would by no means have recognised as their own. He waxed eloquent upon that good but eccentric academic, Mr Henry Tucker, a
gentleman
who believed that by gorging the poor with education you improved them, helped them and changed them. Here he paused emphatically.

‘Changed them?’ he asked, upon a rising note. ‘Does a snake change when it sheds its skin? Does a change of clothes make a difference in a man’s nature? Does a smattering of grammar, or the ability to tot up a column of figures, or the acquisition of a few Latin tags alter a poor-born
villain
?
’

The court was very much quieter now, and the Honourable Mr Runciman dropped his voice to a purr.

‘Why do I say
villain
?
’
he enquired of them poignantly. ‘Does low birth mean villainy? Not at all. There are those now tilling fields who will, in a better world than this, sit among the angels. Good men, honest men, better men than some of their masters, and poor men all. It is not of them I speak.’

Having made sure that the country would not suffer from lack of service, he whipped round to where Jack regarded him sombrely, and pointed his finger at the dock.

‘But there stands a
villain
!
’
he announced. ‘Was he grateful for that excellent scholar’s charity? Did he thank God upon his knees each night? Did he labour to instil a proper sense of values into his pupils? Did he endeavour to serve his King and his Country? Did he, in any way whatsoever, show the smallest gratitude towards the society which had so graciously taken this
viper
to its bosom?’

Dorcas frowned slightly, and put her handkerchief to her lips. William sighed and crossed his legs. Mr Pacey smiled sarcastically. Charlotte and Jack stood in cold dignity. They had been warned to expect this, but it was more difficult to listen to than they had imagined.

‘NO!’ roared counsel for the prosecution, thus effectively silencing the last chatterer. ‘He did not. This creature does not believe in God!’ A gasp went round the courtroom. ‘His morals are his own. He makes his own rules. Good and evil are not decided in Heaven Above!’ His finger pointed up at the dirty ceiling. ‘They are decided by a
worm
who does not know the difference between them! And he does not care for social order, nor King nor Country. He would change it to something’ — here he fluttered his fingers to indicate that Jack had not quite made up his mind — ‘something more to his taste. Such as a place where honest men are robbed of the fruit of their labours, where property can be stolen or destroyed, where women and children can crouch shivering in their beds of a night, where weapons are stolen and used against one’s own friends and kin, where the
Mob
is
King
!
’

He had ended in a cry of horror, and horror ran round the room, echoed by the listening audience.

‘But this is not enough,’ said the Honourable Mr Runciman sorrowfully. ‘He must also corrupt a lady who was hitherto of impeccable reputation!’ Here all eyes were turned upon Charlotte, who looked proudly at the wall to avoid them. ‘And not only does he get her to do his dirty work’ — laughter from him and the crowd — ‘but he attempts to hide behind her skirts when the game is up!’ Jeers and cheers. ‘Oh, what a
gentleman
is this!’

I wonder how he is going to castigate me, Charlotte thought, having presented me as impeccable! She need not have concerned herself. Mr Runciman was as agile as his metaphors. Having set the scene, as it were, he now painted in the details with a fine brush: thus showing the depth and breadth of his researches. For diligence, Charlotte had to admire him. When he was done, Jack Straw was a villain indeed.

‘And now let us consider his lady accomplice,’ said Mr Runciman mildly, and the room gave a satisfied little sigh, and made themselves more comfortable on the wooden benches. ‘Ah, what a different fortune was hers!’

Another idyll ensued, which was nearer the truth but unctuously delivered. He described Ned as ‘an honest yeoman’, Dorcas as ‘gently born and highly principled’, he gave William an accolade to keep him sweet. He even played down the deeds of Toby Longe, who came out much as Henry Tucker had done: very mistaken but well-intentioned.

‘A lone widow,’ said Mr Runciman deeply, ‘with two small children to care for, what does she do, to whom does she turn?
To
her
family!’ Almost, they could hear the choirs of angels. ‘She hides her head, she nurses her sorrow, in the fields of her childhood. The past is forgotten. That radical grafting has not taken. She is free to pursue the mild, pure path of her youth.’ Their faces were solemn, their mouths hung slightly open in contemplation. ‘But what have we here?’ cried the honourable gentleman, seeing the snake rear yet again in Eden. ‘We have our Godless Friend, Mr Ackroyd. He has all the wickedness it takes to rouse discontent among working folk, but he lacks one vital ingredient in his Recipe for Revolution! He lacks the Yeast that makes it rise. Mrs Longe, in her involvement with her husband’s business, has acquired all the skills of a secretary and pamphleteer. She knows that she has gone astray in the past. She wishes to right herself in the future. But — he — will — not — let — her!’

Here, counsel for the prosecution described Jack as ‘a raveging wolf’, juggled the dates to suit his convenience, started Charlotte’s evening classes as a charity which became mere cover for adultery, and fetched Jack in with his underhand schemes for seduction and betrayal. He gave a description of purity defiled, of corruption absolute, likened Charlotte to the lamb for slaughter, whetted their appetite, satisfied their desire for lechery, and then set himself right in the eyes of the law.

‘ … I do not bring in any evidence as to the intimate relationship between Jack Straw and Mrs Longe, for this does not concern the issue, which is entirely one of treason. We do not bring their morals into question. Their code of conduct may
not
be
our
own.
Fair-minded, he lifted his eyebrows to indicate that the law was great enough to live and let live. ‘So we shall dismiss these things from our minds!’ Which, of course, they could not and did not. ‘But what was the effect upon Mrs Longe? Oh, grievous, grievous!’

Now it is indeed my turn, thought Charlotte, and felt naked before them all, for there was sufficient truth in the distortion to give her pause.

The honourable counsel evidently did not care for females unless, like most men, he could either pay them or discount them. Mary Wollstonecraft and her
Vindication
of
the
Rights
of
Women
was well known to him in the past. He fetched up the old phrase ‘hyenas in petticoats’ to describe such creatures. He became possessed. Now Charlotte was brought down to the dust, crumbled: a broken statue of womanly virtue. He described the full extent of her fall from grace, told of books hidden in her private room, spat out the titles of the political ones, stopped with a shudder before mentioning others.

‘I would not soil my lips, nor soil the minds of gentle females here,’ he said gravely, ‘with the vicious, bestial and filthy literature found in this woman’s keeping … ’

He gathered himself for the final injunction.

‘In a long, and I hope I may say
honourable
, career,’ said Mr Runciman, giving the impression that he had wrestled with evil and was exhausted, ‘I have not come across such monstrous joint depravity before. I have not been so — ashamed? Yes, that is how I should describe my feeling. But I leave the question of justice to you. The evidence is very clear. I do not doubt your conclusions.’

Whereupon he sat down and drank off a glass of wine which one of the court servants brought him, and seemed much refreshed by his exercise.

They had dredged up every witness who could have held a grudge against either of the prisoners. Most of them were poor, for even such prejudiced ladies as Mrs Graham would have declined to make a public spectacle of themselves. Also, as Charlotte noted with irony, William’s money and power granted her a certain degree of protection. They did not care tuppence for her, but her brother was a different matter. But Jack Ackroyd took every sling and arrow that misfortune could aim at him, and even members of Millbridge Council bore witness to his temper — ‘fiendish bursts of rage’ — his efforts to help the poor — ‘seditious suggestions’ — his honesty — ‘slander’ — and his solitary nature — ‘secret plotting’.

The evidence for the prosecution rolled on like some ponderous wagon of destruction, and the hands of the clock crept past noon, and someone brought Charlotte a chair. Jack shifted his position to afford himself relief. His rheumatism had come on apace in prison. Folk went outside to drink and eat, and came back again wiping their mouths, or unwrapped the food they had brought and passed bottles between them. At one stage William escorted Dorcas into fresher air and they did not return for some time. And, like any audience at the theatre, the crowd reflected the quality of entertainment. If it flagged they yawned and talked among themselves. When it tickled their fancy they roared applause, groaned sanctimonious assent, sniggered at sly digs, hissed foul-play, and listened with hushed attention.