The Masters of Bow Street (45 page)

She thought: Those he fights will marshal all their resources against him. What chance has he to win? But there was no mistaking the eagerness within him, and this was not the moment to pour cold water on his dreams.

‘Jamey,’ she said, ‘it is the only answer.’

‘What a wife you are!’ he cried. ‘I tell you I have not felt so much a human being for weeks. The hanging of young Green has haunted me, but this way I can avenge him and countless others. This way all the reforms so desperately heeded can be brought into being.

‘When they pulled down so many of the houses in Long Acre and in Cheapside most of the people moved to Minshall, and I myself protected their rights, made sure those who owned their property were properly recompensed. It is like the finger of God pointing the way.’

The finger of God, she thought, in the death of a man on London’s streets.

The voice of God in the scream of a child.

How long, how long, were human beings going to blame God for the way they lived and the things they did?

‘Mary,’ James said in a husky voice, ‘I feel as if I have been away from you for a long time and am now back.’

‘I know how you feel,’ she answered him.

She felt his hands upon her, the desire in him, and she closed her eyes and tried to ease the tightness of her body.

‘Mary,’ he said, ‘I love you. How I love you. There can never be anyone for me but you.’ He was kissing her. ‘Mary, I love you. . .’

When, not long afterward, he was asleep by her side and she lay between sleeping and waking, she was aware of shame and she was aware of David and of what had happened earlier that night. She recalled to her amazement that for several moments with James she had actually forgotten David. I am no better than a whore, she thought. And, more sharply, she wondered what would happen if James found out what had taken place between her and David. She answered herself: He can never find out. Only David knows, and he will feel as great a shame as I.

She did not expect to sleep, but when she awoke the following day it was almost as if that passionate interlude with David had been a dream, and she was soon plunged into a whirl of morning activity which prevented her from dwelling on what had happened.

James, still excited at the prospect he had conjured up for himself, spent an hour with Nicholas in the shop, where every imaginable kind of oddment, old and new, was now for sale; the one condition that it had been made or long existed in London.

James did not know when Benedict Sly would be at his office but thought it likely that he had been up late the night before and might not arrive until the afternoon. Headlines announcing the death of the member from Minshall were everywhere, but whilst several newspapers carried long stories about the accident they said little about its political consequences. James glanced at these, then opened The Daily Clarion.

Benedict had not ignored the political significance of the M.P.’s death, which he described in detail in his leading article, and which James read with the closest attention. He became aware of Nicholas Sly at the doorway; so rapt had he been that he had no idea how long the younger man had been present. Nicholas, now in his early twenties, was sharp-featured, with expressive brown eyes and full, well-shaped lips; it would be hard to imagine anyone less like Benedict. This morning he looked troubled, which was unusual.

‘Are there any problems with which. I can help?’ asked James.

‘No, sir, but most certainly there are problems,’ Nicholas replied heavily. ‘Have you seen the risks which Benedict has taken in his article, speaking out against the King? I fear serious repercussions.’

‘I doubt whether the King or anyone would force such an issue yet,’ James said. ‘But I am going to see Benedict forthwith and I will find out what he and other newspapermen think.’

He fought back the temptation to tell Nicholas what was in his own mind, and went to Wine Court. The dining space there had been turned into a coffee house used almost exclusively by journalists, and James saw that Benedict was present and was surrounded in the smoke-filled room by at least a dozen other men of the press. James could feel the undercurrent of tension.

One man, the editor of The Record, which usually opposed everything The Daily Clarion stood for, was saying in a clipped, angry voice, ‘I’ll support you to the hilt, Benedict. You must refuse to go.’

‘It is an outrageous command,’ another growled.

Benedict, outwardly the calmest of those present, looked towards the door and espied James. Immediately he smiled and waved, and the crowd about him made a passage.

‘Come in, Jamey, come in!’ Benedict cried. ‘You are in time to see a unique moment; aye, a historic moment in history.’ Despite his smile and the hint of amusement in his deep voice James knew that he was serious. ‘The first moment on record when every London newspaper is in full agreement!’ There was a rumble of ‘Aye, aye’ and ‘That we are!’ followed with a thumping of fists on the table and feet on the floor. ‘It has pleased His Grace the Marquis of Bute to send a summons for me to appear before him and the Privy Council to answer a charge of sedition. To quote: “Your comments are false, scandalous and seditious libel,” and I am accordingly summoned to show cause why I should not be tried for treason and why The Daily Clarion should not be banned from publication.’

‘My God, they lost no time!’ one of the newcomers called out.

‘You will refuse to go,’ said another.

‘I have to go,’ replied Benedict. ‘And I have it on good authority that they plan to commit me to jail on a warrant sworn by the Secretary of State. Are you not glad you are not a journalist, Jamey?’

‘I feel almost ashamed to be an Englishman,’ James replied in stunned, cold anger.

‘What will you do if they take you under arrest?’ called a man standing on a bench.

‘Be guided by my lawyer,’ Benedict replied. ‘What would you have me do, Jamey?’

James said in a quiet voice which sounded everywhere because of the silence which fell, ‘I need a little time to think.’

‘Don’t take too much,’ urged the editor of The Record. ‘It will not be long before they send mounted constables from Westminster. Now that they have started this iniquitous persecution they can only serve their purpose by acting fast.’

‘We shall have some warning,’ a bearded man pointed out. ‘We have paid street sweepers at various vantage points on the several routes along which a troop of mounted men would come, and these will signal to each other until one on the roof of the nearest building to us in Fleet will wave a notice of close approach.’

‘You sound almost as if you had been forewarned,’ said James.

‘Only a dullard would have failed to see the imminence of an attempt to muzzle the press completely,’ the editor of The Record declared. He was short and stocky, boasting an iron-grey beard and a shock of iron grey hair. ‘Parliament is once again becoming a tool of the King and the aristocracy, with the great bankers supporting them.’ His voice trembled with rage and he shook a clenched fist as he went on. ‘If there is no voice of the people and Westminster takes no heed, then there must be a voice in Fleet Street!’

His outburst drew another, louder roar of applause, so full of emotion that James believed this must surely be a unique moment. Slowly silence fell, and James spoke.

‘There must be a voice of the people in the House.’

‘Jamey,’ Benedict said, ‘there are many voices but they are muted.’

‘There must be another in the new Member for Minshall,’ James declared. The smile was wiped off Benedict’s face, and every eye was suddenly turned towards James. ‘I propose to submit myself to the electors as worthy of representing them. I hope you will all be able to support me.’ While gasps of surprise were still echoing he continued in a voice of absolute conviction: ‘You should allow them to take you, Ben, and then have every man ride after you, demanding your release. I will go to John Fielding, and unless the Secretary of State accuses you of treason immediately, which I doubt, Fielding will soon have you out. This attempt to intimidate the press will fail, but its failure - and its purpose - will be ten times more apparent to the public if you are thrown into jail and then brought out.’

‘My God, Ben, you have a clever lawyer!’ a man called.

‘That will remain to be seen,’ James replied. ‘There should quickly be a special edition of every newspaper, if only a single sheet, condemning the move and demanding absolute freedom for free comment. Copies should be distributed everywhere in London and nearby. And a slogan is needed, a rallying cry—’

A man called: ‘Free Sly, free the Press and free the People!’

‘Aye! Aye !’ came in a great roar which shook the doors, and the shutters on the windows and the mugs and platters on the tables. There was such a din that at first no one saw the door open and the small boy come in, with a mat of coarse hair, wearing a filthy, stinking, torn shirt and ragged knickerbockers, barelegged and with feet so dirt-stained they looked more like those of an Indian. But his eyes were bright and bespoke a quick intelligence.

He was breathless from running when he cried, ‘I’m the captain of the sweepers. I’ve to see Mr. Garnett!’

‘I am Sam Garnett!’ called the bearded man who had promised some warning. ‘Are the horsemen coming?’

‘Indeed yes, sir - two parties of them, one by the Strand and one by Long Acre. ‘Tis true, sir, my boys have warned me. There are six in each party, sir!’

Suddenly a man let out a cry much greater than before.

‘The riders are coming!’ he roared. ‘They’re coming fast!’

‘To your horses,’ James cried as Garnett tossed a small bag of coins to the self-styled captain of the crossing sweepers. As the boy pulled the string of the bag and gazed inside, dazzled at such munificence, the men began to stream out, and only Benedict, James and Jabez Peterson, the editor of The Record, remained. Hoofbeats clattered in the yard a few minutes afterward and footsteps sounded noisily on the cobbles until the door was thrust open and two men, both carrying pistols, strode in.

‘I come for Mr. Benedict Sly,’ the first man stated, waving a document which crackled like parchment. ‘I have a warrant for his arrest signed by the Secretary of State.’

‘The Secretary of State has no such authority,’ James declared. ‘A warrant must be signed by a justice of the peace.’

‘The warrant is good enough for me,’ the man replied harshly. ‘Are you going to defy me?’

‘I am going to fight you, but not with a sword,’ replied James, and looked at Benedict, who had not yet said a word. ‘You had better go, Ben.’

‘I would like first to go to my office and explain—’ began Benedict.

‘You are to come with me immediately. Others may explain for you.’

James went into the yard, Peterson stumping behind, and watched as Benedict mounted a saddled horse brought for him. But barely had he and his military escort started on their way than a stream of carriages and horsemen appeared from the Ludgate Hill direction, others joining them from narrow streets. Hampering the soldiers in every way they could, the men of Fleet Street went not only ahead but on both sides, while behind there were at least another fifty; and as the strange assembly reached the church of St. Clement, the protesters began to chant:

‘Free Sly . . . Free the Press . . . Free the People!’

Crowds on the sidewalk heard the words and began to cheer. Boy crossing sweepers joined in, high-pitched voices sounding above the rest. The cheering was carried swiftly along the Strand, people rushing from shops and houses to see what was going on, and all taking up the cry:

‘Free Sly . . . Free the Press . . . Free the People!’

‘Mr. Benedict Sly,’ said the Solicitor General, ‘since you refuse to withdraw these remarks I feel that I have no alternative but to have you committed to the prison of Newgate, where you will remain until your trial.’

‘But if you will disavow your scurrilous remarks this remand will be withdrawn,’ the Marquis of Bute declared.

‘Not one word,’ replied Benedict Sly. ‘The press and the people have a right to say what they think, even about the King, sir.’

‘With the greatest regret I must ask the justice present - Mr. Lawler, please - to commit you on a charge of inciting a riot. A graver charge may follow.’

‘The one way to ensure a riot is to accuse me of treason on these ludicrous grounds,’ Benedict Sly said. ‘It is not I but you who have to think again, gentlemen.’

As Benedict Sly was brought to the gates of the prison, two bodies still swung on the gallows from the morning’s hanging. Children playing at the gallows foot ran to and fro beneath the corpses, leaping high to try to touch the limp feet. The jailer, seeing Benedict’s clothes and cleanliness, greeted him with respect.

‘For a few paltry pounds a week, sir, you may have your own room and the services of a warder, and if you wish it, a nightly visit from a respectable woman whose cleanliness I can promise you. She will ask nothing but your favour, sir.’

‘I will go where the felons without money go,’ Benedict said.

The jailer’s face dropped.

‘But that’s no place for the likes of you, sir!’

‘Nevertheless, that is where I will go,’ Benedict told him.

‘Outrageous,’ muttered Sir John Fielding when James had finished making his report. ‘This magistrate Lawler will do anything for money. I know of no precedent or justification at all. Do you, David?’

Fielding sat on a chair in the well of the court, James standing on one side of him, David Winfrith on the other. Apart from the three men, the court was empty. David looked as if he had not slept all night. He had talked little, and that brusquely, when James had first arrived.

‘No, Sir John, none whatsoever.’

‘Then I shall sign the writ for Sly’s release,’ Fielding declared, ‘and shall send two constables to the prison to serve it. If there is any dispute with the keeper of the prison, I will consider what steps to take.’ He turned to James as David started to prepare the writ. ‘What is this I hear about you contesting Minshall, Jamey? Is it true, boy?’