‘There are strict rules in these matters, I find.’
‘There were strict rules in the arena, too. Every gladiator had to have a sword, oh yes; but if it was Caligula he was to fight with, the sword was made of lead. And a judge is an emperor in his own court. He made us go on. I remember listening to Maule, who spoke well to begin with, but then started rambling and repeating himself and muddling his figures, and as I listened I wondered what I could say to a jury that was two parts asleep and thoroughly disgusted with the whole thing. Maule was followed by Petty for two of the other defendants, and he spoke even worse, though at greater length: Quinborough dozed through most of it. When at last I got to my feet – but I will not go into it: it is too painful. I tried reason – no good – I tried emotion, victories, wounds, reputation – no good, and in any event I was scarcely audible and scarcely capable of consecutive thought. I did make my capital point of Aubrey’s not having sold at the top of the market like the others, and I did produce my perfectly sincere ending: “It would be the most painful moment of my life if I should tonight find that the wreath of laurel which a life of danger and honour has planted round his brow should be for a moment blasted by your verdict.” But that was no good either; the few waking jurymen stared like codfish on a slab. When I sat down, having
wrecked my case, it was three o’clock in the morning. We had been sitting for eighteen hours, and after all Quinborough adjourned without having heard our witnesses.’
‘Eighteen hours. Jesus, Mary, Joseph.’
‘Yes, and we were there again at ten the next day. I was feeling so indifferent I could scarcely drag myself along or croak. However, the defence witnesses took up little time. Mine proved nothing more than Aubrey’s splendid record, which was not really in question; and although Lord Melville spoke handsomely his words had little effect on the jurymen, few of whom knew that there was such a person as the First Lord. We should never have called them, because once they were done with Pearce began his reply, to which we could make no answer. It was a good reply: he had the exact measure of the jury, now quite awake and open to simple, repetitive argument. He first tore our speeches to rags, which I am afraid was no difficult task, and then he hammered home his points –
Aubrey’s need for money, his sudden perfect opportunity, the instant dealings after his arrival in London, dealings that ran into millions of money and that were indulged in by all concerned, and of course the obvious admission of guilt by those defendants who had run away. Then Lord Quinborough summed up; it took him three hours.’
‘Is he the judge with a wart on the side of his face that I saw in the Guildhall this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can he be an intelligent man, at all?’
‘He was an intelligent man. You rarely come to be a judge without having been reasonably intelligent at one time. But like many others he has grown stupid on the bench, stupid and froward and overbearing and inordinately self-important. However, he did make an extraordinary effort this time, collecting all his faculties -he is, as you know, a roaring High Tory and the present chance of destroying Radicals was nectar to him – and although he was intolerably prosy and repetitious he did do all he wanted to do.’ Another bout of coughing, sneezing and general distress seized upon Lawrence; when it was over, and when Stephen had propped him up against his smoothed pillows, he said in an almost voiceless whisper, ‘I will not go into the details; you will read the report. But as far as Aubrey was concerned it was the most infamous summing-up I have ever heard.
Quinborough
assumed the guilt of all the defendants, lumped Aubrey in with the rest, passed over everything in his favour or touched upon it very lightly, with obvious scepticism, and emphasized every adverse point. He virtually told the jury to convict, and when they retired I wrote Aubrey a note, warning him to prepare for the worst. He nodded: he was perfectly self-possessed – grave, but in no way overwhelmed or dismayed. And he seemed equally unmoved when they came back in an hour or so with their verdict of guilty. He shook my hand and thanked me for my efforts; I could scarcely get a word out in reply. I shall see him again when he comes up for sentence on the twentieth.’
‘What will the sentence be, do you suppose?’
‘I hope, I hope, it will only be a fine.’
CHAPTER NINE
The morning drizzle was scarcely yet lightening in the cast, but the nearby candle-factory had already started pouring out its nauseating smell and a damp group of wives, children, friends and servants had already gathered outside the gates of the Marshalsea.
A few minutes before the time for opening Sophie Aubrey came walking through the mud, high-perched on pattens. ‘Why, Stephen,’ she cried, ‘here you are at last! What a pleasure to see you. But how early you are. And how wet,’ she added, looking at him with large, startled eyes. ‘Put your hat on at once: you must not get your head wet too, for Heaven’s sake. Come and shelter under my umbrella: hold my arm.’
‘I particularly wished to catch you before you went in to see Jack,’ said Stephen. ‘But in my hurry I mistook the hour. I have never been very clever at telling what’s o’clock.’
The gates swung inwards with their usual shriek and the people walked in, treading their habitual paths; but the debtors’ side was open half an hour before the rest and Stephen led Sophie to the coffee-house, where they sat in a deserted corner.
‘You look quite tired out, as well as wet. Give me your great-coat, Stephen.’ She hung it on the back of a settle to drip. She said ‘I am afraid you have not heard any good news, my dear,’ but without waiting for an answer she called for ‘coffee, hot and very strong, if you please, Mrs Goadby, some rolls, and two soft-boiled eggs for the gentleman’.
‘Sure I have been travelling with barely a pause at all; I had hoped that hard labour would somehow earn
an encouraging word, and indeed one great man did hint that the imprisonment might be remitted. But all the rest is black. Lawrence explains to me that a new trial is impossible: since all the so-called conspirators were included in the indictment and all were found guilty, they must all present themselves to make an appeal – it must be the whole body or nothing. It is a new rule of the court.’
‘I low I hate lawyers,’ cried Sophie, her eyes growing dark.
‘So much for the appeal; and as for the sentence, time and again I was told by the men and women to
whom I applied that “they could not alter the course of justice” . .
‘Justice be damned,’ said Sophie, in the very tone of her cousin Diana.
‘And although to be sure that was exactly what I wanted them to do, I was even more concerned with altering the course of custom – I mean in preventing Jack’s name from being struck off the. list. If he is guilty, or rather if he is found guilty of an infamous crime,
an officer’s name is automatically struck off: it is not a matter of law but of custom and it has such a force that as Prince William assured me, speaking most earnestly and with tears in his eyes, neither he nor the First Lord could change it. Only the King or in this case the Regent has the power. He is in Scotland and in any event I am known to him only as his brother’s friend; and he and his brother are on very bad terms at present. So I travelled down to Brighton and waited upon his wife.’
‘His wife, Stephen?’
‘She is usually known as Mrs Fitzherbert.’
‘Arc they indeed married? I thought she was a -a Roman Catholic.’
‘Certainly they arc married. The Pope himself wrote to tell her the ceremony was valid and that she was his canonical wife. Charles Weld showed me the document
– I knew him well, cousin to her first husband and at one time a priest in Spain. She received me very kindly, hut she shook her head, said she had almost no influence now and even if she had, she doubted anything could he done. However, she did advise me to see Lady Hertford, and that is what I intend to do. Put listen, Sophie, this appeal to the Regent cannot be made quickly, I find; if indeed it can usefully be made at all. In the meanwhile the Surprise has been bought. She is to be a private ship of war, and she now lies at Shelmerston with Tom Pullings in charge. He sends word that prime seamen by the score, many of them old shipmates, wish to embark if Jack commands her. If he will consent to do so, we can get away the moment all this is over, above all if there is to be no imprisonment. You must make him consent, my dear.’