by Regan Walker
Cornelia must have had the same reaction as she squeezed Joanna’s hand, whispering, “Oh, my.”
The witness continued. “There was a great mob, a hundred or more all shouting as they drove the cart up the street and into Bloomsbury Square.”
When the witness paused to draw breath, Mr. Silvester asked him, “What happened next?”
Joanna was sitting on the edge of the bench, straining to hear.
“At the end of Dyot Street, I heard somebody cry, ‘Let him go, let him go!’ and I saw one John Cook with the prisoner in his arms. I jumped up and told the prisoner if he did not go quietly, I would run him through with my cutlass. He struggled a good deal, but there were many people who came and assisted us so we were able to take him.”
The questioning proceeded, the witness being asked about what he saw of the prisoner, which it seemed, was not much, having initially been hit from behind. It sickened Joanna hearing it. Cornelia still held Joanna’s hand. Tension permeated the court.
Joanna swallowed hard, suppressing an urge to scream. There was no need for such horrible treatment of the officers and the horse merely to recover smuggled tea. Guilt overwhelmed her until she reminded herself that she and her men never carried weapons and would not use force to regain seized goods. She would have been relieved to get away.
The next witness, Thomas Buckland, a short man with a stout body, was called and sworn. Mr. Wilson questioned him.
“I am an officer in the Excise,” said Mr. Buckland, his cheeks red under his wiry fair hair. “I was with the last witness and went to Apperton with him and the other officers. We seized twelve bags of tea and made our way toward London. The prisoner passed us on horseback.”
“Are you sure it was the same man?”
“Yes. There was another with him. As we came near the Excise Office, a large mob met us.”
The judge interjected, “Had they anything in their hands?”
“Bludgeons, sir. I saw nothing but bludgeons. They attacked us and I defended myself as best I could. I lost sight of the horse and cart and my comrades but, as soon as I could, I went in pursuit of them, and the goods were retaken.”
Mr. Garrow cross-examined. “How far were you behind the cart at the time you were attacked?”
Joanna was struck by the barrister’s elegant, soft-spoken manner.
“I was close to it,” the witness said. “The greatest part of the mob was before me.”
“You could see distinctly, I take it?”
The witness nodded. “There was a great mob I could see from all quarters.”
“What sort of bludgeons did they carry?” Mr. Garrow asked thoughtfully.
“They were large sticks.”
Pondering for a minute, Mr. Garrow then asked, “Were they common walking sticks or were they bludgeons?”
“They were what you’d call bludgeons or clubs.”
“Do you mean to swear that?”
“I will swear they were sticks.”
The judge intervened, scolding the prisoner’s counsel. “Mr. Garrow, it does not matter whether they were sticks or bludgeons!”
The witness, Mr. Buckland, spoke up eagerly. “I will swear they were large uncommon sticks.” If the matter had not been so serious, Joanna would have laughed at their banter about sticks. She agreed with the judge. What did it matter what the weapons were called when they were used to beat a man senseless? She was repulsed by the violence. Only foolish men would fight revenue officers when they could have fled and been free.
The trial went on with more witnesses testifying as to what transpired that day. One witness for the prosecution remained in Joanna’s mind because he was a soldier.
John Chatterton testified, “I am a soldier. I was with the other witnesses. I saw the prisoner that day about half a mile from the place where the seizure took place. There was a large noisy mob there and I asked the officer, Simpson, what was the matter. He said he did not know. Then three or four of the mob came up and struck him as hard as they could.”
The jury groaned as one.
The judge asked, “With what?”
“Large bludgeons, very large sticks. They knocked Mr. Simpson off the cart; he tumbled on top of me.”
“Did you see the prisoner do anything?”
“He struck me with a stick and knocked me down, and said to the mob, ‘Damn him, kill him, knock him on the head.’ I had nothing to defend myself with. I had lost my weapon. In the scuffle, I had lost the blunderbuss I had under my coat. I do not know what became of the horse and cart. I was so knocked about, I lost sight of them.”
The judge narrowed his eyes on Chatterton. “You are sure that Shelley, the prisoner at the bar, was the man who knocked you down with the stick?”
The witness straightened. “I am quite sure of it.”
Mr. Garrow cross-examined. “Were you in your soldier’s dress?”
“No, sir, I was not. I had on a brown great coat.” That fact stuck with Joanna. How were the smugglers to know Mr. Chatterton was with the revenue service if he wore a common man’s clothing? Perhaps that had been Mr. Garrow’s point.
“So you took this blunderbuss in order to fire it?”
“Yes, for my own defense.”
“Was there any other blunderbuss there?” Mr. Garrow asked.
“I did not see any,” said Mr. Chatterton. “There might have been, but I could not have seen them. I was knocked down and had no idea where I was.”
The men of the jury sent up a great hue and cry at the soldier’s dilemma and the prisoner’s having beaten him. The woman sitting closest to Joanna chewed on her knuckles.
More witnesses testified, including those for the defense, until Joanna was nauseated from the descriptions. At the end of it, Mr. Garrow made a long speech, part of which focused on an issue he felt had not been addressed.
Arguing to the judge, he said, “My Lord, I humbly submit that the goods must be unaccustomed; they must be liable for the payment of duties. Can the gentlemen upon their oaths say that the duties on this tea were never paid? Not at all! Why then, I say, the Crown has not proven they are unaccustomed goods.”
The judge gave him a skeptical look.
Undaunted, Garrow continued, “There is no evidence the package was peculiar to smugglers. It may have been carried to Apperton under permit. Shall the prisoner not defend his property? Even a constable may be lawfully resisted unless he is a known constable or produces his warrant.”
Joanna thought it a clever argument, but with witnesses describing the manner in which the tea had been hidden before being seized by the excise officers, she had no doubt the goods were smuggled. Besides, all of England was drinking smuggled tea. One did not need to hide tea on which a duty had been paid.
After some argument by the Crown’s counsel, the judge addressed Mr. Garrow’s objection. “Whether the goods were unaccustomed is a matter for the jury. But people are not called upon to make positive proof of negative propositions. They can prove that the tea was concealed and in what sort of packages. Upon all the facts, the jury must form a judgment, whether or not it amounts to proof that they were unaccustomed goods. I am of the opinion that the prisoner ought to go on with his defense.”
More witnesses were called for the defense, testifying to different aspects of the attack on the revenue officers.
At the end of the cross-examination, the judge addressed the jury. “Gentlemen of the jury, this indictment is founded on an act of Parliament in order to repress the daring conduct and behavior of the smugglers, who endeavored not only to violate the laws, but to resist them with force. It is for your consideration whether the facts and circumstances fail to show these goods were unaccustomed.” Adding to his final instructions, the judge said, “If a person is stopped and apprehended, and tells a false story, that is evidence of guilt.”
After the judge set forth the evidence and listed the questions for the jury, the group of men retired to consider what they had heard.
&nb
sp; Cornelia leaned to Joanna. “I cannot imagine the man will go free, can you?”
“No, I cannot.” Awash in guilt for her part in smuggling that might have led to such an encounter, she vowed to remind her men never to resist should they be captured. They might face gaol but not death. At the back of her mind was the thought she must find a way to help the poor of Chichester without engaging in illegal trade.
The jury returned shortly and the foreman faced the judge. In a loud voice, he proclaimed, “Guilty, death.”
The woman sitting on the bench next to Joanna screamed and the young man shouted, “No!” A loud tumult sounded from the rest of the observers in the gallery, all save Joanna and Cornelia who remained gravely silent.
Joanna’s attention turned to the prisoner, who had been reduced to a pathetic wretch. He brushed away tears from his cheeks and looked up to the gallery where the women and the young man sat next to Joanna. Shaking his head, he looked down at his hands, gripping the railing.
When the noise in the court died down, the foreman of the jury, still standing, added, “My Lord, it is the unanimous and earnest wish of the jury that the prisoner may be humbly recommended as an object of His Majesty’s mercy.”
Joanna doubted, based on the case presented, the prisoner would ever see that mercy.
The whole experience had shaken her. To think she, too, could face such a trial, that Freddie could be in that box where John Shelley stood, made her stomach roil and her heart pound in her chest.
She let out a deep sigh.
One more run. They had committed to one more and then she must find another way to help the villagers. She never wanted to see them at the Old Bailey. She never wanted to be there herself.
The prisoner was led away and the gallery began to empty. The women who had watched the trial beside them were dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs as they stood to leave.
Once they were gone, Cornelia abruptly stood. “Tea, I think, is in order. Twinings?”
Joanna got to her feet, her shoulders sagging with the weight of what she had witnessed. “Some refreshment after that is welcome, though I shouldn’t wonder if we ought to drink something stronger than tea.” Particularly if it were tea she knew might very well be smuggled. But then, so was most of England’s brandy.
Chapter 11
Despite tossing all night with dreams of smuggler John Shelley facing the noose, the next morning Joanna was up early. Fortified with coffee and dressed in her cinnamon-colored riding habit and feathered hat, she was prepared for the arrival of Lord Hugh Seymour.
Up half the night from the ball she had attended, Tillie still slept, so Joanna did not have to answer her younger sister’s prying questions as to why she would ride in Hyde Park with a man rumored to be one of London’s rakes.
As promised, Lord Hugh arrived promptly at ten. She expected no less of a former naval officer, no matter he and the Prince of Wales might have been up all night drinking and gambling in the golden halls of London’s gentlemen’s clubs.
She met him at the door with a cheerful smile. “Good morning, Lord Hugh.” Behind him, a sunny morning presented itself.
He stood tall in his fine set of dark brown riding clothes, his riding boots well polished. Under his beaver tricorne, his nut-brown hair was neatly queued at his nape. Indeed, she had to agree with Richard, the man cut a handsome figure.
He looked her up and down with an approving smile. “By God, I will be the envy of every man on the Row!”
“You flatter me, good sir, but I will take your compliment and say ‘thank you’. Shall we go?”
Outside, Seymour’s chestnut gelding stood next to her white mare that she had earlier asked the groom to bring around to the front.
“We shall have good weather,” he remarked, as he helped her to mount.
Mayfair was only a few streets from Hyde Park, so they were soon trotting down the broad sand-covered road that was once called Route du Roi, now simply known as Rotten Row.
Since it would be a few hours before the ton appeared en masse at midday, they mostly had the park to themselves. From the tall trees on either side of them, robins greeted the cool sun-filled day with vigorous songs.
She glanced across at Lord Hugh and noticed his eyes drooping. “Up late with Prince George?”
He smiled sheepishly. “More like we greeted the dawn together.”
She laughed. “At times, Lord Hugh, you must miss the sea. At least as a captain of one of His Majesty’s ships, you had regular hours.”
“At times I do, my lady, though plying the waters of the Channel can become boring. It is not exactly a battle on the sea of great import. When the Channel is all you see for days, any excuse to sail into port is a good one. I am happy for the change, particularly as I am aware war is never far away.” At her raised brow, he went on. “The climate in France bodes ill. ’Tis a rising tide of discontent. We who are attuned to such matters watch it closely.”
“Is it so bad?” she asked, concerned.
“It is. The French queen is not popular with the people and now that America has her independence, the peasants clamor for their own freedom. There have been eruptions of violence in the countryside, and in Paris, riots for the lack of bread.”
“Oh, I didn’t know, but what you say makes sense. Even the common man in England is none too happy with the increase in taxes to pay for an unpopular war. Our countrymen’s situation deteriorates along with the French.”
“Just so. ’Tis why I keep my uniform at the ready should I be called upon to serve once again. My life, as it is now, may be only a brief respite, an interlude between wars, if you will. So I am determined to enjoy it.”
She smiled, realizing there was more to this man than his rakish habits. “Then I shall not begrudge you your pleasure while you may take it, but perhaps I can help bring you awake this morning. Let us take the Row in a race!” She flicked her mare with her riding crop and plunged ahead, galloping away.
Seymour followed, his horse’s hooves pounding the dirt path as he shouted encouragement. “On! I say onward, my lady!”
At the end of the Row, a mile long, Joanna pulled up, out of breath and heart pounding. She loved the thrill of such a mad race, the exhilaration and the wind on her face.
Lord Hugh drew even with her. “Why, Lady Joanna, you are a fierce horsewoman! And you have a mind to go with that beautiful face. I only wish you might come to London more often.”
“What? And force you to rise before noon? Nay, not while you are partnered with Prince George. You need your sleep!”
He laughed heartily. “Of a certainty, I will miss you, Lady Joanna.”
She smiled up at him. “That is most kind of you to say.” He looked long into her eyes, seeing what, she had no idea. “Is something amiss, Lord Hugh?”
“No… No, it just occurred to me you would, indeed, make an ideal wife.”
Narrowing her eyes, she studied him, suspicious at this sudden thought. “Did Torrington put you up to this?”
“Your brother? Why no… Well, he may have suggested… But no.”
“I see. Truly, Lord Hugh, I am not the woman you seek.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “I can be persistent, you know.”
“I fear it would be a wasted effort,” she said, then softened her words with a smile.
He seemed to accept her answer. “All right,” he said, disappointed.
They walked their horses back down the Row and then to Mayfair, speaking of the London Season, of the Handel concert and Seymour’s escapades with the prince.
She enjoyed Lord Hugh’s company and their easy banter, but she could never imagine him as more than a friend. Their conversation lacked the edge she had come to appreciate when she was in the company of the mysterious comte de Saintonge. The Frenchman was unpredictable, amusing and his masculine presence excited her in a way this man never could.
As she waved goodbye to Lord Hugh, she pondered what Donet might be doing now. Was he on his
way to France where an unhappy populace fomented discontent?
North of Guernsey Island, in the English Channel off the coast of Normandy
Midmorning, Jean stood at the rail, wind whipping his hair free from its queue. It was a blustery day in the Channel as they headed south.
Off the larboard, twenty-six miles to the east, the hills of Normandy’s Cotentin peninsula boldly emerged from the white-capped waters. Off the starboard, he could see the three lighthouses standing sentinel on the Casquets, the huge cluster of rocks off Alderney Island. The familiar landmark told him they were not far from Guernsey.
With a northeasterly wind and full sail above him, they would soon arrive in the harbor of St. Peter Port.
“The weather has been kind to us, Capitaine,” said Émile, suddenly appearing at his side. Jean turned to see the rough outline of his quartermaster’s face, shadowed with his back to the sun.
“We should reach St. Peter Port in time for supper,” raising his voice to be heard over the wind.
Émile smiled. “As I remember, Lidstone’s on the quay serves a tolerable veal.”
“Supper at Lidstone’s appeals.” Seeing his quartermaster’s weary look, he added, “We might enjoy an evening to ourselves.”
“And the men would enjoy an evening in port, Capitaine.”
“I have no objection. We need only enough men for a harbor watch to guard the ship.”
“I will see to it. And, if ye agree, I would propose to load the ship tomorrow.”
Jean nodded. “Très bien, as long as those ashore tonight return by morning.”
“Any special orders for Cook for provisions?”
Jean reflected on the foods he favored from St. Peter Port. “A few. Along with our usual supplies, see that Cook takes on a good supply of honey and some cream and cheese. After a fortnight of English bread, some pastries and brioche from the pâtisserie on High Street would be welcome, too.” He thought for a moment, then added, “And some of those sausages from Philippe’s boucherie, I think. Enough for all the men.”
