The Ballad of John Clare

by Hugh Lupton

  “And risk losing all that I have worked for, and my father before me and my old grandsire, bless his soul … and all that I might pass on to you Mary. And put all these other lives in jeopardy that depend upon me for their living, Will Farrell, John Fell, Nathan Cushion, Kate, Lizzie and Hope ….all for the sake of a gypsy I have only once clapped eyes upon …‘tis too high a price.”

  Mary was silent. She looked down at the floor so that her hair fell forwards across her face. He took her hands. He whispered:

  “I’m sorry Mary, I know this injustice hurts you very sore … but you will not prevail.”

  She nodded.

  He turned and left the room. She stood a long time alone in the parlour.

  *******

  In the Bluebell after sundown it was the same story. The fear of the Earl’s displeasure was too strong a medicine for any to swallow save Old Otter.

  “I’ll come with thee John, for what have I to lose by telling God’s truth?”

  From the rest there was nought but a shaking of heads. He was only a thieving gypsy after all, and if innocent of firing the gun there could be no denying the poaching. Even those who knew Wisdom shook their heads. Jonathan Burbridge feared losing his carpenter’s shop and half his custom. James Bain feared for his forge. Sam Billings feared the loss of his carting business. Even Parker Clare feared for his cottage, though he saw but little danger in John standing witness.

  “You say your piece, son, for we know who’s at fault in the matter and the truth must be spoke according to your conscience and even the mighty stand naked before the law.”

  Sam Billings stood then and raised his mug.

  “Here’s to Wisdom Boswell.”

  Most of the tap room ignored him, but one or two raised their mugs in response:

  “Ay, Wisdom Boswell, poor sod, and may his neck be spared.”

  But there was a despondency, a dullness in the pitch and cadence of their toasting that did little to engender hope in John’s heart for the next day’s verdict.

  *******

  Yesterday the dawn broke clear. The village woke to Richard Royce’s horn. But as the rest were shouldering their scythes John was making his way first to Old Otter’s squat on Snow Common, and then to Langley Bush where King Boswell was camped again.

  The three of them walked the dusty road to Peterborough: the two old men and John. From behind, seeing them silhouetted against the early sun, any watcher would have been hard pressed to discern which of them was old and which young. Otter was on the left, with his lifting-falling lope; King Boswell on the right, thick-set and broad as a bare-fist boxer in the Fancy, with two pups dancing at his heels; and between them John, shorter by a head, dimute and small, though with little narrowing where head meets neck. But from the front, with the sun shining strong upon them, their faces told a different tale. John fresh-faced, with the bloom of boyhood upon him still, clear-eyed and holding the world to its promises. The others, one dark-haired, one white-bearded, each in his own way carrying his burthen of experience upon his features.

  Barely a word had been spoken between them as they drew close to the outermost edges of town. The yellow stubble fields were giving way to tanneries and ware-houses when John heard the steady hollow ringing of a horse’s hooves striking the dry stones and baked earth of the road behind them.

  “John! John!”

  He turned and saw Mary. She was sitting side-saddle on Dobbie, her dappled cob. She sprang nimbly down and ran forwards with the reins in one hand, the horse trotting beside her. She slipped the other hand under John’s arm. She pressed her lips to his cheek. King Boswell stood aside and bowed most gentlemanly. He looked first at Mary in her striped gown, her petticoat of blue printed cotton and her ribboned hat, then at the mare, that was as pretty a coloured cob as ever he’d clapped eyes upon. For a moment Wisdom was forgot in the double loveliness that beguiled his eyes.

  But John and Old Otter could see that Mary was not herself. Otter was the first to speak:

  “What troubles thee Mary Joyce?”

  She shook her head.

  “Father will not come. He has received a letter from the Earl. He risks losing all if he stands witness.”

  There was quiet for a moment. Then John said:

  “And he has let you come alone to the assize?”

  “I did not ask him. He was out upon the harvest. I took the mare and slipped away.”

  “He’ll be unhappy when he finds you gone.”

  “Happy or unhappy, I’m coming with you John. I’ve writ him a note, though chances are he shall not find it. He lets the business of the farm over-ride his conscience, for he knows clear enough who is innocent and who guilty and would speak plainly if he dared.”

  *******

  The Sessions Court was three-fourths filled when they entered, though there was still a full hour before the Judge would make his entry. John, Old Otter and King Boswell registered themselves to the clerk as witnesses, giving names and places of residence. They found a bench in the gallery and sat and waited. The crowd pushed in through the court doors until the room was packed. And there was a clear divide between those that had come to see their own kin stand trial, and those that had come for a day’s diversion; for there were some that sat quiet and said but little, and some that peeled oranges and talked merry. Mary entwined her fingers with John’s. His palm was damp with sweat. The room grew hotter and hotter and there was a greasy smell that pervaded the air, of clothes too long worn, of rotten teeth, of unwashed children and shit besmirched leather. In front of them the jury’s bench, the judge’s seat, the witness box and the caged dock for the accused stood empty.

  Then at last came the ringing of the bell. First the jury took their place, though they would be of little succour to poor Wisdom, his being a Game Case and punishable by the judge alone. They sat down upon their bench with that air of dignified self-import that signals small-mindedness and fair-play in equal measure. Then the Court Room fell quiet as Justice Ashurst made his entry. Solemn and stately in his scarlet robes lined with ermine and his full bottomed wig, his chin still greasy with breakfast, he walked to his seat. Behind him the mayor and aldermen of the soke of Peterborough took their places along the front row. They took off their tri-corn hats and rested them upon their knees.

  A woman, the daughter of some gentleman, stood and curtseyed to the judge and put a nose-gay of scented flowers upon his desk to sweeten the air.

  The first of the accused was brought forward. He stood chained in the dock, his head bowed. When his name was spoken he lifted his head and glowered at the room.

  “William Samson. Aged thirty five. You stand accused of feloniously assaulting Luke Rowbotham between eleven and twelve in the night in a field near the King’s Highway and stealing from his person three promissory ten pound notes, eight or ten shillings in silver, one silver stop-watch and various other chattels.”

  The case was heard. Witnesses for the prosecution said their piece. Witnesses for the defence claimed that he was on a pauper’s wage with five children to feed. The jury found him guilty.

  And then the second of the accused took his place. Elizabeth Firth, aged fourteen, stood trembling before the judge, accused of ‘twice administering a quantity of verdigrease powder with intent to murder Susanna, the infant daughter of George Barnes of Market Deeping.’ She was found innocent, her weeping mother ran forwards to embrace her but was pushed back to her seat and told to await the afternoon.

  Then came James Moody, aged twenty eight, charged with ‘committing the odious and detestable crime and felony called sodomy’. He was found guilty.

  Wisdom was the last to be brought up to the dock. John could see, by the rough way that the turn-keys pushed him into the cage, that he did not rank as a favourite amongst them. And when he lifted his head and looked at the judge it was with the same insolent directness of gaze that had so enraged Will Bloodworth. He is like some dog that will not be kicked into submission and refuses to be cowed. J
ohn shook his head at Wisdom, willing him to show some contrition, but it was clear that he could not see him in the ocean of faces.

  If Wisdom had been thin and stringy before his arrest, he is like a skeleton now, the skin drawn tight across the bones of his face. His cheeks and chin have sprouted a first beard, as silky and raven black as his cropped hair. In his eyes there is a new smouldering light that seems to be equal parts hunger and anger. His coarse prison canvas hangs loose from the angles of his body. He is a boy no longer.

  The judge tapped his gavel: “Wisdom Boswell. Aged seventeen. You stand accused of trespassing upon the Property of the Earl of Fitzwilliam, of trapping and killing one of his bucks, and of the attempted murder of a keeper of his game. How do you plead?”

  Wisdom spoke quiet, but his voice carried clear to the back of the room:

  “Innocent.”

  “On all counts?”

  “I took the buck, but I fired no shot …I do not have a gun.”

  King Boswell stood up:

  “That is the truth by God.”

  “Order, order! You shall have your chance to speak in due course Sir.”

  Then the witnesses for the prosecution were called to the box. First came the keeper who had heard the shots and met Will Bloodworth on the night of the incident, he swore his oath and said his piece. Bill Henderson spoke of Will’s good character and long and steady service to the Earl. Then Will Bloodworth himself stood and rested his hand upon the Bible and swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. With a steady voice and his eyes fixed almost unblinking ahead of him he unravelled his lie, as though he knew that the pebble he had set rolling down the slope of Swordy Well had loosened another that was rolling beyond his control. As though he knew that nothing could be put back into its former place, or reneged upon. And this gave a resignation, a slow sorrow to the rise and fall of his voice that seemed to make his story ring all the more true.

  As Will spoke John could feel King Boswell trembling, like a pot that is brought to the boil with its lid too tight fixed.

  When he’d finished his story Will added in a whisper that seemed to hold some forlorn hope of his own redemption:

  “’Twas but a small buck your honour, and when all’s said and done, the bullets went wide of their mark.”

  “You seem inclined to give your murderer the benefit of the doubt sir, very generous-spirited for one so seriously aggrieved.”

  Will Bloodworth lowered his head to acknowledge the compliment.

  King Boswell leapt to his feet and roared like a bull.

  “Damn him for a liar! The wesh-engro will roast in Hell for this!”

  The Judge pounded his gavel again.

  “Order in the Court! Take him out! Take him out by God!”

  From the back of the room a dozen militia-men waded through the crowd and seized King Boswell. He kicked and struggled, flailing with his arms, his dogs yapping at the ankles of his assailants, but soon they overpowered the old man and dragged him through the doors. He turned and shouted over his shoulder.

  “Kiss my blind cheeks. There’ll be a reckoning for this. No Boswell forgets a lie.”

  When order had been restored the judge turned to Will Bloodworth again:

  “Do you have anything to add?”

  Will was trembling like a leaf. King Boswell’s interruption had woken his secret terrors and he suddenly felt the weight of his own damnation. It was as though it was he that was condemned and Wisdom the accuser.

  “Don’t hang him your honour …”

  The Court Room quietened. Will’s voice was cracked so that it slipped into a high falsetto:

  “He’s but a boy when all’s said and done …”

  Judge Ashurst looked him up and down:

  “And you fear for your soul, perhaps, having lied under oath and committed perjury?”

  He turned to the Aldermen and whispered:

  “I’ve seen it before, by God. I’ve seen it before.”

  Will pulled himself together, seeing his own liberty hanging in the balance before him:

  “No, no your honour, I have spoke truth …”

  He swallowed and turned to the judge:

  “I ask only for clemency.”

  The judge raised his eye-brows:

  “Most affecting, sir. Most affecting to be sure.”

  Will stepped down from the witness box. Bill Bullimore took his place and told how Wisdom had been arrested in the camp on Langdyke Bush. The picture he painted of the Boswell crew was not a pretty one, and was given substance by the rage of King Boswell that still hung in the air like a thundercloud. He ended his testimony:

  “For my part I firmly believe, your honour, that this tribe of wandering vagabonds should be made outlaws in every kingdom.”

  The judge sighed and lifted the nose-gay to his face, then mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “There is one more testimony I understand.”

  Robert Smethwick, secretary to the Earl of Fitzwilliam, stepped forward then, dressed in the Earl’s livery, wigged and spectacled. He swore his oath and then unfolded a piece of paper.

  “I have this, your honour, from the Earl of Fitzwilliam: ‘William Bloodworth has worked as a trusted keeper upon my estate for full twenty years, he has executed his work with skill and I have never had reason to doubt him.’ There we have it.”

  “Do we have any witnesses for the defence of the accused?”

  John Clare and Old Otter got to their feet and came forward. Each in turn entered the box and said his piece, telling in his own way the story of Rogation Day, each testifying to Wisdom’s character, each swearing that he had never possessed any fire-arm. The heat in the Session Court, as the morning approached full noon, was near unbearable now. The judge fanned himself with his sheaf of papers. Old Otter spoke plain and forthright and very loud as is his custom, being one who is used to talk across furlong and common. John, overwhelmed by the eyes fixed upon him, talked down into his shirt so that only those in the first rows could follow him, but for those that could catch his drift it was a testament as to how he considered the race of gypsies to be misunderstood and unfairly maligned and Wisdom more so than any, he being young and strong and never shy of work nor play.

  When John had finished, the judge spoke:

  “We have two sides of an argument here. I hold the scales of Justice in my hand and into one pan I put the testimony of two keepers, a constable and the Earl of Fitzwilliam. Into the other I drop the words of a squatter upon the common, a landless labourer and the intemperate ranting of an old gypsy who had needs be dragged from the Court. Is it any wonder which carries the greater weight?”

  He banged his gavel and looked across at Wisdom.

  “I have no hesitation, Sir, in finding you guilty on all charges.”

  He looked into the Court Room and smiled.

  “Now Ladies and Gentlemen we will adjourn for luncheon and I will return this afternoon to pass sentence.”

  *******

  It was two hours after noon that Justice Ashurst returned to the Sessions Court, refreshed from his luncheon and the several glasses of claret that had washed it down. Every eye was on his hands as he made his entrance. Would he be wearing the spotless white gloves that signalled a Maiden Assize? He was not. He took his place at the desk. He cleared his throat:

  “It is the King’s earnest desire, as well as his truest intent, that all his subjects be easy and happy. He places his greatest security and glory in the preservation of the laws of his kingdom and the liberties of his people. Without order how miserable must be their condition? Without order surely every man’s lust, his avarice, his revenge, his contempt for property and his vaunting ambition would become a law unto itself. It is with these thoughts in mind that I ask the officers of law to bring in the accused.”

  The four prisoners were brought into the cage. The judge looked at them. There was a long silence. And then he spoke, his voice momentous.

  “Elizabeth
Firth … you have been found innocent and blameless and I hereby acquit you with no besmirchment upon your name or character and I do set you free.”

  There was a clicking and rattling as the turn-keys unfastened the manacles from the girl’s wrists, the door of the cage was opened and Elizabeth Firth ran sobbing into her mother’s arms.

  “Sam Moody ….you have been found guilty of a filthy and despicable act that would shame even the beasts of the field. I do therefore sentence you to twelve lashes, twelve hours in the public stock and seven years transportation.”

  “Oh Sam, no!”

  From the gallery Sam Moody’s mother keened out her shame and sorrow. Two men led her from the Court.

  Then the judge reached down and picked up the black cap. A deep silence filled the Court. He passed it solemnly from hand to hand.

  “There are transgressions that are unpardonable upon earth.”

  He turned and fixed his eyes upon the accused, waiting until every last echo of his words had left the room.

  “William Samson and Wisdom Boswell, you both are found guilty of an assault upon property and an attempt upon life - that most sacred and sweetest of gifts.

  That neither of your victims perished is due to providence rather than intent. Were you guilty of mere theft, whether of game or monies, I might have been more disposed to mercy. That Luke Rowbotham crawled bloodied from his assault and raised the alarum; that William Bloodworth felt only the wind of the shot that was intended for his heart, does nothing to soften the gravity of your wicked and sinful acts. Greed for gain and contempt for life have conspired, in both your cases, to bring you before me, and were I to spare you ‘twould make an example that would spread a contagion of lawlessness throughout the land.”

  He paused and took a breath.

  “But because of his youth, and because of the heart-felt pleading of his intended victim on his behalf, in the case of Mr Wisdom Boswell I have stepped back from the ultimate sanction.”

  He turned to Wisdom:

  “It is ordered and adjudged, that you shall be transported upon the seas to such a place as His Majesty shall think fit to direct and appoint, for the term of your natural life.”