by Alix Nathan
‘Pray, sir, what are those charges?’
‘Here is the warrant. You are charged with the crime of high treason.’
‘Sir, high treason is so general and indefinite a charge that I am unsure what you have in mind.’
‘We cannot help that. Were you at the Seven Stars, Bethnal Green, on the night of February 18th?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Mr Dale, you have not attended to the question asked of you.’
‘Indeed I have, sir. I am considering whether to answer.’
‘Well, Mr Dale?’
‘I have decided to remain silent, sir.’
‘Have you ever gone under the name of Mason?’
‘Sir, I cannot answer any questions while I am still uninformed of the exact charge against me, “high treason” being so general and indefinite.’
‘If you are innocent you have nothing to fear.’
‘I’m not so sure of that, sir. As I’m ignorant what may be deemed high treason I don’t know how far I may commit myself by an indiscreet answer.’
Sometimes he wants to laugh, sometimes to rush at them, jump on the table and strangle them with their silk cravats, his filthy fingers tightening the ends until their eyes pop out. But his hatred feeds an immaculate politeness. He knows he disconcerts them, his manner and education quite at odds with his present appearance and his no doubt reported activity.
At the end of the first day, it being around midnight, he has told them nothing; is taken by carriage to the Tower.
*
The governor of the Tower fails to smother his own discomfort. He’s an anxious man in any case, chewing his finger ends at the presence of the deputy chaplain’s son before him on the gravest of charges. With a military guard they march to the south-west tower. It’s dark; other men are asleep.
Three floors up, they unlock a door and the governor addresses two warders: ‘You are to remain in this room night and day. Hold no conversation with your prisoner, nor suffer him to go out of the length of your swords. You answer for his appearance at the peril of your lives.’
The warders are old, obedient but not unkind. Each one sleeps on a cot in a closet on either side of Matthew’s bed. Matthew sleeps well, not having spent a night in a bed for some time. In the morning he finds the collar and cuffs of his coat, the padding of his neckerchief, the soles of his boots ripped open and sewn up again.
For a week he appears constantly before the Privy Council, maintaining pedantic politeness or silence. His days are patterned and although he is allowed neither books nor writing materials, he is not uncomfortable. He is given twenty-one shillings a week for subsistence, sends out for his meals. Each morning a woman lights a fire, boils a kettle, prepares breakfast, makes his bed, sweeps and cleans. There’s more order to his life than he’s had for years.
He feels keenly the irony of being back in the place from which he thought himself forever severed. He’s not terrified, as many other prisoners must often be, rather is disgusted at his failure. No visits are allowed although the governor could hardly refuse a request from Matthew’s parents. Partly he dreads, partly longs for the announcement of his father, to confront him, shame him. Is glad there’s no weeping, snuffling mother.
Daily he stares out through each of his two windows at the river. Sees high tide, low mud, the great ships at anchor in the centre, wherries crossing, sails, oars, poles; gulls screaming unceasingly. Singles out particular boats and lightermen, wonders who is thieving, who planning to sail to America.
Imagines a boy and a stout, sweating, blackguardly lawyer. The hasty construction of a Tricolour with his earnest sister Lucy, about whom he rarely thinks. Did William Leopard ever get to America? Did he really hold radical views? His Rights of Man was greasy and bent: someone had read it. For certain the man was on the run: the signs he didn’t know then, he knows now. The sour smell, stubble, eyes darting continuously round corners. And of course, he was after Matthew’s money. His childhood is an embarrassing dream: he will forget it.
*
Sarah tries to help Lucy, though she cannot think what to do for Matthew. She shudders at the thought of Lucy’s brother in the Tower, a traitor. There’s no mention yet of a trial, no mention of the likely outcome of conviction. She remembers Pyke’s words: ‘a few rash men… futile revolution… will be caught and hanged.’ If she can hardly bring herself to think of the word execution, what must take place in poor Lucy’s mind?
There’s no one with influence among Battle’s customers, who, though they’re mostly canny and make themselves money, have little power. She thinks it unlikely Matthew can even be visited, for the Tower is hardly Newgate, bad enough though that would be.
Listening to the tale of Lucy’s life with Joseph, she feels pity and a certain fascination. It seems he was unkind, ruthless, yet also affectionate, declared he loved her, at first, anyway. Rushed to his mistress, returning to sleep off his debauchery and attack Lucy for complaining, sometimes for not complaining. The paintings and engravings of her that Sarah has now seen, show his admiration of Lucy’s gentle beauty, yet he rarely calls on her, barely speaks to her. There’s some small consolation to Lucy that Sarah, too, had a marriage that never was. Sarah says little about Tom, however: it can’t help the girl fathom Joseph.
But at least there’s William Digham, thinks Sarah. She observes the old man’s calm and warmth, his patience, humour; the way, holding Lucy’s child, he lets him tweak the spectacles off his nose again and again, pull the embroidered felt hat over his eyes. And Sarah’s Eve is about the same age as Lucy’s Matthew, so that by spring, 1802, no longer babies, they play together in the nursery at Battle’s, pretend to read to each other from the tiny pretty books of The Infant’s Library.
Joseph reveals no sign of his erratic behaviour to Sarah. He’s egotistical, ebullient, but his conceitedness, arrogance, are eased by a youthful, fair-haired grace of bearing that pleases, and an attention to her she can’t quite ignore. Knowledge of his cruelty to Lucy disturbs; she puts it aside. Then there’s his great ability as artist and engraver. It wasn’t difficult for her to agree to buy the whole series of Shakespeare paintings which he reconstructs from his sketches. They decide which walls are best for each canvas. With Wintrige gone, Battle’s can finally become the superior coffee house Sarah always wanted it to be, where people can contemplate Shakespeare and the skill of Joseph Young.
His reputation is growing; he is even becoming grand. He paints portraits which he signs Josephus Iuvenis pinxit and, with the sitters’ permission, rarely withheld, he engraves them too. The sitter displays the expensive portrait on his wall, while others enjoy the reflected glory of the engraved version on theirs.
It has been a long time since Sarah talked so much to an educated, intelligent man. Her longing for Tom plays its still-discernible ground beneath her thoughts, a passacaglia beating to her blood. At times Joseph displays a pomposity that she mocks. Yet she cannot help her bias: Joseph is an artist. She begins to feel an affection for him almost as if Newton has come again.
He orders brandy at Battle’s one morning and, as he often does, asks for Sarah.
‘I have met such an interesting man, Sarah. I must tell you about him. Jacques Garnerin. The Official Aëronaut of France.’
‘Good Lord! Does he have wings?’ A Newton comes to mind: what fun he’d have had with balloons! ‘I suppose he wants you to paint his portrait and sell prints of it.’
‘Much more exciting than that. He is planning an ascent in his balloon and I am to go with him and sketch. Think of it! London seen from the air in paintings and prints. Balloons are not new but sketches made from them are. Think of the fame!’
He bounces with enthusiasm.
‘Now that we are at peace with the French, Sarah, assuming we trust Bonaparte, what a symbol it will be! A Frenchman and an Englishman flying over London together!’
‘Cannot a woman go, too? I seem to remember the actress Mrs Sage went up in a balloon years ago
. Neither the sky nor peace is the province of men alone, Joseph.’ How absurdly prim she sounds!
‘No, of course they’re not. You needn’t chide; do you think I am unreasonable?’
He doesn’t expect an answer. Says: ‘I’ll suggest it to Jacques. And Sarah. You will be the perfect woman to accompany us. No! Do not protest! You have argued yourself into it.’
*
Robert Wilson, Bookseller and Publisher
Chestnut Street
Philadelphia
4th March, 1802
Dear Miss Battle,
I received your letter somewhat more than a year ago and apologise for the length of time it has taken in which to reply, but you can imagine how shocked I was at the revelation it contained that you and Tom Cranch were not married. In addition, you will understand that I was hurtto have been deceived, even while I was doing my best to help you both when you first arrived and thereafter.
You will know I count myself a good Democratic Republican, though not a revolutionary. Some of the views you expressed yourself, while you lived here, were more than I could stomach, as you are well aware. I believe in God and in the divinity of Christ. I therefore cannot approve of your having lived with Tom Cranch as his wife, outside the laws of both God and man. Moreover, Tom’s deception should have precluded his issuing ‘advice’ on my relationship with Martha. I bought Martha on my arrival in America in 1781. According to Pennsylvanian law, all who are slaves before 1780, as Martha was, remain slaves for life. Nevertheless I freed her, by manumission, and, having done so, I see no reason to elevate her further.
In view of the fact that you were not legally married to Tom Cranch, you will realise that I cannot return any of the money he put into my business, were you to think of asking for it. Of course I acknowledge that it was a most welcome investment at the time and one from which we all benefitted.
There is one piece of news about which I believe you will be interested to hear. The lawyer William Leopard was recently sentenced to a long term in Walnut Street Prison, having been involved in a street brawl in which a man was killed. Although there is insufficient evidence to prove that his was the fatal blow, there were many witnesses to his involvement in the affray. It is said that he was challenged by the dead man about blackmailing activities. I only tell you this because information has reached me that he was extracting money from you.
I am in good health, thank you, and trust that you are. Should you ever have a proposal for a book in my series of Pocket Guides, it would certainly be given consideration by,
Your erstwhile friend,
Robert Wilson
She almost laughs at this faultless hypocrisy. It’s early summer, there’s no fire in the grate. She burns the crushed paper among old ashes, watches its blurred disintegration.
*
Joseph brings two paintings and Sarah pays him. She is glad the improvement of Battle’s has begun, though she wonders how long before smoke and steam dull the delicate colours’ glow.
Today Joseph is peevish.
‘It seems I am not the first artist to ascend in a balloon. Somebody came across a book and was pleased to tell me that it contains drawings from a balloon made seventeen years ago!’
‘Are they drawings of London?’
‘Ah. I think they flew from Chester.’
‘Well, your fame will be none the less, then.’
She sees how very young he is, this tall, fair man, petulant like a child; how Lucy could never have influenced him. Yet his very childishness appeals to her. ‘Joseph, I must talk to you. Come, let us sit over here.’
They move to a settle away from easy hearing, but Dick appears, arthritic fingers clutching at the waiter’s cloth over his arm.
‘A word wiv you, Miss Battle.’
‘Is it important, Dick? Just now I’m busy. Please be brief.’ She stands aside to talk.
‘Them pictures you did want me to burn, Miss Battle,’ he whispers hoarsely, ‘them were drawed by…’ Wild eye and brow movements indicate Joseph.
‘Yes, Dick.’
A cunning look crosses his face. ‘The men ‘ere do know it’s ‘im.’ He waves his arm to take in the whole coffee house.
‘Mr Young has explained to me how artists turn their hands to all manner of work when they are young and poor. I’m sure the customers understand that. It was years ago, Dick. Mr Young is a respectable, well-known portrait painter now.’
Dick turns away, mutters about Sam Battle, balls in the sky, shakes his head like a palsy. Sarah is touched that he should wish to protect her reputation. But he was ever a supporter of Wintrige: though Wintrige is dead, Dick perceives Joseph as a usurper.
It’s of no consequence. She sits down next to Joseph.
‘I must talk to you about Lucy.’
‘Oh, yes?’ He is unconcerned.
‘She is so terribly distressed about her brother Matthew.’
‘Yes. I know that. A rash, desperate boy. What has she told you?’
‘That he’s imprisoned in the Tower for high treason, but she doesn’t know what he’s done. She’s sure he’s innocent. Is he?’
‘How can I know? Probably not. Look, Sarah,’ in lowered voice, ‘I sympathise with many of their views. We need new ways.’
‘I’ve seen real freedom in America.’
‘You have?’ He looks at her intently. Her usually animated face pauses, serious. They have never talked about such things.
‘Where people speak their minds and publish without fear.’
He would draw her out of her thoughts, bring her back to himself. ‘Once, I…’
‘What will happen to him, Joseph? Is it as bad as someone once suggested? Can you tell me?’
‘They are collecting evidence for the trial. He is like to be condemned to death.’
‘Oh! Poor Lucy. Can nothing be done?’
‘Nothing. There are those who petition, write letters, but it is hopeless. The government want to show they’ve rounded up all traitors, want to demonstrate success. They fear revolution, Sarah, so they will find a plot. Indeed I believe they already have. Then they will need names, a trial, punishment, bodies.’
‘And what can be done for Lucy?’
‘I don’t know. Lucy has no trust in me: there is nothing I can do for her. Digham is kind.’
Sarah glimpses his ruthlessness. Remembers the moment when she’d wanted to reach out to the frantic girl on the quayside. Knows she must find some way to help her herself, for he is impervious: she has no notion how to move him.
‘Don’t think any more about it, Sarah. William will take care of Lucy. For years he was like a father to me; now he will do the same for her. You must concentrate on our flight. Oh, how I’m looking forward to it! It will be magnificent. You will be magnificent!’ He looks at her with pleasure.
Her mood limps behind his.
‘They say Monsieur Garnerin is very competent.’
‘Of course he is! He has made several journeys and, I tell you, the man is fearless. What’s more, Madame Garnerin, his wife, is herself a balloonist. For some reason she has not accompanied him this time, but he tells me a woman can be as intrepid as a man. There speaks a man of the Revolution, Sarah!’
‘Good. Of course he’s right. But I don’t think I’m intrepid.’
‘You need do nothing except stand in the basket and smile. And keep your balance. Surely you’re not worried?’
‘Sometimes I do worry, yes. Not for myself so much, but when I think of Eve.’
He would touch her face, but cannot.
‘No need. All will be well. I feel absolutely certain all will be well.’
And it’s true, he does. His mood is alight. Dullness, worthlessness have vanished in the presence of this woman, Sarah.
6
Wherever there’s space bills announce:
The celebrated Aëronaut M André-Jacques Garnerin
will Ascend in his gas Balloon
at Ranelagh
on 28 June
1802 at 5 o’clock
during an elegant Afternoon Breakfast
given by the Directors of the Pic Nic Society.
M Garnerin will be accompanied by
the well-known Artist and Engraver Mr Joseph Young
and, to prove the Safety of such Travel to
Members of the Fair Sex,
the well-known Proprietress of Battle’s Coffee House
Miss Sarah Battle
Sarah is nervous. The danger involved in the ascent is one thing, for, the news being out, people insist she hear of all the accidents that have taken place in the last twenty years. Yet, can it really be worse than crossing the Atlantic by ship? Endless weeks, threat of disease and wreck, perpetual sea roar, nothing but salt pork.
No, it’s the prospect of appearing at Ranelagh before two thousand people that bothers her as much. What should she wear? She is warned how she will freeze as they ascend into the clouds, yet she’ll not want to be wrapped in cloaks and muffs in June before a multitude of women in the latest fashions.
Monsieur Garnerin is too busy preparing the event to meet her, so Joseph, acting as go-between, discovers that when Jacques took up a woman, not his wife, with him four years before in Paris her charms were shown to good effect. Apparently Jacques is glad to hear that Sarah is handsome and says that she should wear whatever she likes. She swallows her annoyance at the thought of the conversation the two men have had about her, decides she’ll pack a bag with two shawls and a cloak to put on once clear of the crowds, and turns her mind to the matter of what food and drink to supply for consuming in the upper air.
