by John Marsden
Once it was ascertained that I was not about to die from loss of blood, and that my vital organs were probably undamaged, I was marched away. A deadly terror had taken possession of me by then, for I had no idea of the accusation against me, but I knew my habitual stealing was not the issue; such a force of men would not have assembled for the theft of a loaf of bread, or a shilling from a rich man’s pocket.
I was ushered into a cab at the end of the street. It was the first time I had been in such a conveyance, and although I had often yearned to ride in one, I had not imagined doing so in these circumstances. The journey was a longish one, and the men spent their time looking out the windows, only occasionally addressing remarks to each other. They completely ignored me. The exception was Mr Ogwell, who sat the whole time staring ahead of him, conversing with no one, like a man of ice. I wished I could ask him for details of the predicament in which I found myself, for it had clearly moved him to a passion so great that he had wished to assassinate me, but I was too deterred by his attack with the knife to address any questions to him. I feared another attack even as we sat there, and wished that the Bow-Street Runners had searched him for weapons before we got in the cab together.
My greatest fear, apart from being murdered by Mr Ogwell, was that I would be taken to Newgate, which had recently been rebuilt after the mob tore it down during the riots against the Roman Catholics. I had heard prison stories from the old lags who made their homes under the bridges where Quentin and I sometimes took shelter. The way they described life in Newgate made me wonder that anyone came out alive. And they claimed it was little improved since the rebuilding. But others maintained that one prison was much the same as another, and others again were adamant that Marshalsea was the worst. For me it had been a hypothetical argument until now, but suddenly it looked likely to assume considerable importance in my life.
Chapter 10
I had not been aware that there would be an intermediate step before I was thrown into a place of detention, but it turned out that I had to be taken before the magistrates, to determine my status. Our destination was the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court, near Covent Garden, where I was placed in a cell somewhere underneath the building. This was the first time in my life I had been confined in such a way, and desperate feelings threatened to overcome me as the realisation sunk in that I had lost my freedom. No matter how much I begged or pleaded or bargained with the gaoler, I could not leave this tiny room.
To make matters worse, an old man in a cell opposite took great delight in telling me how I would find conditions in prison, whence, without knowing anything of me, he was confident I would be consigned after my arraignment before the magistrates. I do not know what satisfaction he derived from his taunting, but he was not to be silenced. Observing my tears, which I could not prevent, he sneered: ‘Cry at this, would you? Why, this is nothing! When they take you to Newgate there’ll be thirty of you in a space like the one you’ve got now. You won’t be able to lie down, that’s a fact. Why, it’s not so long ago that three women suffocated in one night, in a cell bigger than that one you’ve got there.’ He grabbed the bars and shook them. ‘Oh, you’ll know all about it by tonight, yes you will. Why, you’ll have rats running over your face, and be thankful if you wake up in the morning without your face half-eaten.’
At this a voice from another cell shouted: ‘Shut up, you old fool. I’d like to see a rat eat your face away, and your tongue with it.’
But another voice shouted: ‘It happened all right, to that army fellow, and not long ago either.’
Then another voice joined in, and shouts came from everywhere, until I felt that I was in the middle of a hellish chorus. Among them I heard one man say: ‘The army fellow was dead when his face was eaten away,’ from which I took some comfort, but only a little.
When there was a lull, the old man resumed his ranting. Seizing the bars of his cell with both hands again, he stared at me across the corridor with fierce eyes and shouted: ‘You’ll be ironed and bull pizzled, and they’ll set on you with the cat-o’-nine-tails, you’ll get bezels and handcuffs and chains, and if all that don’t do for you, the gaol fever will finish you off.’
I did not understand half of what he said, but felt so sick and close to fainting that when the gaoler came to take me up into the court, I could hardly move.
It was a very different atmosphere up there, though, with all the beautiful woodwork and the quiet of it and the way it was so clean. I was placed in a little compartment that I later found was called the dock, with the Bow-Street Runners behind me, and there I waited for about twenty minutes before a man came in and called on us all to stand, which we did. Then two men entered from the back of the courtroom and took their places upon the bench. I recognised one of them as the man in charge of the group who arrested me, the one who had stopped Mr Ogwell from doing his worst.
I saw too as I looked to my right that Mr Ogwell had come into the court, and he now took up a place at the front, below the magistrates’ bench. He looked even paler than he had before, if it were possible. It almost seemed that he was the one who had lost blood.
The proceedings began and in my befuddled state it was all I could do to understand a word, but gradually I found myself able to listen with more concentration. The first part seemed to be just a whole lot of long sentences read by a small grey-headed man sitting to the left of the magistrates. It was about the King’s warrant being granted to the court or some such thing. Then it was my turn. The grey-headed man stood up and said to me: ‘Barnaby Fletch, is that your name?’
‘Yes, sir, it is,’ I said.
‘Stand up, Barnaby Fletch.’
I did so, on legs that shook beneath me.
‘Are you known by any other names, Barnaby Fletch?’
‘No sir,’ I stammered. ‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Well then, Barnaby Fletch, you are charged that on this day just past, in the night-time, not having God before your eyes, but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the Devil, in the peace of God and our lord the King, feloniously, wilfully, and of your malice aforethought you did make an indecent assault with force upon one Josephine Inga Ogwell, being a child of this parish, and that in so doing you acted against the peace of our lord the King, his Crown and dignity. How say you, Barnaby Fletch, are you guilty or not guilty of this felony whereof you stand charged?’
Very nervously I said: ‘I’m sorry, sir, for my ignorance, but I don’t really understand what you’re saying.’
‘Come now,’ said the other magistrate, the one I did not know, who was a very fat man and looked bored by the proceedings already. ‘I think you understand well enough. Is it true that you pressed yourself upon this child? That you behaved indecently with her?’
The room blurred before my eyes and I felt I should fall. With the greatest difficulty I stammered: ‘No, sir, no such thing. No, sir, never.’
‘I understand that to be a plea of not guilty,’ the other magistrate said to the grey-headed man who had read out the charge. ‘Let us get on. You may sit down, prisoner. Mr Ogwell, is it your intention to go ahead with a prosecution in this case?’
Mr Ogwell looked up briefly and whispered: ‘Yes, sir, it is.’ Then, just as the magistrate seemed about to say something, he added: ‘What was done to my little girl is a terrible thing.’
There was a pause in the courtroom. A few people looked at me as if to their eyes I was clearly the person who had done this terrible thing. The magistrate who had led the arrest spoke again to Mr Ogwell. ‘Are you, sir, a member of a prosecution association?’
Mr Ogwell seemed to have trouble remembering what that was. I had a memory of his saying something about being in a prosecution association – I had the idea that it was some kind of insurance scheme for shop owners, so they could afford to prosecute cases at law. As Mr Ogwell had not answered the magistrate, I tried to be helpful and said: ‘You are, s
ir, you told me so.’
Mr Ogwell did not look at me, but he nodded to the magistrate as if to confirm that I was correct.
The magistrate gave me another of his sharp glances. Then he said to my master: ‘You recollect, sir, that I told you to bring your wife and daughter to the court?’ When Mr Ogwell nodded again, the magistrate, in his peremptory style, to which I was quickly becoming accustomed, said: ‘Well, sir, have you done it? Where are they?’
Mr Ogwell stood and turned to the rear of the court. I looked in the same direction and saw Mrs Ogwell sitting there. She had her handkerchief to her eyes, so I could not see her face well. If Josephine were with her she must have been hidden by the back of the seat in front of her.
The magistrate said: ‘Come forward, madam, if you please, and take your seat here.’
It took her a goodly time to get to the witness box, but at last she was sitting there, looking down at her lap. The grey-haired man stood in front of her and gave her a Bible and asked her to swear on the Holy Book that she would tell the truth. Still hanging her head she muttered something, at which the fat magistrate asked her sharply to speak up. In a louder voice she said: ‘I swear by Almighty God to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’
The grey-haired man indicated that she should kiss the Book, which she did, whereupon he snatched it out of her hand, rather rudely I thought, and sat down at his place again. Mrs Ogwell looked up then for the first time, at her husband. Everyone looked at him. He said nothing for a moment, then in a weak voice he asked his wife: ‘Just say what happened this morning.’
Speaking very quickly, in her accented English, she said: ‘I was awoken by my child’s screams. I went to her room. She came running out of the door just as I got there and flung herself into my arms. At first I thought she was having a nightmare, but when I took her back to our bed and lit the candle I could see blood on her legs. I then examined her and saw that she was . . . injured. She had scratches around her privates, and I thought a bruise was starting to form. When you came in, I told you that she was injured. You seemed much put out. At first you did not believe me, but then the old lady from next door came in and she looked at Josephine and agreed with me and said we must send to Bow Street. And then the lady from downstairs came in also and she said she would get the magistrate and the Runners and off she went.’
There was a long silence. I felt stricken that such a terrible thing would happen to the beautiful and happy little girl. I found it hard to associate myself with what had happened. There seemed no connection possible between me and such ugly matters.
The fat magistrate said to Mrs Ogwell: ‘How old is the child, ma’am?’
‘Just turned four, sir.’
The other magistrate asked: ‘At what point did you conceive the boy Fletch was responsible for this outrage?’
‘I kept asking her, sir, asking her who had hurt her. She did not answer for a long time. Finally she said it was the boy who gave her the dolls.’
‘And that was the defendant FLETCH?’ said the fat man. He said my name very loudly and glared at me at the same time, then looked around the courtroom as if to be sure everyone had noticed.
‘Yes, sir,’ Mrs Ogwell said.
‘Have any other boys given dolls to your daughter?’ the other magistrate asked.
‘No, sir.’
The same magistrate then said to Mr Ogwell: ‘Have you any questions you would like to put to your wife?’
Mr Ogwell shook his head. Then the magistrate asked me: ‘Have you any questions you would like to put to the witness?’
I was stricken with embarrassment and blurted out: ‘I don’t know, sir, I don’t know what I’m meant to do.’
‘Were you at this person’s house this morning?’
‘No, sir, I don’t know where Mr Ogwell lives, sir.’
He paused and gave me one of those piercing looks again, as he had done in the street. I looked back at him frankly. I was terribly frightened, but there was something about him that made me feel I could trust him, that he might even be on my side. Then he said: ‘I will put a question on your behalf.’ To Mrs Ogwell he said: ‘Did there appear to be intromission?’
She flushed very red. ‘I really couldn’t say, sir. As I say, there seemed to be some injury. Perhaps not very . . . far.’
‘Did you observe any evidence of emissions upon the child?’
A great silence fell upon the courtroom. Mrs Ogwell looked overwhelmed, huddling even lower in the witness box. I did not understand what the question meant. The magistrate said to her: ‘Do you understand the significance of the question? Given the age of the defendant in these proceedings? His . . . capability, so to speak.’
‘Yes, I do, sir. Yes I do. But I’m not sure of the answer . . . I can’t say whether there was or there wasn’t.’
‘What about the bedding? Did you examine the bedding?’
‘Not in any detail, sir, I didn’t. I was too upset.’
‘The night attire? Did you examine that?’
‘In a manner of speaking, sir. There may have been something . . . what you said . . . I really couldn’t say for sure.’
The two magistrates conferred for a few moments. Then the one who seemed to be in charge said, to no one in particular: ‘We will need to hear from the child now.’
Mrs Ogwell straightened up. When she spoke, her voice was suddenly strong and quite loud. ‘It can’t be, sir. She was that upset I didn’t bring her here, I couldn’t. Mr Ogwell’s sister is looking after her.’ No one responded, and after a minute she continued: ‘Begging your pardon, your Honours, and no offence, but I’d rather not continue with the prosecution than bring her to this place.’
The magistrates conferred again. Then the main one looked straight at the Bow-Street Runners behind me. He said to them: ‘We need to examine the bedding, and the child’s night attire. Go with this lady now and fetch it all, and we will adjourn the case until you return. Make sure no one interferes with the articles that you are fetching. Be very mindful.’
Both the magistrates got up, though it was a struggle for the fatter one. The grey-haired man called: ‘All rise.’ Everyone in the room obediently stood as the magistrates left, through the same door by which they had entered. The Runners went to Mrs Ogwell, and after a short discussion they too left, with her. Mr Ogwell had already gone. Perhaps he did not want to be near me a moment longer than necessary. Then a guard appeared and fetched me back down to the cells.
Chapter 11
This time I found myself sharing a cell with three others, all a good deal older than I. The old man had disappeared from the cell opposite, for which I was grateful.
The three men knew each other, and it emerged they were taken for the same crime, a case of arson. They were well dressed, spoke like gentlemen, and seemed quite sanguine about their prospects. It was evident that they were familiar with the procedures of the magistrates’ court, and indeed, I suspected, many other courts. They took a keen interest in my case and listened closely to my account. They explained, with ribald laughter, the kind of evidence the Robin Redbreasts had been sent to seek, which brought a blush to my cheeks. Then they commented on the magistrates. ‘You’ve been lucky and unlucky,’ one said. ‘The fat one is Sir Bennett Cousins, and everyone he trials is guilty as far as he’s concerned. But the other one is Sir Henry Matthews. If he takes a set against you, you’re for the gallows, boy, and no mistake. But on the other hand, if he thinks you’ve been taken unjustly, he’ll hang the rule book before he hangs you.’
‘What about benefit of clergy?’ one of them, a very tall man, asked.
‘Aye,’ laughed another. ‘Take your glove off and show him your thumb.’
The tall man blushed and hid his thumb away. ‘Ah, that’s no good to the boy,’ said the third man. ‘When they cut out the branding, they took the benefit away for all the
really worthwhile crimes.’
They laughed long and hard at this, as though he had said a very merry thing. Their conversation was completely beyond my comprehension. I did not know then of the plea of benefit of clergy, by which a person could have his sentence greatly eased. Later I learned that in the old days a first offender could, in the case of most crimes, plead the benefit, at which his thumb would be branded, with a T for Thief, or an M for Murderer, or an F for Felon. He would then either be set free or sentenced to a year or so of incarceration. Sometimes he might be transported to North America as well, although not of course after the disgraceful Peace of Paris and the loss of that colony to a ragtag army of mercenaries, ruffians and Frenchmen. It was by way of the benefit of clergy that many a man, and some women too, saved themselves from the gallows; until 1779, when the Government did away with branding and at the same time stopped felons pleading the benefit for most offences.
When their mirth had subsided, the tall man, blushing even more, set them off again by saying: ‘I could have had the whole alphabet on my thumb,’ and they all fell about laughing.
They laughed with everything they said, but I was too frightened to ask how seriously I should regard their talk of the gallows. I knew well enough that boys my age or younger had taken the drop before this.
‘You have no money, I suppose?’ one of them asked, and that made them all laugh at the mere thought of it. I was becoming irritated by their constant merriment and wished that I could pull out a fat purse and astonish them by spilling a pile of gold sovereigns onto the floor. I sank into a corner of the cell, thinking bitterly that it always came down to money in the end. The rich either bought themselves a life of comfort in prison, or bought their way straight out the gate. The poor were left to rot.
