by John Creasey
‘That will remain to be seen,’ James replied. ‘There should quickly be a special edition of every newspaper, if only a single sheet, condemning the move and demanding absolute freedom for free comment. Copies should be distributed everywhere in London and nearby. And a slogan is needed, a rallying cry—’
A man called: ‘Free Sly, free the Press and free the People!’
‘Aye! Aye !’ came in a great roar which shook the doors, and the shutters on the windows and the mugs and platters on the tables. There was such a din that at first no one saw the door open and the small boy come in, with a mat of coarse hair, wearing a filthy, stinking, torn shirt and ragged knickerbockers, barelegged and with feet so dirt-stained they looked more like those of an Indian. But his eyes were bright and bespoke a quick intelligence.
He was breathless from running when he cried, ‘I’m the captain of the sweepers. I’ve to see Mr. Garnett!’
‘I am Sam Garnett!’ called the bearded man who had promised some warning. ‘Are the horsemen coming?’
‘Indeed yes, sir - two parties of them, one by the Strand and one by Long Acre. ‘Tis true, sir, my boys have warned me. There are six in each party, sir!’
Suddenly a man let out a cry much greater than before.
‘The riders are coming!’ he roared. ‘They’re coming fast!’
‘To your horses,’ James cried as Garnett tossed a small bag of coins to the self-styled captain of the crossing sweepers. As the boy pulled the string of the bag and gazed inside, dazzled at such munificence, the men began to stream out, and only Benedict, James and Jabez Peterson, the editor of The Record, remained. Hoofbeats clattered in the yard a few minutes afterward and footsteps sounded noisily on the cobbles until the door was thrust open and two men, both carrying pistols, strode in.
‘I come for Mr. Benedict Sly,’ the first man stated, waving a document which crackled like parchment. ‘I have a warrant for his arrest signed by the Secretary of State.’
‘The Secretary of State has no such authority,’ James declared. ‘A warrant must be signed by a justice of the peace.’
‘The warrant is good enough for me,’ the man replied harshly. ‘Are you going to defy me?’
‘I am going to fight you, but not with a sword,’ replied James, and looked at Benedict, who had not yet said a word. ‘You had better go, Ben.’
‘I would like first to go to my office and explain—’ began Benedict.
‘You are to come with me immediately. Others may explain for you.’
James went into the yard, Peterson stumping behind, and watched as Benedict mounted a saddled horse brought for him. But barely had he and his military escort started on their way than a stream of carriages and horsemen appeared from the Ludgate Hill direction, others joining them from narrow streets. Hampering the soldiers in every way they could, the men of Fleet Street went not only ahead but on both sides, while behind there were at least another fifty; and as the strange assembly reached the church of St. Clement, the protesters began to chant:
‘Free Sly . . . Free the Press . . . Free the People!’
Crowds on the sidewalk heard the words and began to cheer. Boy crossing sweepers joined in, high-pitched voices sounding above the rest. The cheering was carried swiftly along the Strand, people rushing from shops and houses to see what was going on, and all taking up the cry:
‘Free Sly . . . Free the Press . . . Free the People!’
‘Mr. Benedict Sly,’ said the Solicitor General, ‘since you refuse to withdraw these remarks I feel that I have no alternative but to have you committed to the prison of Newgate, where you will remain until your trial.’
‘But if you will disavow your scurrilous remarks this remand will be withdrawn,’ the Marquis of Bute declared.
‘Not one word,’ replied Benedict Sly. ‘The press and the people have a right to say what they think, even about the King, sir.’
‘With the greatest regret I must ask the justice present - Mr. Lawler, please - to commit you on a charge of inciting a riot. A graver charge may follow.’
‘The one way to ensure a riot is to accuse me of treason on these ludicrous grounds,’ Benedict Sly said. ‘It is not I but you who have to think again, gentlemen.’
As Benedict Sly was brought to the gates of the prison, two bodies still swung on the gallows from the morning’s hanging. Children playing at the gallows foot ran to and fro beneath the corpses, leaping high to try to touch the limp feet. The jailer, seeing Benedict’s clothes and cleanliness, greeted him with respect.
‘For a few paltry pounds a week, sir, you may have your own room and the services of a warder, and if you wish it, a nightly visit from a respectable woman whose cleanliness I can promise you. She will ask nothing but your favour, sir.’
‘I will go where the felons without money go,’ Benedict said.
The jailer’s face dropped.
‘But that’s no place for the likes of you, sir!’
‘Nevertheless, that is where I will go,’ Benedict told him.
23: ‘FREE SLY . . FREE THE PRESS . . FREE THE PEOPLE’
‘Outrageous,’ muttered Sir John Fielding when James had finished making his report. ‘This magistrate Lawler will do anything for money. I know of no precedent or justification at all. Do you, David?’
Fielding sat on a chair in the well of the court, James standing on one side of him, David Winfrith on the other. Apart from the three men, the court was empty. David looked as if he had not slept all night. He had talked little, and that brusquely, when James had first arrived.
‘No, Sir John, none whatsoever.’
‘Then I shall sign the writ for Sly’s release,’ Fielding declared, ‘and shall send two constables to the prison to serve it. If there is any dispute with the keeper of the prison, I will consider what steps to take.’ He turned to James as David started to prepare the writ. ‘What is this I hear about you contesting Minshall, Jamey? Is it true, boy?’
‘How in heaven’s name did you learn that so quickly?’ gasped James.
‘Oh, we have ears in many surprising places. Is it true?’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘What little influence and experience I have will be in your support,’ promised Fielding, continuing before James could begin to utter thanks. ‘I will have the constables and their deputies in all the Minshall parishes examined, and where we can find an honest man we must set him to work. The parties can spend a fortune in bribery, and they can also terrify any who would support a candidate against their interests. One of the duties of a real peacemaking force, James, would be to supervise elections and make sure people can vote freely and without fear of any consequences. Ah, David! You are done, then? Good, good! I’ll sign the writ. If there is any trouble, any trouble at all, I am to be told at once, whether the court is sitting or not.’
‘It is a wilful defiance,’ the Duke stormed. ‘I will not allow a blind man who is a magistrate by our favour to defy us. Is it not enough that he is always begging more money for his court? Did he not beg a knighthood and did I not give it to him? He shall not be heeded.’
‘I hope you will be gracious enough to consider other aspects of the situation,’ the Solicitor General murmured sleekly. ‘Sir John Fielding is highly regarded by many who give us their support and he’s highly popular among the people.’
‘Damn the people!’
‘It would be indiscreet to do so openly in the House,’ declared the Solicitor General. ‘I have been making inquiries. Had our action yesterday persuaded Sly to withdraw his remarks, little would have been said, but since he refused - Well, I confess I misjudged the response of many of our supporters.’
‘You really mean we must release the newspaperman Sly?’
‘For the time being at least. Once that is done there will be less danger from the press of further vitriolic attacks on you or the King.’
‘We must find a way to keep these damned pests of Grub Street quiet,’ growled the Duke. ‘Find a way.’<
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‘I shall lose not a moment. And, meanwhile, I have your authority to order Benedict Sly to be freed?’
‘Damn it, that’s what you’re forcing me to give you, isn’t it? Yes, release him. And I hope he falls out of his carriage and breaks his neck!’
‘We can hardly expect such good fortune twice in one week,’ murmured the Solicitor General.
‘What? Good fortune? What - oh.’ The Duke began to laugh, the first sign of good humour since this interview had begun. ‘Topham, y’mean. Twice!’
He was roaring with laughter when the Solicitor General went out.
It was as if all London had erupted! Masses of people packed the streets leading to Newgate, but unlike those gathered together in times of riot or on hanging days, these were well dressed and prosperous looking. In thousands of hands a pamphlet fluttered, whilst pinned to every hat and jacket was the slogan printed at the foot of the pamphlet:
FREE SLY! FREE THE PRESS! FREE THE PEOPLE!
Never in London’s history had there been such an uprising of the middle classes. Only on the fringes did the mob appear, some light-fingered, some joining in for the excitement, for the battle that looked inevitable.
From an open carriage hemmed in at Newgate, James Marshall, Nicholas Sly and Jabez Peterson watched with awed fascination. Outside the jail entrance they could see a ring of dragoons, sent hastily from both Tilt Yard and the Tower at the urgent request of justices in Westminster and the City.
‘One act of violence and the whole crowd will riot,’ muttered James.
Tension was on the faces of all three men, when suddenly there came a cry from the direction of Holborn.
‘Fielding! . . . Make way for John Fielding! . . . Make way for Sir John.’
‘God be praised they are not out of control,’ Peterson murmured.
Over the heads of the crowd they could just see the top of a sedan chair, two Bow Street officers in front and two behind. One of the leading officers, his stentorian voice worthy of a town crier, was roaring, ‘Make way for Sir John! Make way for the Blind Beak!’
As the cry was taken up, men pressed back to allow the chair to pass. Fielding was framed in the open doorway, the pale evening light showing the ruddiness of his face in a strange glow, the black ribbon over his eyes in sharp contrast. He wore his robes, chain of office, and big three-cornered hat with upswept brim. Every now and again he raised his right hand to acknowledge the roaring acclamation, the throng closing in behind his chair as it moved on.
At last he reached the clearing between the crowd and the dragoons, while the roar split the evening skies.
‘Fielding, Fielding, Fielding!’
A youthful lieutenant came forward as the chair was placed on the forecourt and Fielding got out with surprising ease of movement despite his clumsy-looking body. He handed a rolled missive to the lieutenant, who unfolded it, read, saluted, then immediately turned on his heel and went towards the prison gates. Fielding moved, alone, towards the now empty gallows and walked up the wooden steps, as sure-footed and as nimble as if he were a man with full vision. Reaching the spot over which dying men so often dangled - men he himself had committed - he held up his hand for silence. For three or four minutes he tried in vain to make himself heard, and at last two of his Bow Street men went up to the platform, and David Winfrith joined them. Before they reached his side, however, the prison gates opened again and the lieutenant of dragoons appeared with Benedict Sly at his side.
At last quiet fell, while Benedict joined the chief magistrate and waited until the older man spoke in a voice pitched high enough to reach many standing out of his sight in the side streets.
‘I came to ask you to disperse, since I hold the Solicitor General’s authority to hear the charges against Benedict Sly in Bow Street, there having been some error when Mr. Sly was committed yesterday. I—’
He was forced to stop by the tumult, and it was several minutes before he could go on.
‘I myself have examined the charge and will call on witnesses, and upon the evidence decide.’
There was no difficulty in clearing a path for him and for Benedict. Sly, no longer manacled, as they went to the waiting coach which would take them to Bow Street for the second hearing. Nor was there much doubt in James’s mind as he and Nicholas Sly and Jabez Peterson followed, that the Solicitor General’s charge on which the committal had been made would be dismissed by Fielding.
At last, after the evidence and the witnesses were again brought forth, Fielding observed dryly, ‘I will admit that the incident has come near to inciting a riot, but I am satisfied that the cause was not the words written by the accused and published in a newspaper owned by him. I therefore dismiss the charge.’
‘And because the press of this great city kept the people informed of what was happening at Westminster,’ Benedict declared, ‘justice has been done. This is a great day for the newspapers, a day when they first spoke with one voice for freedom—’
But the crowd would not let him finish. The cheering went on and on, until it seemed that they would stay at the place of their triumph forever.
Suddenly James saw a party of twenty men or so holding a banner, two of whom carried a pole to which one end of the banner was secured. Painted in red on a pale cloth which looked like stiff linen was the now familiar slogan:
FREE SLY . . . FREE THE PRESS . . . FREE THE PEOPLE IN THE NAME OF THE LORD
One of the pole carriers was a young and massive man whose appearance made James start, for at first he could have sworn that he was Johnny! Everything about the face and figure was uncannily like his half brother.
But this was Simon Rattray, officially the son of the minister of the church near Lincoln’s Inn, but surely the natural son of John Furnival.
Benedict Sly, followed by James and Nicholas, climbed the stairs to James’s rooms, long after dark, and dropped into a chair in the living room while Mary came hurrying from the kitchen. It had been two hours before the crowd had stopped calling on him to speak, two hours before first Fielding and then he had been able to get away.
Sly mopped his forehead and declared, ‘The rescue was a far greater ordeal than the arrest! Would you have believed such a rising, James?’
‘I’d not given it a thought, but if I live to be a hundred I’ll never know a greater day. Sir John was magnificent.’
‘Yes,’ Benedict agreed. ‘He was indeed. Why doesn’t David come, I wonder? He would tell us how Sir John responded when the press had gone. I will wager—’
Mary hesitated, but none of the others had any reason to believe this was because she had heard that David was expected. But she recovered quickly, carried in coffee, and rejoiced with the men, masking her apprehension. Benedict did much of the talking, mostly about the horror of Newgate Prison, while James said enough to make it clear that conditions had not improved and that his own youthful experience still burned in him.
David did not arrive, that night or for many nights to come. It was as if he had dropped out of their lives.
24: TRAITOR
At the coffee house in Wine Court next morning, James saw that The Daily Clarion and other newspapers all carried a straightforward if elated account of what had happened. Every newspaper but one, the Tory St. James’s Journal, promised its help in electing Marshall. Until that morning James had not even begun to realise the impact he had made on either the newspapers or the public. For the first time Mary and others who had thought his candidacy hopeless began to believe that he might win.
The week following he received many letters of support from his mother, Henrietta, Timothy, Sir Mortimer Tench, Beth, and more friends than he realised he had.
A letter from Francis Furnival read:
My dear James,
I hasten to send you my best hopes for your success, in which William joins me. Indeed, I speak for all the senior members of the House of Furnival, the young, as always being a law unto themselves. These past few years have been a most unsettling p
eriod in the House, and while it is always in the Furnival interest to maintain the highest possible volume of trade, it is increasingly evident that many social evils remain here at home, particularly in and near London. A strong voice drawing attention to these can only do good. No doubt you will campaign, among other things, for a peace-keeping force. I think if my brother John, your stepfather, were alive today he might find less rigid opposition. But opposition, nonetheless! I have a feeling that we may be moving into a new age. . .
Another letter, from Johnny, was more disturbing:
Jamey, you are a fool. Don’t do it.
The words, written in purple-coloured ink on a small sheet of parchmentlike paper, seemed to leap out and strike James. A sharper, more unexpected blow could not have been imagined. Why? he thought. Why, Johnny? He had seen very little of his half brother during the past few years, their meetings being mainly at family reunions at Great Furnival Square. Now and again Johnny had been to see his mother and his half sisters but he never stayed long. It was as if he were determined to cut himself as loose as possible from his mother’s side of the family. He had grown into an extremely clever and shrewd young man and it was said that he always had a following of devoted admirers, and that he had conquered more feminine hearts than any man in London.
Moreover, the place held for him inside the business was very high. It was not simply that he was entitled to a high place by birth; his ability was beyond question, and many believed that in a few years he would be a powerful figure - perhaps one day the leading figure - in the great banking and merchant empire.
And there was no doubt that if ever he came to rule the House of Furnival, it would be with great - perhaps too much - strength.
None of these things was in James’s mind at that moment, however. Two short sentences rang through his head.
‘Jamey, you are a fool. Don’t do it.’
