by Roy Lewis
‘I had heard you were in that camp,’ I murmured disdainfully.
‘Thing is, I got a grudge against Nelthorpe: he defrauded me out of possession of a new cart.’
I doubted that, but remained silent.
‘And I don’t approve of what’s going down.’
I glanced at Captain Thomas; his cold eyes held a hint of the cynicism he clearly felt. I grimaced. ‘So…?’
‘I considers I might be able to be of some assistance to Mr Jervis in his bid.’
It was there, unsaid, but clear enough to me. Feist had taken Nelthorpe’s gold, but had concluded that the Attorney General in his more eminent position would in the long run be more able to provide greater prospective benefits to Charlie Feist. He confirmed my suspicion when he went on, ‘I’m well in with the other side. But I don’t like what they’re planning. And it occurs to me that it might be to Mr Jervis’s advantage if I was to, well, sort of act as your eyes and ears in the Fitzgerald camp.’
A spy.
I weighed it up in my mind. There would be a price to pay, although money was no problem on our side. I would not be able to get personally involved, of course, but as I held Captain Thomas’s glance I knew he could clearly see that I approved of this meeting with the slimy ex-shoemaker. But the question was, to what extent could we trust the nimble-footed Lawyer Feist?
Captain Thomas was watching me and was aware of my doubts. He nodded. He put a hand on Feist’s shoulder. ‘I would like a word with Mr James. If you would care to wait in the taproom, I’ll see you there in a few minutes.’
‘The stable yard,’ Feist suggested. ‘Wouldn’t want to be seen at this Jervis ‘do’, Cap’n.’ He eyed me briefly, seemed to be about to say something, thought better of it, and then left the room.
Captain Thomas sighed, twirled a finger in his gallant moustaches. ‘Scum, but perhaps a useful ally. We can never trust him of course, but he could provide us with useful information. At a price.’
‘Are you certain of that?’
Captain Thomas bared his teeth in a wolfish grimace. ‘He’s come with information for free. As a token. It’s why I needed to see you, Mr James. I could have dealt with Feist myself, otherwise, but I need a decision from you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘This upping of the stakes by the Fitzgerald camp. Feist tells me they’ve decided to take other steps than give out drink and hard cash: they’ve taken on some outside assistance.’
‘Such as?’
‘They’re bringing in out-of-town thugs. In the next few weeks, coming up to the hustings, they’re going to place men at every road leading out of Horsham and search any trap suspected of conveying voters out of the town. They’re going to attack us where we’re weak: they’re going to steal voters, threaten them, whisk them away to hotels in London, lock them up if necessary.’
‘What sort of numbers are we talking about here?’ I asked.
‘Feist reckons they’re planning about twenty on duty each night, some on horseback, some even disguised as women in distress so as to stop a conveyance.’ He paused. ‘Feist tells me they’ve already got hold of the landlord of the Dog & Bacon, and there’s five voters been persuaded to stay at Springfield Park until polling day’s past. The gamekeeper at Denne Park, who promised his vote to us, he’s also been captured. The pressure is on, Mr James. We need to respond, if Feist is correct in the numbers game.’
‘He’s correct,’ I replied briskly. ‘What do you recommend?’
‘You leave it to me. We’ll take up Feist’s offer, to obtain regular intelligence. I’ll draft in some acquaintances, and anyone you can recommend. With your experience in the Old Bailey and your knowledge of Newmarket I’m sure you’ll be familiar with some useful characters who might be able to serve with us.’
I gave him a sharp look, but he was right. We needed more muscle. I considered briefly. I nodded. ‘It’s in your hands. I’ll need a receipt for what we pay Feist but make it … unobjectionable. As for names … there’s a man called Ned Evans. And there’s Sam Martin and Porky Clark. The sight of those three swaggering around Market Street in Horsham will make up a few minds, I don’t doubt.’
Captain Thomas nodded, his eyes glittering. ‘And meanwhile, there’s the urgent matter of Job Pickett.’
The name was familiar. I frowned. ‘The cowman at Holbrook? The one who refused to support Fitzgerald and was turned out of his job by the bailiff? We’ve been looking after him—’
‘Not well enough. He’s disappeared. But Feist knows where he is, and if we take on Charlie Feist, we can do what’s needed for our supporter, Job Pickett.’ He smiled grimly. ‘It will be a little operation you yourself might wish to take part in, Mr James. You’re well known to be a sporting man.’
3
And that’s really how it all moved into a new stage of proceedings.
It began with Job Pickett, and as Captain guessed I was interested in personally going on the raid, partly out of sheer curiosity; partly to discover just how reliable our new recruit Charlie Feist could be. It turned out his information was sound.
There were nine in our party, well-armed with cudgels and knob sticks, and I suspected at least two of the group, apart from Captain Thomas, were carrying concealed firearms. We travelled by gig to Holbrook, the estate where Fitzgerald had established his home and political headquarters, by way of Southolme where we picked up the cowman’s wife. She was a sturdy broad-bosomed woman and a determined one and as we rattled onwards to Holbrook under the pale light of the evening moon she explained what had occurred to her husband.
‘Mr Fitzgerald, he threatened to turn Job out of his work as cowman at Holbrook if he voted for Mr Jervis, but when Job was adamant for the Blues he threatened to turn us out of the cottage. But Sunday morning a message came calling him to Holbrook where Mr Fitzgerald would make him a new offer. When he got there I’m told by the butler that he was treated well, plenty of food and drink, promised a new rig-out for hisself and me and a fortnight’s holiday, but my Job is a stickler, you know, and when he refused to change his mind, well, they locked him up in the cellar!’
Captain Thomas leaned towards me in the swaying, lurching trap. ‘That’s when she contacted me. She’d got worried when he hadn’t returned on Sunday evening, went up to the house and was refused entrance. It seems, Mr James, it would not be to our advantage if we were to leave this matter stand. We need to show our determination. We have no choice but to make a frontal attack.’
Now I have to admit, my boy, that this seemed to me to be taking things too far but the Captain’s blood was up and so I did not demur as we rattled along the stony lanes until we were about a half-mile from the big house. As our master strategist and an Army man, Captain Thomas ordered our dispositions: five men to take various positions around the house in the darkness; the other four to march straight up to the front entrance.
With some trepidation, but without comment, I accompanied the storming party.
To my surprise, the gallant captain made no attempt to seek permission to enter: we marched up to the imposing doors and when Captain Thomas pushed out his hand, the unlocked door gave way, so we found ourselves unopposed in the echoing hallway of Holbrook House. The astonished footman, one John Fry, was the first to come rushing out from the parlour where he had been attending his master. When Captain Thomas demanded to know where Job Pickett was being held he was quickly joined by a distraught butler, named, I recall, Robert Dawes. Strange how I remember these names after all these years … but then, they both gave evidence at the subsequent legal proceedings.
There we were in the hallway, a group of belligerent, grimacing, cudgel-armed villains headed by Captain Thomas, with me lingering in a strategic position a little way behind. Dawes dashed into the parlour and slammed the door. We waited a short while, the captain declaiming in a high, somewhat inebriated tone, that his blood was up and he would see justice done by the release of an Englishman who was unjustly incarcerated. I had
vague thoughts of Habeas Corpus and also Trespass writs floating around in my head, well aware that they would hardly serve in this situation, when finally the parlour door opened and a pale-faced, shaken Fitzgerald appeared before us, in smoking jacket and slippers. Our Tory candidate had a fire poker in his trembling hand.
‘You have intruded upon my home, sir!’ he challenged, somewhat tremulously.
‘To come to the aid of an imprisoned friend,’ Captain Thomas roared, waving his cudgel and flicking at his coat tails, allowing the pistol thrust into his belt to appear as though by chance.
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ Fitzgerald replied lamely, his voice shaking in turn with his hands.
‘By God!’ railed the Captain, waving his cudgel in an arc above his head, ‘you lie in your teeth and you’ll release Job Pickett this instant or I’ll see your head bloodied and your—’
‘Captain!’ I said and stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on his arm. Things were going forward too hastily. I turned to our political opponent. ‘We have Mrs Pickett with us. She waits outside in the garden. She has informed us that her husband is detained here … for political purposes. Now it may well be that she is mistaken, that he is perhaps drunk, or unwell, and perhaps this is all a mistake.…’
I allowed my voice to die away. Captain Thomas was glaring at me, clearly furious at the opportunity lost if I were to continue to mollify the man into whose house we had stormed. Silence fell, and Fitzgerald stood there, shuddering, whey-faced, and somewhere in the house a window banged. Fitzgerald heard it and swallowed hard. He took a deep breath and grimaced. ‘Mr James … I must ask you to lead these friends of yours from this house. This is a blackguardedly outrage and—’
‘We seek only the release of Job Pickett,’ I remonstrated.
‘The man is not here,’ Fitzgerald asserted through grinding teeth.
I waited. Then, slowly, gently, I said, ‘Mr Fitzgerald, if you can give me your word as a gentleman, that Job Pickett is not to be found on the premises, we will immediately withdraw.’
Captain Thomas snorted in derision, but Fitzgerald swallowed hard, looked me in the eye and after a brief silence, in a low, defeated voice he said, ‘I give you my word as a gentleman, Mr James. Job Pickett is not on the premises.’
We both knew what he meant, but there was a gusty sigh of disappointment from my companions. The thugs that Captain Thomas had brought with him were clearly chagrined that the game was to be given up so easily. The Captain himself was far from pleased. But I knew we were on shaky ground legally, and it was best to withdraw: where a man’s home was concerned, it was unwise to use military tactics to obtain entrance. And I had heard the window bang. I led the way out through the open front door. It was slammed shut behind us by butler Dawes.
‘So where the hell does that get us, Mr James?’ Captain Thomas demanded fiercely. ‘We have retreated in ignominy!’
As though in answer, a loud whistle came to us from the darkness of the shrubbery on the south side of the house. Then I made out the tone of a shrill, scolding woman. It seemed that Mrs Pickett was not too pleased to have her husband returned after all, at least, not in the state of staggering inebriation in which she had found him, unceremoniously shoved out of the ground floor window when our determination in the hallway had been demonstrated.
‘We had no choice. Mr Fitzgerald gave us his word,’ I said to Captain Thomas. ‘At least, once he knew the servants had thrown Pickett into the shrubbery.’
So we loaded our drunken supporter into one of the traps, along with his wife, and we conducted the two heroes first to the Star and then to the Crown where after a suitably triumphant carousal we ended up with a supper of pickled salmon and broke up the party only at four in the morning.
And so the tone was set.
We matched Job Pickett’s incarceration by locking up the landlord of the Dog and Bacon for a fortnight. Five other voters were confined in similar fashion at Springfield Park until polling day, well provided with food and drink, of course. We kept George Elphick and Robert Parsons in London for two weeks, providing them with new suits, cash and the opportunity to live like fighting cocks, even showing themselves in the private box of the Attorney General at the Italian Opera House. We captured the Deane Park gamekeeper and kept him at the Anchor where he hid from the Blues, most of the time in the chimney, and on polling day itself we took a cattle drover called Stephen Scott, drunk to the point of insensibility, to stay at the Beehive in Denne Road until he came to his senses enough to vote.
It was the only occasion in Horsham electioneering, as I recall, that a licensed beer house was used for the purpose of sobering someone!
And so it went on. We served raw brandy in wine glasses and tumblers. Horsham was kept in a state of continual turmoil, a perpetual whirl of excitement and strong drink. Butchers thrust joints of meat into passing baskets, confident they would get paid elsewhere; new hats were provided where old ones had been bashed in; traps were hired to bring in country voters who were given drink, furnished with eatables and sent home again replete. We spent £350 on blue ribbons. Livestock was provided; horses and cattle were used to obtain votes and even mortgages were paid off where a vote could be obtained. Liquor, house repairs, holidays and small sums of money were dispensed, but as polling day grew close the sums rose from £1 or £2, to £5 and £20, often to the same voters who had already been paid but were in need of ‘refreshers’. I was finally called upon to sit in a private room at the Crown with bags of gold as persuaders.
And of course we had one other advantage over Fitzgerald: the Attorney General was in an eminent position for the distribution of official favours to those who had an eye to business. Sir John Jervis proved to be an excellent promiser: a job as postmaster here, a position in the Excise there; many offices were agreed upon.
But as Charlie Feist regularly reported to us as a double agent, openly working for Fitzgerald but secretly being paid by us, the Pinks also were spending freely, bribing widely, threatening effectively so that by the end of May the town was knee-deep in liquor and every form of blandishment, bribe and menace that could apply, was used. The town was up to its armpits in bribery and corruption and alarmingly Charlie Feist was reporting that each day there were only a handful of votes between the parties.
I calculated that by the end of my campaign I had employed over ninety individuals in the business and it was reported that the costs heaped upon Fitzgerald in his campaign exceeded £6,000. Our expenditure, I may add, was never announced, and indeed, never openly admitted.
So we finally came to nomination day. I was exhausted but the town was agog with excitement, with flags and ribbons flying everywhere. The candidates paraded at nine o’clock in the morning. Both marched around the town, Fitzgerald, preceded by the Horsham band, while we followed behind the band from Dorking, which was bigger, noisier and more expensive. At ten o’clock in the Market Square we climbed the hustings, a wooden structure with a canvas awning erected outside the Town Hall. The Under-Sheriff read out the nominations. Fitzgerald and young Jervis each delivered a prepared speech and the moment came: the Under-Sheriff called to the assembled, cheering crowd, demanded a show of hands from those entitled to vote.
And to an immense roar of approval and a storm of disapproving catcalls John Jervis was declared duly elected.
It was not the finale, of course.
A poll was called for by Fitzgerald amid a storm of cheering, hissing and booing and then the entire population of the town and numerous visitors from the outlying area returned to their horseplay, jeering, drinking and fighting. Captain Thomas knocked down Constable Green again, tubs of beer were brought out onto the gaol green, the tide of liquor and gold flowed once more and that evening we held our final ‘big do’ at the Anchor, with John Jervis in the chair and me acting as vice chairman. We ended the dinner with champagne and cigars.
As the party broke up I saw Charlie Feist skulking near the doors. He gestured to
wards a private room. I followed him into the room, reluctantly.
‘Mr Fitzgerald reckons he needs only six votes to win,’ he muttered to me from behind his hand, even though no one was in earshot. ‘He’s offering me £1,000 to find them.’
I knew a villain when I saw one. I shook my head. ‘I can pay you £300, not a penny more.’
Our double agent stuck out a hand. I took it with a taste of mud in my mouth: I knew I was being gulled, but it was Jervis’s money, after all.
So, next day, under a louring sky the final act of the drama was played out. Rotten eggs and bags of flour sweetened and ornamented both the hustings and their occupants. Substantial breakfasts were consumed, victuals and drinks supplied in astonishing amounts and most voters seemed to be hiccupping their way to declarations for one or the other of the candidates. Some Pink voters were carried forward on boards by their purchasers; some fell down immediately after voting and though I knew we were leading the poll all day, it was never by more than twelve votes.
And there was a free fight, of course; equally inevitably, a major participant was Captain Thomas with his usual opponent, Constable Green. The skirmish only ended when the Under-Sheriff himself marched in, grabbed Captain Thomas and threatened him with legal proceedings.
But Charlie Feist proved his mettle for once. He approached Market Square in a gig, displaying a prominent Pink Fitzgerald ribbon in his hat but when asked the question by the Returning Officer, ‘For whom do you vote?’ he turned to the crowd, ripped off his pink ribbon, tore open his jacket and exposed a blue ribbon pinned to his shirt. ‘I have Pink outside,’ he shouted, ‘but I have Blue nearest my heart and I vote for Mr Jervis!’
The unprincipled rogue must really have had a simmering resentment against Fitzgerald’s agent in a dispute over a cart, after all.
And when the clock struck four it was found we, the Blues, had polled one hundred and sixty-four votes. Fitzgerald had amassed one hundred and fifty-three Pink votes.
