Текст книги "A Place Called Freedom"

Автор книги: Ken Follett

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Gordonson began by talking about Peg and Cora’s case. “I’ve spoken with the Jamisson family lawyer about the pick-pocketing charge,” he began. “Sir George will stand by his promise to ask for mercy for Peg.”

“That surprises me,” said Mack. “It’s not like the Jamissons to keep their word.”

“Ah, well, they want something,” Gordonson said. “You see, it will be embarrassing for them if Jay tells the court he picked Cora up thinking she was a prostitute. So they want to pretend she just met him in the street and got him talking while Peg picked his pocket.”

Peg said scornfully: “And we’re supposed to go along with this fairy tale, and protect Jay’s reputation.”

“If you want Sir George to plead for your life, yes.”

Cora said: “We have no choice. Of course we’ll do it.”

“Good.” Gordonson turned to Mack. “I wish your case was so easy.”

Mack protested: “But I didn’t riot!”

“You didn’t go away after the Riot Act was read.”

“For God’s sake—I tried to get everyone to go, but Lennox’s ruffians attacked.”

“Let’s look at this step by step.”

Mack took a deep breath and suppressed his exasperation. “All right.”

“The prosecutor will say simply that the Riot Act was read, and you did not go away, so you are guilty and should be hanged.”

“Yes, but everyone knows there’s more to it than that!”

“There: that’s your defense. You simply say that the prosecutor has told half the story. Can you bring witnesses to say that you pleaded with everyone to disperse?”

“I’m sure I can. Dermot Riley can get any number of coal heavers to testify. But we should ask the Jamissons why the coal was being delivered to that yard, of all places, and at that time of night!”

“Well—”

Mack banged the table impatiently. “The whole riot was prearranged, we have to say that.”

“It would be hard to prove.”

Mack was infuriated by Gordonson’s dismissive attitude. “The riot was caused by a conspiracy—surely you’re not going to leave that out? If the facts don’t come out in court, where will they?”

Peg said: “Will you be at the trial, Mr. Gordonson?”

“Yes—but the judge may not let me speak.”

“For God’s sake, why not?” Mack said indignantly.

“The theory is that if you’re innocent you don’t need legal expertise to prove it. But sometimes judges make exceptions.”

“I hope we get a friendly judge,” Mack said anxiously.

“The judge ought to help the accused. It’s his duty to make sure the defense case is clear to the jury. But don’t rely on it. Place your faith in the plain truth. It’s the only thing that can save you from the hangman.”

24

ON THE DAY OF THE TRIAL THE PRISONERS WERE awakened at five o’clock in the morning.

Dermot Riley arrived a few minutes later with a suit for Mack to borrow: it was the outfit Dermot had got married in, and Mack was touched. He also brought a razor and a sliver of soap. Half an hour later Mack looked respectable and felt ready to face the judge.

With Cora and Peg and fifteen or twenty others he was tied up and marched out of the prison, along Newgate Street, down a side street called Old Bailey and up an alley to the Sessions House.

Caspar Gordonson met him there and explained who was who. The yard in front of the building was already full of people: prosecutors, witnesses, jurors, lawyers, friends and relatives, idle spectators, and probably whores and thieves looking for business. The prisoners were led across the yard and through a gate to the bail dock. It was already half full of defendants, presumably from other prisons: the Fleet Prison, the Bridewell and Ludgate Prison. From there Mack could see the imposing Sessions House. Stone steps led up to its ground floor, which was open on one side except for a row of columns. Inside was the judges’ bench on a high platform. On either side were railed-off spaces for jurors, and balconies for court officers and privileged spectators.

It reminded Mack of a theater—but he was the villain of the piece.

He watched with grim fascination as the court began its long day of trials. The first defendant was a woman accused of stealing fifteen yards of linsey-woolsey—cheap cloth made of a mixture of linen and wool—from a shop. The shopkeeper was the prosecutor, and he valued the cloth at fifteen shillings. The witness, an employee, swore that the woman picked up the bolt of cloth and went to the door then, realizing she was observed, dropped the material and ran away. The woman claimed she had only been looking at the cloth and had never intended to make off with it.

The jurors went into a huddle. They came from the social class known as “the middling sort”: they were small traders, well-to-do craftsmen and shopkeepers. They hated disorder and theft but they mistrusted the government and jealously defended liberty—their own, at least.

They found her guilty but valued the cloth at four Shillings, a lot less than it was worth. Gordonson explained that she could be hanged for stealing goods worth more than five shillings from a shop. The verdict was intended to prevent the judge from sentencing the woman to death.

She was not sentenced immediately, however: the sentences would all be read out at the end of the day.

The whole thing had taken no more than a quarter of an hour. The following cases were dealt with equally rapidly, few taking more than half an hour. Cora and Peg were tried together at about midafternoon. Mack knew that the course of the trial was preordained, but still he crossed his fingers and hoped it would go according to plan.

Jay Jamisson testified that Cora had engaged him in conversation in the street while Peg picked his pockets. He called Sidney Lennox as the witness who had seen what was happening and warned him. Neither Cora nor Peg challenged this version of events.

Their reward was the appearance of Sir George, who testified that they had been helpful in the apprehension of another criminal and asked the judge to sentence them to transportation rather than hanging.

The judge nodded sympathetically, but the sentence would not be pronounced until the end of the day.

Mack’s case was called a few minutes later.

Lizzie could think of nothing but the trial.

She had dinner at three o’clock and, as Jay was at the court all day, her mother came to dine and keep her company.

“You’re looking quite plump, my dear,” Lady Hallim said. “Have you been eating a lot?”

“On the contrary,” Lizzie said. “Sometimes food makes me feel ill. It’s all the excitement of going to Virginia, I suppose. And now this dreadful trial.”

“It’s not your concern,” Lady Hallim said briskly. “Dozens of people are hanged every year for much less dreadful crimes. He can’t be reprieved just because you knew him as a child.”

“How do you know he committed a crime at all?”

“If he did not, he will be found not guilty. I’m sure he is being treated the same as anyone foolish enough to get involved in a riot.”

“But he isn’t,” Lizzie protested. “Jay and Sir George deliberately provoked that riot so that they could arrest Mack and finish the coal heavers’ strike—Jay told me.”

“Then I’m sure they had good reason.”

Tears came to Lizzie’s eyes. “Mother, don’t you think it’s wrong?”

“I’m quite sure it’s none of my business or yours, Lizzie,” she said firmly.

Wanting to hide her distress from her mother, Lizzie ate a spoonful of dessert—apples mashed with sugar—but it made her feel sick and she put down her spoon. “Caspar Gordonson said I could save Mack’s life if I would speak for him in court.”

“Heaven forbid!” Mother was shocked. “That you should go against your own husband in a public courtroom—don’t even speak of it!”

“But it’s a man’s life! Think of his poor sister—how she will grieve when she finds out he has been hanged.”

“My dear, they are miners, they aren’t like us. Life is cheap, they don’t grieve as we do. His sister will just get drunk on gin and go back down the pit.”

“You don’t really believe that, Mother, I know.”

“Perhaps I’m exaggerating. But I’m quite sure it does no good to worry about such things.”

“I just can’t help it. He’s a brave young man who only wanted to be free, and I can’t bear the thought of him hanging from that rope.”

“You could pray for him.”

“I do,” Lizzie said. “I do.”

* * *

The prosecutor was a lawyer, Augustus Pym.

“He does a lot of work for the government,” Gordonson whispered to Mack. “They must be paying him to prosecute this case.”

So the government wanted Mack hanged. That made him feel low.

Gordonson approached the bench and addressed the judge. “My lord, as the prosecution is to be done by a professional lawyer, will you allow me to speak for Mr. McAsh?”

“Certainly not,” said the judge. “If McAsh cannot convince the jury unless he has outside help, he can’t have much of a case.”

Mack’s throat was dry and he could hear his heartbeat. He was going to have to fight for his life alone. Well, he would fight every inch of the way.

Pym began. “On the day in question a delivery of coal was being made to the yard of Mr. John Cooper, known as Black Jack, in Wapping High Street.”

Mack said: “It wasn’t day—it was night.”

The judge said: “Don’t make foolish remarks.”

“It’s not foolish,” Mack said. “Whoever heard of coal being delivered at eleven o’clock at night?”

“Be quiet. Carry on, Mr. Pym.”

“The delivery men were attacked by a group of striking coal heavers, and the Wapping magistrates were alerted.”

“Who by?” said Mack.

Pym answered: “By the landlord of the Frying Pan tavern, Mr. Harold Nipper.”

“An undertaker,” said Mack.

The judge said: “And a respectable tradesman, I believe.”

Pym went on: “Mr. Roland MacPherson, justice of the peace, arrived and declared a riot. The coal heavers refused to disperse.”

“We were attacked!” Mack said.

They ignored him. “Mr. MacPherson then summoned the troops, as was his right and duty. A detachment of the Third Foot Guards arrived under the command of Captain Jamisson. The prisoner was among those arrested. The Crown’s first witness is John Cooper.”

Black Jack testified that he went downriver to Rochester to buy coal that had been unloaded there. He had it driven to London in carts.

Mack asked: “Who did the ship belong to?”

“I don’t know—I dealt with the captain.”

“Where was the ship from?”

“Edinburgh.”

“Could it have belonged to Sir George Jamisson?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who suggested to you that you might be able to buy coal in Rochester?”

“Sidney Lennox.”

“A friend of the Jamissons’.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Pym’s next witness was Roland MacPherson, who swore that he had read the Riot Act at a quarter past eleven in the evening, and the crowd had refused to disperse.

Mack said: “You were on the scene very quickly.”

“Yes.”

“Who summoned you?”

“Harold Nipper.”

“The landlord of the Frying Pan.”

“Yes.”

“Did he have far to go?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Where were you when he summoned you?”

“In the back parlor of his tavern.”

“That was handy! Was it planned?”

“I knew there was going to be a coal delivery and I feared there might be trouble.”

“Who forewarned you?”

“Sidney Lennox.”

One of the jurors said: “Ho!”

Mack looked at him. He was a youngish man with a skeptical expression, and Mack marked him down as a potential ally in the jury.

Finally Pym called Jay Jamisson. Jay talked easily, and the judge looked faintly bored, as if they were friends discussing a matter of no importance. Mack wanted to shout “Don’t be so casual—my life is at stake!”

Jay said he had been in command of a detachment of Guards at the Tower of London.

The skeptical juror interrupted: “What were you doing there?”

Jay looked as if the question had taken him by surprise. He said nothing.

“Answer the question,” said the juror.

Jay looked at the judge, who seemed annoyed with the juror and said with obvious reluctance: “You must answer the jury’s questions, Captain.”

“We were there in readiness,” Jay said.

“For what?” said the juror.

“In case our assistance was needed in keeping the peace in the eastern part of the city.”

“Is that your usual barracks?” said the juror.

“No.”

“Where, then?”

“Hyde Park, at the moment.”

“On the other side of London.”

“Yes.”

“How many nights have you made this special trip to the Tower?”

“Just one.”

“How did you come to be there that particular night?”

“I assume my commanding officers feared trouble.”

“Sidney Lennox warned them, I suppose,” the juror said, and there was a ripple of laughter.

Pym continued to question Jay, who said that when he and his men arrived at the coal yard there was a riot in full progress, which was true. He told how Mack had attacked him—also true—and had been knocked out by another soldier.

Mack asked him: “What do you think of coal heavers who riot?”

“They are breaking the law and should be punished.”

“Do you believe most folk agree with you, by and large?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think the riot will turn folk against the coal heavers?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“So the riot makes it more likely that the authorities will take drastic action to end the strike?”

“I certainly hope so.”

Beside Mack, Caspar Gordonson was muttering: “Brilliant, brilliant, he fell right into your trap.”

“And when the strike is over, the Jamisson family’s coal ships will be unloaded and you will be able to sell your coal again.”

Jay began to see where he was being led, but it was too late. “Yes.”

“An end to the strike is worth a lot of money to you.”

“Yes.”

“So the coal heavers’ riot will make money for you.”

“It might stop my family losing money.”

“Is that why you cooperated with Sidney Lennox in provoking the riot?” Mack turned away.

“I did no such thing!” said Jay, but he was speaking to the back of Mack’s head.

Gordonson said: “You should be a lawyer, Mack. Where did you learn to argue like that?”

“Mrs. Wheighel’s parlor,” he replied.

Gordonson was mystified.

Pym had no more witnesses. The skeptical juror said: “Aren’t we going to hear from this Lennox character?”

“The Crown has no more witnesses,” Pym repeated.

“Well, I think we should hear from him. He seems to be behind it all”

“Jurors cannot call witnesses,” the judge said.

Mack called his first, an Irish coal heaver known as Red Michael for the color of his hair. Red told how Mack had been on the point of persuading the coal heavers to go home when they were attacked.

When he had finished, the judge said: “And what work do you do, young man?”

“I’m a coal heaver, sir,” Red replied.

The judge said: “The jury will take that into account when considering whether to believe you or not.”

Mack’s heart sank. The judge was doing all he could to prejudice the jury against him. He called his next witness, but he was another coal heaver and suffered the same fate. The third and last was also a coal heaver. That was because they had been in the thick of things and had seen exactly what happened.

His witnesses had been destroyed. Now there was only himself and his own character and eloquence.

“Coal heaving is hard work, cruelly hard,” he began. “Only strong young men can do it. But it’s highly paid—in my first week I earned six pounds. I earned it, but I did not receive it: most was stolen from me by an undertaker.”

The judge interrupted him. “This has nothing to do with the case,” he said. “The charge is riot.”

“I didn’t riot,” Mack said. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts, then went on. “I simply refused to let undertakers steal my wages. That’s my crime. Undertakers get rich by stealing from coal heavers. But when the coal heavers decided to do their own undertaking, what happened? They were boycotted by the shippers. And who are the shippers, gentlemen? The Jamisson family which is so inextricably involved in this trial today.”

The judge said irritably: “Can you prove that you did not riot?”

The skeptical juror interjected: “The point is that the fighting was instigated by others.”

Mack was not put off by the interruption. He simply continued with what he wanted to say. “Gentlemen of the jury, ask yourselves some questions.” He turned away from the jurors and looked straight at Jay. “Who ordered that wagons of coal should be brought down Wapping High Street at an hour when the taverns are full of coal heavers? Who sent them to the very coal yard where I live? Who paid the men who escorted the wagons?” The judge was trying to break in again but Mack raised his voice and plowed on. “Who gave them muskets and ammunition? Who made sure the troops were standing by in the immediate neighborhood? Who orchestrated the entire riot?” He swung around swiftly and looked at the jury. “You know the answer, don’t you?” He held their gaze a moment longer, then turned away.

He felt shaky. He had done his best, and now his life was in the hands of others.

Gordonson got to his feet. “We were expecting a character witness to appear on McAsh’s behalf—the Reverend Mr. York, pastor of the church in the village of his birth—but he has not yet arrived.”

Mack was not very disappointed about York, for he did not expect York’s testimony to have much effect, and neither did Gordonson.

The judge said: “If he arrives he may speak before sentencing.” Gordonson raised his eyebrows and the judge added: “That is, unless the jury finds the defendant not guilty, in which case further testimony would be superfluous, needless to say. Gentlemen, consider your verdict.”

Mack studied the jurors fearfully as they conferred. He thought, to his dismay, that they looked unsympathetic. Perhaps he had come on too strong. “What do you think?” he said to Gordonson.

The lawyer shook his head. “They’ll find it hard to believe that the Jamisson family entered into a shabby conspiracy with Sidney Lennox. You might have done better to present the coal heavers as well intentioned but misguided.”

“I told the truth,” Mack said. “I can’t help it.”

Gordonson smiled sadly. “If you weren’t that kind of man, you might not be in so much trouble.”

The jurors were arguing. “What the devil are they talking about?” Mack said. “I wish we could hear.” He could see the skeptical one making a point forcefully, wagging his finger. Were the others listening attentively, or ranged against him?

“Be grateful,” Gordonson said. “The longer they talk, the better for you.”

“Why?”

“If they’re arguing, there must be doubt; and if there is doubt, they have to find you not guilty.”

Mack watched fearfully. The skeptical one shrugged and half turned away, and Mack feared he had lost the argument. The foreman said something to him, and he nodded.

The foreman approached the bench.

The judge said: “Have you reached a verdict?”

“We have.”

Mack held his breath.

“And how do you find the prisoner?”

“We find him guilty as charged.”

Lady Hallim said: “Your feeling for this miner is rather strange, my dear. A husband might find it objectionable.”

“Oh, Mother, don’t be so ridiculous.”

There was a knock at the dining room door and a footman came in. “The Reverend Mr. York, madam,” he said.

“What a lovely surprise!” said Mother. She had always been fond of York. In a low voice she added: “His wife died, Lizzie—did I tell you?—leaving him with three children.”

“But what’s he doing here?” Lizzie said anxiously. “He’s supposed to be at the Old Bailey. Show him in, quickly.”

The pastor came in, looking as if he had dressed hastily. Before Lizzie could ask him why he was not at the trial he said something that momentarily took her mind off Mack.

“Lady Hallim, Mrs. Jamisson, I arrived in London a few hours ago, and I’ve called on you at the earliest possible moment to offer you both my sympathies. What a dreadful—”

Lizzie’s mother said, “No—” then clamped her lips tight.

“—blow to you.”

Lizzie shot a puzzled look at her mother and said: “What are you talking about, Mr. York?”

“The pit disaster, of course.”

“I don’t know anything about it—although I see my mother does.…”

“My goodness, I’m terribly sorry to have shocked you. There was a roof collapse at your pit, and twenty people were killed.”

Lizzie gasped. “How absolutely dreadful.” In her mind she saw twenty new graves in the little churchyard by the bridge. There would be so much grief: everyone in the neighborhood would be mourning someone. But something else worried her. “What do you mean when you say ‘your’ pit?”

“High Glen.”

Lizzie went cold. “There is no pit at High Glen.”

“Only the new one, of course—the one that was begun when you married Mr. Jamisson.”

Lizzie felt frozen with rage. She rounded on her mother. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Lady Hallim had the grace to look ashamed. “My dear, it was the only thing to do. That’s why Sir George gave you the Virginia property—”

“You betrayed me!” Lizzie cried. “You all deceived me. Even my husband. How could you? How could you lie to me?”

Her mother began to cry. “We thought you’d never know. You’re going to America—”

Her tears did nothing to blunt Lizzie’s outrage. “You thought I’d never know? I can hardly believe my ears!”

“Don’t do anything rash, I beg you.”

An awful thought struck Lizzie. She turned to the pastor. “Mack’s twin sister …”

“I’m afraid Esther McAsh was among the dead,” he said.

“Oh, no.” Mack and Esther were the first twins Lizzie had ever seen, and she had been fascinated by them. As children they were hard to tell apart until you got to know them. In later life Esther looked like a female Mack, with the same striking green eyes and the miner’s squat muscularity. Lizzie remembered them a few short months ago, standing side by side outside the church. Esther had told Mack to shut his gob, and that had made Lizzie laugh. Now Esther was dead and Mack was about to be condemned to death—

Remembering Mack, she said: “The trial is today!”

York said: “Oh, my goodness, I didn’t know it was so soon—am I too late?”

“Perhaps not, if you go now.”

“I will. How far is it?”

“Fifteen minutes’ walk, five minutes in a sedan chair. I’m coming with you.”

Mother said: “No, please—”

Lizzie made her voice harsh. “Don’t try to stop me, Mother. I’m going to plead for Mack’s life myself. We killed the sister—perhaps we can save the brother.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Lady Hallim.

* * *

The Sessions Yard was crammed with people. Lizzie was confused and lost, and neither York nor her mother was any help. She pushed through the crowd, searching for Gordonson or Mack. She came to a low wall that enclosed an inner yard and at last saw Mack and Caspar Gordonson through the railings. When she called, Gordonson came out through a gate.

At the same time Sir George and Jay appeared.

Jay said in a reproving tone: “Lizzie, why are you here?”

She ignored him and spoke to Gordonson: “This is the Reverend Mr. York, from our village in Scotland. He’s come to plead for Mack’s life.”

Sir George wagged a finger at York. “If you’ve got any sense you’ll turn around and go straight back to Scotland.”

Lizzie said: “And I’m going to plead for his life, too.”

“Thank you,” Gordonson said fervently. “It’s the best thing you could possibly do.”

Lady Hallim said: “I tried to stop her, Sir George.”

Jay flushed with anger and grabbed Lizzie by the arm, squeezing hard. “How dare you humiliate me like this?” he spat. “I absolutely forbid you to speak!”

“Are you intimidating this witness?” said Gordonson.

Jay looked cowed and let go. A lawyer with a bundle of papers pushed through the middle of their little group. Jay said: “Do we have to have this discussion here where the whole world can see?”

“Yes,” said Gordonson. “We can’t leave the court.”

Sir George said to Lizzie: “What the devil do you mean by this, my girl?”

The arrogant tone maddened Lizzie. “You know damn well what I mean by it,” she said. The men were all startled to hear her swear, and two or three people standing nearby turned and looked at her. She ignored their reactions. “You all planned this riot to trap McAsh. I’m not going to stand by and see you hang him.”

Sir George reddened. “Remember that you’re my daughter-in-law and—”

“Shut up, George,” she interrupted. “I won’t be bullied.”

He was thunderstruck. No one ever told him to shut up, she was sure.

Jay took up the cudgels. “You can’t go against your own husband,” he stormed. “It’s disloyal!”

“Disloyal?” she repeated scornfully. “Who the hell are you to talk to me about loyalty? You swore to me that you would not mine coal on my land—then went ahead and did exactly that. You betrayed me on our wedding day!”

They all went quiet, and for a moment Lizzie could hear a witness giving evidence loudly on the other side of the wall. “You know about the accident, then,” said Jay.

She took a deep breath. “I might as well say now that Jay and I will be leading separate lives from today. We’ll be married in name only. I shall return to my house in Scotland, and none of the Jamisson family will be welcomed there. As for my speaking up for McAsh: I’m not going to help you hang my friend, and you can both—both—kiss my arse.”

Sir George was too stupefied to say anything. No one had spoken to him this way for years. He was beetroot red, his eyes bulged, and he spluttered, but no words came out.

Caspar Gordonson addressed Jay. “May I make a suggestion?”

Jay gave him a hostile glare but said curtly: “Go on, go on.”

“Mrs. Jamisson might be persuaded not to testify—on one condition.”

“What?”

“You, Jay, should plead for Mack’s life.”

“Absolutely not,” said Jay.

Gordonson went on: “It would be just as effective. But it would save the family the embarrassment of a wife going against her husband in open court.” He suddenly looked sly. “Instead, you would look magnanimous. You could say that Mack was a miner in the Jamisson pits and for that reason the family wishes to be merciful.”

Lizzie’s heart leaped with hope. A plea for mercy from Jay, the officer who had quelled the riot, would be much more effective.

She could see hesitation flicker across Jay’s face as he weighed the consequences. Then he said sulkily: “I suppose I have to accept this.”

Before Lizzie had time to feel exultant, Sir George intervened. “There’s one condition, which I know Jay will insist upon.”

Lizzie had a bad feeling that she knew what was coming.

Sir George looked at her. “You must forget all this nonsense about separate lives. You are to be a proper wife to Jay in every way.”

“No!” she cried. “He has betrayed me—how can I trust him? I won’t do it.”

Sir George said: “Then Jay will not plead for McAsh’s life.”

Gordonson said: “I must tell you, Lizzie, that Jay’s plea will be more effective than yours, because he’s the prosecutor.”

Lizzie felt bewildered. It was not fair—she was being forced to choose between Mack’s life and her own. How could she decide such a thing? She was pulled both ways, and it hurt.

They were all staring at her: Jay, Sir George, Gordonson, her mother, and York. She knew she should give in, but something inside would not let her. “No,” she said defiantly. “I will not trade my own life for Mack’s.”

Gordonson said: “Think again.”

Then her mother said: “You have to.”

Lizzie looked at her. Of course her mother would urge her to do the conventional thing. But Mother was on the verge of tears. “What is it?”

She began to cry. “You have to be a proper wife to Jay.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to have a baby.”

Lizzie stared at her. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You’re pregnant,” her mother said.

“How would you know?”

Mother spoke through sobs. “Your bosom has got bigger and food makes you feel sick. You’ve been married for two months: it’s not exactly unexpected.”

“Oh, my God.” Lizzie was dumbfounded. Everything was turned upside-down. A baby! Could it be? She thought back and realized she had not had the curse since her wedding day. So it was true. She was trapped by her own body. Jay was the father of her child. And Mother had realized this was the one thing that could change Lizzie’s mind.

She looked at her husband. On his face she saw anger mixed with a pleading look. “Why did you lie to me?” she said.

“I didn’t want to, but I had to,” he said.

She felt bitter. Her love for him would never be quite the same, she knew. But he was still her husband.

“All right,” she said. “I accept.”

Caspar Gordonson said: “Then we’re all in agreement.”

It sounded to Lizzie like a life sentence.

“Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh yes!” shouted the court crier. “My lords, the king’s justices, strictly command all manner of persons to keep silence while the sentence of death is passing on the prisoners at the bar, on pain of imprisonment.”

The judge put on his black cap and stood up.

Mack shuddered with loathing. Nineteen cases had been tried on the same day, and twelve people had been found guilty. Mack suffered a wave of terror. Lizzie had forced Jay to plead for mercy, which meant that his death sentence should be reprieved, but what if the judge decided to discount Jay’s plea or just made a mistake?

Lizzie was at the back of the court. Mack caught her eye. She looked pale and shaken. He had not had a chance to speak to her. She tried to give him an encouraging smile, but it turned into a grimace of fear.

The judge looked at the twelve prisoners, standing in a line, and after a moment he spoke. “The law is that thou shalt return from hence, to the place whence thou earnest, and from thence to the place of execution, where thou shalt hang by the neck, till the body be dead! dead! dead! and the Lord have mercy on thy soul.”

There was an awful pause. Cora held Mack’s arm, and he felt her fingers digging into his flesh as she suffered the same dreadful anxiety. The other prisoners had little hope of pardon. As they heard their death sentences some screamed abuse, some wept, and one prayed loudly.

“Peg Knapp is reprieved and recommended for transportation,” the judge intoned. “Cora Higgins is reprieved and recommended for transportation. Malachi McAsh is reprieved and recommended for transportation. The rest are left to hang.”

Mack put his arms around Cora and Peg, and the three of them stood in a mutual embrace. Their lives had been spared.

Caspar Gordonson joined in the embrace, then he took Mack’s arm and said solemnly: “I have to give you some dreadful news.”

Mack was scared again: would their reprieves somehow be overturned?

“There has been a roof collapse in one of the Jamisson pits,” he went on. Mack’s heart missed a beat: he dreaded what was coming. “Twenty people were killed,” Gordonson said.