The Wake of the Lorelei Lee Page 6

  I look up at the narrow slits of light high above and reflect how me and the gang used to be able to get into Newgate Prison to deliver messages and small parcels of food from friends and family of the confined. But that was only into the other parts of the place, where they kept debtors and suchlike. We were never able to get right into the Condemned Cells, nay. They were locked up tighter than a churchman’s purse. Oh, we could pass a note through the bars sometimes, but that’s about it.

  In spite of my present condition, I smile as I think back to those days when I, for a shilling a week for milk money for my baby Jesse, would slip in and out of Newgate on errands for the prison reform crusader Elizabeth Fry and her Quaker do-gooder cohorts. I knew her then as Miss Gurney, before she married Preacher Fry, and a fierce one was she. It is rumored that because she had some influence, she being from a banking family and all, she connived one day to arrange for certain ladies of the court—handmaidens to royalty and wives of judges and such—to be gathered in their carriages for a gay Monday outing, and while enroute they were driven to the gallows at Newgate at just the right time so that the shocked ladies within could witness, up close, the last twists and struggles of a sixteen-year-old girl. The poor condemned one, hanged for stealing a hairbrush, had been counseled and comforted by Mrs. Fry during her final terrified days. Most of the fine ladies lost their fine breakfasts on the floor of their carriages that fine day, and many an influential courtier and many a stern, bewigged judge was denied access to his lady’s bed that evening and many more . . . until something is done, Sir! And I mean it!

  But, alas, I can’t slip in and out of Newgate now, not like I once could, oh, no.

  There are three girls in here with me, all condemned to hang the Monday after next.

  The youngest of them is Mary Wade, a small scrap of a thing and all of ten years old, condemned to death for the stealing of a shawl. “This rich girl come down to the market and I was so cold and she had this purty thing ’round her shoulders and I didn’t think. I just grabbed it and ripped it off her and ran . . . There was another girl in my gang wi’ me and when we was caught, she peached on me to get herself off. Now I gots to choke for it. ’Tain’t fair . . .”

  Then there’s Molly Reibey, age fourteen, convicted for stealing a horse. “It was a joke, a lark, but then my uncle who put me up to it said he didn’t have anything to do wi’ it and there I was on this horse . . . and . . . people said I was there in town tryin’ to sell it . . . and I was taken and tried . . . and here I am. Didn’t do nothin wrong . . . just a joke, just a prank . . . and now I’m gonna die for it . . .”

  And there’s Esther Abrahams, a very beautiful girl of sixteen who was apprenticed to a milliner who accused her of stealing a piece of black lace. She protests her innocence—“I didn’t do it, I didn’t”—for all the good it’s gonna do her. She is cultured, and has some social graces . . . and she’s a Jewish girl, too, which probably helped her get condemned.

  Sometimes I think certain house mistresses accuse the young help of petty crimes just so they can be rid of them. Why? Perhaps a husband’s wayward glance at a comely servant, or for mere convenience, I don’t know. Sort of like drowning unwanted kittens, ’cept you don’t have to watch their struggles as they die—unless you want to. It sickens me.

  My face is still swollen a bit, but I feel around my teeth, and though my lip is split, I feel no other damage—prolly afraid of hurting their knuckles, the bastards—and though I wish to see those two rotters in hell, I realize, with a sinking feeling, that the truth is I’ll prolly get there ’fore them. Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll stoke up the fires, by God, to make sure that things are really hot for them when they come.

  Idle, stupid thoughts.

  On the second day, I am amazed to see that Elizabeth Fry herself is granted entry into our cell to lend solace to the doomed girls within. Just how she managed that, I do not know, but she seems to have her ways.

  “Missus Fry,” I say. “Do you remember me?”

  She squints at me in the gloom and then takes my hand.

  “Yes, I remember you, child . . . Mary, is it . . . ? With the baby? Our messenger several years ago?”

  Again I nod, the tears welling up at the kind touch of her hand.

  “I am sorry to see you in here, Mary. Are you . . .”

  “Condemned? Not yet, Mrs. Fry, but it seems certain . . .”

  “Are you right with God?”

  “I don’t know, Missus.”

  “Then come and pray with us.”

  And I do.

  This evening, it being Sunday, we are taken out and herded into the chapel room, where we stand in the balcony and are made to look down upon the condemned who are scheduled to perish the next day. They are down below, bound and arrayed around an open coffin and treated to a sermon concerning their very soon demise. They have been on bread and water the past three days and have nothing to look forward to except a grisly death to end their suffering. All males, this time, they make great lamentations, but the preacher above has no mercy, condemning them to hell for their crimes. It is such a cruel world.

  Next Sunday it will be the girls’ turn to be down next to the coffin.

  Maybe me, too.

  Chapter 11

  As dawn breaks on Wednesday, the four of us lie huddled under my cloak in a corner of the cell, the past night being chilly and damp. We take some comfort in each other’s nearness, as well as from the warm cloak, and so we make no move to rise. What is there to get up to? A mean bucket of the slops they call food? Some hard crusts of bread, so hard they make your gums bleed? Nay, no need to get up for that.

  There is a jangling of the lock and the door to our cavern of despair opens. Thinking it is the arrival of the breakfast gruel, we moan and stretch in our bed of stone.

  It is not, however, that.

  Two men, dressed somewhat better than the usual prison wardens, come into the cell, and one says, “Mary Faber, come with us.”

  “Why?” I ask fearfully.

  “Today you shall be tried at Justice Hall for the crimes laid against your name. The court and the jury will be seated within the hour, and you will stand at the bar for judgment. Surely you have something to put on to make yourself more decent, girl.” I stand before them in my undergarments.

  They wait for me while I put myself back into my once white and stainless dress.

  When I have done it, I go to each of the girls in turn and hold their hands and kiss them on the cheek. “Be brave, Sisters, and please, keep my cloak . . . I’m sure to be back with you shortly.”

  If not, at least they shall be warm until the day when . . . oh, God . . .

  I turn to the two men.

  “I am ready,” I say. I thrust out my crossed wrists to be bound, as I know they will have to be.

  After that is accomplished, I am pulled out and sent down a hall. There is bedlam all about me as I go—some jeering, some shouting defiance, some offering comfort, some quite mad.

  We come to a low archway and duck down into it. Lighted by small slits in the masonry high above, it opens out into a long, bricked passageway. I know where we are going—to the Old Bailey itself and prolly to my doom. After we have walked maybe a hundred yards, I lift my hands to my face and I pretend to cry. That is not at all hard, since I really feel like doing it.

  But I am not crying. What I am doing is feeling for the cut above my left eye, put there by Bliffil’s fist in the carriage that day when they first brought me to Newgate.

  Flashby had slapped me around some, yes, but it was Bliffil who used the knuckles, pounding me again and again, and eventually opening up a cut above my eye. “Here’s one for getting my nose broke and here’s another for . . .” At last Flashby restrained him—“Come on, old boy, we want to see her hang, don’t we? Let’s not kill her here, as there’s scant sport in that, eh? Believe me, we’ll have courtside rooms at Newgate for that special hanging, eh what? With some fine sporting ladies to keep us
company and a few jugs of good whiskey. I know just the rooms, and I shall hire them. We’ll stand there with a whore in each hand and watch her dance her last. We’ll send off the little slut with a shot of whiskey and a curse. Won’t that be fine?”

  And Bliffil did stop beating me at the prospect of that fine day, and I was allowed to slump back between the guards and pass out.

  So now, today, I lift my hand to that same cut above my eye. It had essentially healed, but I shall not let it rest. During my time in the condemned cell, I had taken the fingernails of my right hand—since I used them to pluck my guitar, they were quite long—and I filed them to points on the rough rocks of the cell wall, thinking to give myself some sort of weapon in the absence of my shiv. Now I turn the sharpest one on myself and dig it into the cut above my eye.

  It hurts, but I am gratified to feel the warm blood once again course down over my cheek.

  Having accomplished that, I walk the rest of the way down the passageway between the two court bailiffs. In another hundred yards, we emerge into a courtyard surrounded by a high circular wall on one side and the front of the Old Bailey on the other. I blink in the sudden light and then notice two men standing there, waiting for me. One is my London lawyer, Mr. Worden—it is so good to see a friendly face!—and the other is a man I do not know. Both wear long black robes, high collars, and short white wigs.

  “Good Lord!” exclaims Mr. Worden upon seeing my face and general appearance. “What did you do to her?”

  “We did nothing, Sir, but bring her here,” replies one of the guards, a trifle uneasily. “As we were ordered.”

  “It looks, Sirrah”—Mr. Worden glares down his long nose at the two—“that you worked her over very thoroughly, very thoroughly indeed!”

  “No, Sir. Any damage that was done to her was done by others.”

  I’m standing there with head up and face bloody.

  “Very well,” hisses Mr. Worden, giving it up. “We have custody of her. You may go.” The bailiffs go to the entrance of the court and wait.

  “Miss Faber, may I present Attorney Farnsworth,” says Worden. “He is a barrister and he will argue your case before the bar.”

  “Then I place my fate in your hands, Sir, and thank you,” says I, lowering the eyes and doing what I can in the way of a curtsy. He bows back, plainly appraising me.

  “We must get her cleaned up,” says Mr. Worden, sounding a bit flustered. I know that he is much more at ease handling financial cases than he is capital crimes. “We can use the lawyers’ washroom.”

  “Hold on, Mr. Worden, I do not think we should do that at all,” says this other bewigged gent next to him. “I think we should present her just as she is.”

  “But she is a mess.”

  “All the better,” says Farnsworth, in a deep, mellifluous voice. “The winsome, woeful waif—a poor orphan of the storm . . .”

  I perceive with some satisfaction that Barrister Farnsworth is a cunning man, one after my own heart.

  “We have but a short time to go over this case. Are you ready to tell me all?”

  “I am.”

  “You must tell him the complete truth, Jacky,” says Attorney Worden.

  “I will,” says I, and I do, in the next hour, relate all that has happened since first I set foot on the Dolphin until I very recently stepped off the Lorelei Lee. I leave nothing out. Never any sense in lying to your lawyer.

  After I am done, he nods thoughtfully. “Hmmm. Much to consider here, but we will do what we can.”

  A man dressed in a black coat with a red sash and carrying a long golden scepter appears in the arched doorway leading into the Old Bailey.

  “They are ready for her,” he says. “Bring her in.”

  I am led down a short hallway, through a set of large brassbound double-doors and into the Hall of Justice.

  There is a common gasp as the crowd of spectators sees my face and condition. As I proceed to the bar, at the front of the huge room, I try to hold my head up in a semblance of the Lawson Peabody Look and I affect a slight swoon and lean against Mr. Farnsworth. The court goes into an uproar.

  “Good God! Look at that!” and “Oh, the poor thing!” and, as my wrists are encased in the iron shackles that are attached to the bar, I hear a great, stentorian bellow: “This is an absolute outrage! I demand an explanation!”

  In spite of my confusion, I’m thinking that I recognize that particular bellow. I look around, and there . . . there is good Captain Hudson of HMS Dolphin. Tears come to my eyes as I see him stand and point an accusing finger at the witness box, where sit Lieutenants Flashby and Bliffil and a few other blokes who surely mean me no good.

  Oh, my! If Captain Hudson is here, then Jaimy . . . But I see him nowhere . . . But there is my dear Higgins, oh, yes, how good to see you, I cannot tell you how good!

  There is a loud banging, and it comes from the Chief Justice’s scepter being pounded vigorously on the floor.

  “Quiet! Quiet in this court!” he thunders, having quite a strong voice himself. “Quiet or I’ll have you all thrown out!”

  “I’ll not be quiet, by God!” roars out yet another. “I demand satisfaction from those who did that to her!”

  “And just who, Sir, are you?” demands the Judge.

  “My name is Lord Richard Plantagenet Allen, and I am the twenty-first earl of Northcumberland!” he thunders. “And I will not be silenced.”

  Oh, Richard, my bold cavalry captain! Can it really be you?

  “Oh, yes, you will, my lord, as I am Chief Justice of His Majesty’s Court at Sessions and, as such, speak for King George the Third! Now sit down, Sir, or be forcibly ejected from these premises!”

  Several men, probably Richard’s brothers and cousins, sensibly haul him back into his chair. I look over at him and give him my most heartfelt look of thanks for his concern.

  Now that things are quiet, I look around to see how things lie.

  I stand at the bar, and before me is the witness box. Those who would testify against me sit in that box, while those who would speak in my behalf are called from the general court. Above and behind them are seated five judges, resplendent in red robes and long, luxuriant white wigs.

  To the right is the jury box, where sit those who will judge my guilt, and all about and below me are the tables where sit the lawyers, scribbling away at papers.

  There are high windows all around, and a large mirror is placed such that it bounces the light from outside directly on my face, the better for the jurors and judges to see my expressions and so judge my guilt or innocence. I blink in the glare, and my blinking probably signifies guilt to those who wish to condemn me.

  “Very well, then,” says the Chief Justice. “State your name, and how you come to be bleeding in my court.”

  “My . . . my name is Mary Faber, and I was beaten by those two men over there when they took me to Newgate, and the wounds keep opening up.”

  The Judge looks over at the witness box. Flashby gets up and says, “If it please your Lordship, the accused was unruly and attempted escape.”

  “Ummm,” says the Judge. “Well, the sight is disgusting. Call for the Matron to bring some bandages to bind up the wound. Meanwhile, swear everyone in.”

  The Bible is brought around, and all concerned place a right hand upon it and swear to tell the truth, so help them God. A woman comes up to me and wraps a bandage around my forehead and neatly pins it up.

  “King’s Counsel, read the charges and let us get on with this.”

  A man wearing a wig somewhat bigger than my lawyers’ wigs gets up and intones, “The Crown against Mary Alsop Faber, also known as Jacky Faber, also known as Jacqueline Bouvier, also known as La Belle Jeune Fille Sans Merci. The accused is charged with Piracy on the High Seas, Treason, and Theft of the King’s Property, and . . .”

  I hunch my shoulders to look as small and helpless as I can and listen as the charges are read.

  The King’s Counsel finishes the quite lengthy li
st of my various crimes against the Crown, and then he says, “The Crown calls its first witness, Lieutenant Henry Flashby, Royal Navy.”

  Flashby gets up and stands before me and the court and tells his lie. “I did hear this girl plot with the Spanish pirate Flaco Jimenez to steal a good portion of the King’s gold. I attempted to thwart the plan, but—”

  “That’s a lie,” I shout. “It was he who was in league with the pirates under the leadership of his comrade El Feo! These are all lies! He is bearing false witness against me! I may die because of his falsehoods, but he will surely go to hell for it!”

  I am restrained.

  Then Bliffil stands up and does the same, the lyin’ bastard. And he wasn’t even there.

  Barrister Farnsworth does his best to refute these accusations, but to no avail.

  The trial drones on and on. All that old stuff about the Emerald and my privateering on her is brought up again, and I answer to that. I was given a Letter of Marque and I assumed it to be genuine!

  Things don’t look good. In fact, they could not look worse. I’m certain that on the Monday after three Sundays have passed, I will feel the rough hemp on my throat, and that will be it for me. Why do we even bother with all this? Just take me out and hang me and be done with it.

  And then . . .

  “There is the matter of the brigantine vessel the Lorelei Lee. Shall we discuss that little item? Just how did you acquire it? Hmmmm?”

  “Sir, that ship is owned by Jos. W. Lawrence and Associates, Incorporated, of Boston, Massachusetts—”

  “Yes, Miss Faber, and we also know that Lawrence and Associates is a wholly owned subsidiary of Laurentian International, which, in turn, is wholly owned by Faber Shipping Worldwide, Incorporated, the majority shares of which are owned”—here he pauses to point his finger at me—“by you, Miss Faber.”