‘But Tennyson was persuasive. You can’t charge that immortal poet with playing the brute.’
‘A hundred years from now, Jason, Tennyson will be uncovered for what he is, a doddering old fellow in bedroom slippers who played the sycophant to anyone higher on the social scale than himself. His immortal poetry, as you call it, will be laughed at by those who know what real poetry is, the cry of a human heart. My father recommended that poets be barred from society because they made untruth and irrelevance palatable, deceiving the public with their wit and lack of brains. Tennyson with his sugary confections best exemplifies what my father despised. Do not take him as your moral guide in this troubled year when so much is coming to decision.’
‘The Earl of Cardigan said about the same as Tennyson—Eyre is to be commended, not condemned.’
Upon hearing this dubious hero cited as an authority of anything, Mill leaned back, turned his face upward, closed his eyes and reflected for some moments: ‘How can I phrase this so as to do justice to the truth and to the present debate. I’ll try.’ Opening his eyes, he twisted his head so as to face Pembroke, and said quietly: ‘Cardigan is an ass. And far from being a hero at Balaklava, he proved he was an ass, sacrificing his Light Brigade in his stupidity. And he is the perfect example of Carlyle’s nonsense about heroes and hero worship. Heroes are usually counterfeit in their creation and preposterous in the adoration they receive, none more so than Cardigan.’
‘But he did lead his men personally, none braver than he, Tennyson said so.’
‘Jason, I shall give you Cardigan in a few sentences. Incredibly stupid in school. Was able to join a regiment only because he paid his way in. Bought the colonelcy, no military talent whatever. Ruled his officers like an insane tyrant, so wretched that most quit and one of his own men with spirit dueled the old fool in an effort to kill him. At Balaklava he and his equally stupid brother-in-law the Earl of Lucan got their orders from that classic incompetent Lord Raglan … all mixed up, and disaster followed. The three should have been court-martialed and shot; instead, a silly poem makes the worst offender a hero. Jason, I pray you, do not look to a ninny like Cardigan for guidance.’
‘Do you hold all members of the other side in contempt?’
‘Charles Kingsley wants to have the queen create Eyre an earl? You really don’t want me to comment on him, do you? I believe even Carlyle and Tennyson have begged him to remain mute, and not a moment too soon.’
‘Surely, Dickens …’
‘A master storyteller whom time will not treat kindly. Can tug at the heartstrings, but no brain at all.’ He brought his fingertips to his lower lip, bowed his head in dismay, and then looked up with a rueful smile: ‘Our nation is not under good leadership these days.’ When Jason said nothing, Mill added, his voice growing ever more determined: ‘But we fight on many battlegrounds, Jason, and we lose individual skirmishes here and there, but in the long run we win the war. Our fight to bring Eyre to justice is a struggle we may lose, but in doing so, we shall educate the people in the greater questions of social justice, and it is our war for the reform of Parliament that we shall win. Great Britain will be a finer place when you and I are through.’
‘Then you’re surrendering in the Governor Eyre case?’
The answer to this penetrating question came in a curious way, not in words but in actions, for a messenger from the rest of the Jamaica Committee broke in with startling news: ‘The magistrates of Market Drayton have refused to indict Governor Eyre! He goes free!’
Mill did not rise from his chair, nor did he speak until he had rung for a servant, who received instructions: ‘I think you had better speed about and assemble the others,’ and on that night of defeat, with Bright at his elbow and powerful men like Huxley and Darwin in support, Mill revealed his daring strategy: ‘English law allows any citizen who has been outraged by the refusal of ordinary channels to deal with an obnoxious case, especially where murder is concerned, to bring his own charges, which the courts must adjudge. Tomorrow I shall lodge a formal accusation of murder against Governor Eyre, and I shall take Jason Pembroke with me to establish a Jamaica connection.’
Some of the members considered this so radical a move, and so likely to fail, that they dissociated themselves from the attempt, but the icy determination of Mill kept Jason and others in line, and early next morning Mill and he reported to legal authorities and took the first steps toward entering a charge of murder against the governor, thus throwing all of thoughtful Britain into a great debate.
It degenerated into a savage affair, with Carlyle tossing incendiary bombs of his turgid prose at anyone who spoke or acted against his hero, and Mill hanging on like a determined bulldog and infuriating the stable central portion of the population who resented any attack upon ‘a brave man what only done his duty.’ Jason, volunteering to handle the flood of letters that reached Mill, opened each week many that promised ‘to throw you out of Parliament come next election,’ and a regular two or three whose anonymous writers threatened to assassinate the austere philosopher.
One night, as Jason walked slowly back to Cavendish Square, he thought: I’ve watched three fine men trapped in the toils of their monomanias the way a peccary in some South American jungle is encoiled by a python. Eyre was so determined to punish Gordon that his judgment was affected. Carlyle is driven almost insane by his desire to establish Eyre as a hero and to protect him against all charges. And Mill, in his cold way, sees himself as an avenging angel … Then Jason broke into a laugh: And the Church of England zealots see the whole affair as proper punishment for the Baptist nonconformists. A crazy world.
But it was not until he reached his door and turned to look at the other Jamaican mansion facing his that he appreciated how painfully this affair had separated the families: There’s Oliver and Nell in their lonely hall, there’s Beth and me in ours, and that’s insupportable. And despite the late hour, he determined to have a talk with his cousin. Quickly he went across the square and banged on Oliver’s door until a light showed, and when the butler asked in sleepy tones: ‘What’s this?’ he brushed his way in and ran up the stairs. He found Oliver and Nell in their bedroom, exhausted by hours of rushing about London, drumming up support for Eyre.
‘Jason!’ Oliver said, startled at this sudden appearance. ‘What brings you here?’
‘My committee is haling Governor Eyre into court … Charge? Murder.’
‘Oh my God!’ Like a tense spring uncoiling, Oliver was out of bed. ‘This is terrible. Are your people out of their minds? Can’t they see that all England is against them?’
‘Mill says that doesn’t signify. He’s out to establish a principle.’
‘Let him write a book, not destroy a good man.’ Gripping his cousin by the arm, he said with great fervor: ‘And he is a good man, Jason, misguided in details perhaps, but damned good.’
‘I’m beginning to see that. Mill forced me to lodge the complaint, but I will refuse to testify against the governor. Tell him that.’
‘You shall tell him,’ and calling to Nell to bring him his trousers, he joined his cousin in the square, then waited while Jason ran to inform Beth that he would be away for a bit longer.
‘Doing what?’ she pleaded, and he kissed her: ‘I’ve a job to do. An error to correct,’ and he hurried to the cab which his cousin had waiting. Through the London night they sped to the modest house into which Eyre had moved from his sanctuary in Market Drayton. There they wakened him, and in his nightclothes he sat with them and listened quietly as Jason spoke: ‘I’ve supported Mill and his men because, as I warned you in Kingston, I felt you were persecuting poor Gordon for solely personal reasons. Many have abused you for that. But I cannot stand by and see a loyal public servant charged with murder because of atrocities committed by his half-crazed subordinates when he was in no way involved.’
The gaunt hero of Australian exploration, in only his early fifties but his life already ruined, nodded deferentially to the young man who ha
d in recent years been his enemy. His hair was still a solid black, but his copious beard now showed flecks of white and his once-fierce eyes had lost their ardor: ‘Thank you, Pembroke, for your gentlemanly support. I shall stand trial and testify as to my motives. But I assure you of this. I have never wavered in my belief that the English people and their splendid courts of law will in the end vindicate me as a civil servant who faced a cruel crisis and handled it as best he could. Do I repent the cruelties that others perpetrated during my proclamation of martial law? Of course. But do I repent of anything I myself did to save Jamaica for the empire? Never. Never.’ Thanking Croome for having brought him the news, he nodded gravely to Pembroke and went off to bed.
Mill had his way, for in response to the pressures he exerted, a London court charged Eyre with murder—and a shudder passed through the population. Threats against Mill’s own life tripled, but before the case could come to trial, court officials decided in private consultation that since a somewhat similar case involving the military officers who had conducted the Jamaican courts-martial had been thrown out for lack of merit, the charges against Eyre were also invalid. He was set free, with all charges permanently dropped, to the delight of the cheering mobs who had rallied to his defense. Twice Mill had tried to send Eyre to jail and twice he had failed.
When Jason hurried to Mill’s quarters to report the news, he saw the great leader at his best and worst. When Mill learned that he had lost again, he showed neither rage nor passive disappointment: ‘The courts have spoken and all must abide.’ But then, his brow darkening and his fists clenching: ‘Those courts have spoken. But there are other courts, and to them we shall drag him.’
‘Oh, sir! You’re not going to go through this again?’
‘I have determined that Eyre shall be punished, humiliated in public for the great wrong he did to the concept of just colonial government,’ and like a dog gnawing at a bone, he immediately started proceedings to have Eyre hauled into another court, in another jurisdiction to face a completely new set of charges. Reluctantly, the court ordered Eyre to stand trial once again, this time for high crimes and misdemeanors. A date was set to begin, 2 June 1868, almost three years after the riots and the courts-martial, but an impassioned defense lawyer asked members of the preliminary grand jury to ‘put yourselves in Eyre’s place,’ and consider what steps a man facing a wild rebellion might do to save his island, his empire and the honor of his queen. Public observers in the courtroom cheered, and early next morning the jury announced that all charges were dismissed. At long last Eyre was really a free man, and at the next election John Stuart Mill would be thrown out of Parliament.
He did not brood about his defeat. When he learned that his young supporter Jason Pembroke and his wife were heading back to Jamaica, he stopped by their mansion to say farewell. Seated in the reception room in which the Pembrokes of 1760 had helped frame the good laws that determined the future of Great Britain, he looked with quiet amusement at Hester Pembroke’s massive statues, and said: ‘Jason, we’ve lost every battle, you and I. We’ve allowed a great scoundrel to slip through our net unpunished. I’m about to lose my seat in Parliament, while Carlyle and Tennyson and Cardigan reign triumphant. And you slink back to Jamaica having accomplished nothing, so far as your public can see. But in reality, my young friend, you and I have achieved a tremendous victory. In the future, tin-soldier colonial governors will think twice before throwing their islands into martial law or allowing their underlings to terrorize people of a darker skin. Reform of Parliament has passed. Britain will be a better place for our efforts.’ Poking with his stick at the contorted figure of Mars wrestling with Venus, he confessed: ‘Had the jury found Eyre guilty of murder, as it should have, I would have been first in line to plead for clemency and a full pardon. It was the idea of the thing that mattered, the establishing of a principle.’
Jason, confused by what he had witnessed in the past three years, asked: ‘Professor Mill, about that interesting word you used. Do you think your hounding of Governor Eyre was an example of monomania?’
Mill, appreciating the acuity of the question, allowed a smile to touch his icy countenance and said: ‘When the other fellow does it, we call it monomania. When I do it, we describe it as unwavering adherence to principle.’
As he rose to go, he brought his stick down on one of the huge statues and said gruffly: ‘Get that monstrosity out of your home, Jason. Leave such outmoded images to Tennyson and Carlyle.’
Jason took his advice. On his last day in London he arranged for stone-cutters to segment the statues, haul them out of the mansion, and reassemble them in a park attached to a zoo.
The final word on these hectic events was one which, had it been anticipated, might have saved Jamaica its travail and Great Britain the bitterness of its inflamed debate. Not long after the turbulence at St. Thomas-in-the-East, both Colonel Hobbs, the laughing monster with whom Pembroke had served, and Police Inspector Ramsay, whose savage behavior Croome approved, committed suicide, the first by shooting himself, the second by leaping off a steamship in midocean. Competent medical experts judged that the men had already been insane when performing their atrocities but that no one had noticed, because when martial law rages, insanity becomes the norm.
ON 8 JANUARY 1938, Dan Gross, editor in chief of the Detroit Chronicle, saw on the Associated Press ticker a throwaway color item which could have been of interest to only a few American editors but which excited him enormously, for it fit like a searched-for piece in one of his jigsaw puzzles.
The Chronicle faced a unique problem. Because of the meandering way in which the international border separating Canada from the United States twisted and turned as it picked its path through the Great Lakes system, at this point Canada lay well south of the United States. This made Detroiters refer to the important Canadian city of Windsor as ‘our southern suburb,’ and Detroit newspapers which circulated widely there were forever trying to develop stories attractive to their Canadian readers.
The item which excited Gross read:
Today the King of England nominated the famous cricket captain Lord Basil Wrentham to be his next governor general of the island of All Saints in the Leeward Islands of the Caribbean West Indies. It is presumed that the appointment will be well received by All Saints, since Lord Wrentham led the first English cricket team ever to play on that island, where he was extremely popular because of the gracious manner in which he accepted the only loss suffered by a first-class English team in the West Indies up to then. England won the series, three matches to one, but the stunning islanders’ victory is remembered on All Saints as an historic event. The new governor general will take the oath of office on 10 February 1938.
Tearing the item from the long roll of paper coming from the teletype, Gross hurried to a small bookcase in which he kept those reference books which enabled him to command much of the world’s knowledge: a thesaurus, two big atlases, a French dictionary for use with Canadian material, and a most valuable book with a grease-marked, tattered jacket, Ploetz’s A Manual of Universal History. Turning to the index, which he had learned to use with precision, he found that a suspicion awakened by the teletype item was confirmed. In 1763, at the Treaty of Paris, which ended what was known in Europe as the ‘Seven Years’ War’ and in North America as the ‘French and Indian War,’ an unbelievable set of options was seriously debated among the major powers: Should Great Britain receive all of Canada or the tiny Caribbean island of All Saints? Yes, there was the astonishing fact, but what to do about it?
Gross had on his staff an earnest young reporter named Millard McKay who had done graduate work at Columbia University’s School of Journalism, and who showed solid, if somewhat unimaginative, talent but improved each month he was with the paper. He would in time, thought Gross, become a mainstay of the Chronicle, a man who could be relied upon to cover acceptably whatever topic he was assigned.
After watching him during his first year, Gross learned that McKay shar
ed a weakness common to young men educated at East Coast universities and with a love of books: he wished ardently that he had been born an Englishman, with access to London theaters and a summer home in the Thomas Hardy countryside or perhaps the Lake District made famous by poets. Although he had not yet been able to visit England, he had picked up from his professors a touch of an Oxford accent, and was appalled when anyone suggested he might be Irish. ‘No,’ he would say firmly. ‘Actually, I’m English. Mother’s name was Cottsfield.’ On starting a new life in Detroit, he had considered changing his name to Malcolm Cottsfield, which he thought more genteel and English, but he found the legal requirements so complicated and expensive that he backed off.
Mr. Gross had once asked him: ‘How did you generate this great love for things English?’ and he told an unlikely story: ‘I grew up in a village of three hundred in the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey, and they can be very barren. Got a scholarship to Rutgers University in northern Jersey and fell under the spell of a professor who’d been a Rhodes scholar. He lived and died for England, and I took three courses with him. He made us write long papers on various aspects of English life, and he threw the topics at us arbitrarily. I got “How the English Parliament Functions” one term, “Six English Novelists from Thomas Hardy to Greene” the next, and believe it or not, for the third course I wrote on “English County Cricket.” When you study that way, you learn something.’
When the copyboy called ‘Mr. Gross wants to see you,’ McKay immediately thought: What have I done wrong? But a rapid inventory of his recent stories produced none that were vulnerable, so he assumed he was about to receive a new assignment, and with restrained confidence he entered the editor’s office, where the teletype fragment was thrust into his hands.