Father asked, “When is our trial?”
“When I tell you it is to be held, sir,” was the answer.
At that point my father said, “The sooner it takes place, the more money I shall give you.” Quite plainly and openly, he was offering a bribe.
“Admirable!” cried the turnkey with another appalling grin. “Well said. I appreciate a gentleman of keen understanding. We shall get on well, sir. We shall. I do believe money is the language of universal understanding. Now, sir, I pray you, what room do you desire?”
“We shall take the master’s side,” said my father.
“Excellent, sir. Of course there is also a fee for my assistants that they might have a bucket of drink.”
Another payment.
“And you may fee them, sir, to guide you to your accommodations. You don’t wish to go into the wrong room, sir. No, sir, you most decidedly do not.”
Another payment.
“Very good, sir. You will be informed as to the costs of food, fuel, and water,” said the turnkey, adding, “Number nine!” at which point the men behind him beckoned us to follow.
“I shall see you in court,” cried Mr. Bartholomew after us. “Just know that I intend to stand witness against you, as will Mr. Jonathan Wild, among other witnesses. The law is king!” he bellowed.
At those words Mr. Witherington held Father back. “It might please you to know, sir, that the great Mr. Wild himself was once accommodated in this very place. He, too, was a gentleman of keen understanding. And he appreciated us, sir, and by way of proof, sends many a culprit this way.”
Dazed, I followed along as the turnkey’s assistants led us deep within the Compter, down a long, dim corridor, upon whose wall I could see a series of closed doors.
A door was thrown upon. “Here you are,” said one of the men.
As we stepped into the room, my father placed a coin in each of the men’s hands. “Some sea-coal for heat,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
The door slammed. A lock snapped loudly. We were in prison.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
In Which I Describe What Happened to Us.
The cell was small and fusty, smelling of having been populated by too many putrid people too many times. It had no window. There was a little table, a rickety chair, a low, narrow bed, with a piece of ragged cloth for a mattress. No blankets. The floor was filthy. The hearth empty. A washbasin and chamber pot had been provided, lacking only water. On the wall hung a badly printed image of King George, who for all the world looked (perhaps on purpose) like a bewigged and pout-mouthed frog. Such was the Compter’s best accommodation.
When we came in, Father instantly threw himself upon the bed, such as it was, and just lay there, his dirty wig tipped forward, partly covering his eyes. It was hard to know if he was exhausted, appalled, or simply unwilling to acknowledge the world in which he found himself. I rather feared all three.
Charity and I stared at each other, until I went forward and hugged her and she hugged me. It was the only comfort available. Truly, in the whole world she was my greatest ease. I hoped I was the same for her. While nothing was said, we had no expectations that Father could help us.
A short time later the door was unlocked and one of the men brought in some sea-coal, which he dumped into the hearth, lit it, and started to leave.
My father called out: “I require a small leather sack!”
“It will cost,” said the man.
“Of course.” Father didn’t even ask the price.
The room, being small, quickly warmed, a luxury in our bone-chilled state.
Charity went by the side of the bed and said, “Father, what is going to happen to us?”
With effort, he sat up and rubbed his dirty face with an equally dirty hand. “To repeat myself: know that I shall not abandon you. You are my children,” he went on, “the issue of my late wife. I have but little love left within me, but such as I have is entirely yours. Let me acknowledge that I realize I have this one last chance to be of use to you.” Grandly, he put a hand over his heart. “I shall not fail you.”
“You have said as much before,” Charity said.
“True. All too true. But if I fail you this time, we shall hang. In other words, this will be my last opportunity to be a responsible parent.
“Now then, the better to defend you, I need to hear all your so-called crimes.”
“We told you,” I said.
“I wasn’t listening.”
But before either of us could speak, Father added, “Be forthright. Skip explanation as to how or why you committed your crimes, even if you did not commit them. It’s only accusations that matter here. Charity, you first.”
She stood mute, and I know, ashamed.
“Reveal all,” commanded Father. “I give you my word; I’ll not judge you, but endeavor only to help you.”
Oh, how much I wanted to believe him!
With effort Charity said, “Before I left Melcombe, I took some shillings from your money-box, enough to pay for the coach to London, but when you gave me sufficient funds, I returned it.”
Father, true to his word, showed no emotion, but only said, “I thought as much. Go on.”
“Here, in London, when impoverished, I picked a few pockets.”
“A few. Humph. Very well, what did you take?”
“Handkerchiefs.”
“Silk, linen? Cotton?”
“Some silk, some linen.”
“What did you do with them?”
“Sold them in a shop.”
“For what money?”
“Thirteen shillings for silk. Two for the linen.”
“Very well; if you are found guilty, according to the current law, which is cheerfully known as ‘The Bloody Codes,’ your crimes mean you could be hanged, transported to the colonies, branded, placed in a pillory, or whipped. The pillory often means death by the street mob. And if you return from transportation before your time that, too, would be a hanging offence.”
“You are harsh, sir!” I cried.
“Master Oliver,” he said, “if I have learned any truth in my life, it is that truth is almost never soft.”
Charity lowered her head and began to cry. I put my arm around her. As for Father’s remark, I made no reply.
“Or,” said my father—but not with much power—“you could be acquitted.”
He turned to me. “Now then, Oliver, what are your unspeakable crimes?”
“I took twenty-three shillings from a dead wreck on the beach at Melcombe. But I did not take all I could have taken. Just enough for food. Then Mr. Bartholomew discovered I had taken it.”
To which my father blithely replied, “A hanging offence.”
“I was forced to help rob a stagecoach.”
“Being forced will have nothing to do with it. Another hanging offence. Anything else?”
I repeated what I had already told him regarding Mr. Probert at the Melcombe poorhouse.
“You are lucky there. Most likely merely a whipping offence. Or perhaps a hand branding. I am impressed, Oliver: In a short time you have acquired a varied list of offences. Anything else?”
I said, “I was kidnapped.”
“Just know that according to English law, kidnapping is not a crime.”
My sister looked at Father. “What will you be charged with?”
“Since Mr. Bartholomew is involved, I will be charged with cheating and that is considered theft. Which means, I, too, must hang. But upon my honor, I do not cheat when I play backgammon. I am an excellent player. Mr. Bartholomew, of course, will testify otherwise. But then he is a fool. There is an old English saying: ‘A fool and his money are soon parted.’ One might say as much for heads.
“Happily, in these past few days I won a great deal. Such funds will be as useful as they are necessary. I have often said, ‘The law is king.’ Given our current circumstance, I am willing to acknowledge a more painful truth: as the turnkey might have said, ‘Money
is king.’
“Now then,” he continued, “any one of us may go free. Or, all three of us could hang. It may give pleasure to know that if we do hang, we will probably be hanged together—as a family. It should provide a singular entertainment for the London crowd. And we shall, hopefully, enter Heaven linked.”
I said, “Is there nothing we can do?”
To which my father replied, “I shall have to think. To be detained in London’s prisons is in itself a kind of death. My first hope is that we shall have a speedy trial. I already said I would pay for that. But in life,” he added, “we must expect the unexpected.”
With that he lay back down, pulled his wig over his eyes, and appeared to become lost in thought.
We were in the Wood Street Compter for three days. It might have been very much longer, but Father’s money made a difference. Still, it would be meaningless to describe what happened there, because nothing happened. Save one thing over and over again: everything, heat, water, food (corrupt as it was), emptying the chamber pot, candles, all had a cost. Money was demanded for everything. Father paid. We were fortunate that he could. After all my harsh thoughts regarding him I was grateful.
The early morning of the fourth day, there was a loud knock on the door. It was the turnkey. “We must shackle you,” he announced. “Your trial is today.”
Even then, in order to leave the Compter we had to pay a seven-shilling fee each, and another three shillings to the turnkey.
In England one had to pay even to be hanged. And it was expensive.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
In Which My Father, Sister, and I Are Brought to the Court.
That morning proved yet another cold, gray day, but fortunately no rain or fog. Father—clinging to his bulging leather bag—Charity, and I were lined up among some fifty or so prisoners, men, women, and children. A few men were fashionably dressed. Most were not. Many were in rags. Some tried to make a joke of the moment, but most were singularly somber. Most of the children were crying.
A long and heavy metal link chain was fixed around our right wrists, and then extended to the person behind. Some ten people came before Father. Then came Charity and I, followed by all the rest. I clung to a vague hope that Father would do something, but I had no reason to believe he could.
It was Mr. Witherington the turnkey who led this wretched parade down the street named Old Bailey. As it happened, the courthouse building was two hundred yards or so northwest of St. Paul’s Cathedral, of which I could see only its immense gray dome topped by a cross. I found it hard to appreciate its beauty.
Though I suppose I was a Nonconformist like Father, upon seeing the great church—the established Church of England—I quickly made a prayer. Alas, there was no angelic interceding, and we were led into the court itself.
To my surprise the courtroom was outside a large building, which is to say in the open air, in an unroofed yard. In a high recess of that building—on the ground floor—was a tall, long table behind which bigwigged judges sat, the high judge in the middle. They were covered by a kind of roof. To either side of that long desk was a place for members of the jury to sit. Below the desk, another long table, around which sat black-robed, white-wigged men. I had no idea what they did.
Standing in front of that high judge’s desk was a railed enclosure, the so-called dock, where, as I would soon learn, the accused faced the judges. The only women in the court were prisoners.
The area inside the yard—the place where we prisoners stood—was enclosed by a high brick wall, topped by sharp-looking metal spikes. I suppose those spikes were there to keep us from escaping.
The chief judge was Sir Peter Delmen, a large, grossly fat-faced man, who embodied pomposity and power. He never smiled, but shaped his plump red lips into a perpetual scowl, lower lip extended, while he kept his eyes half lidded, suggesting that merely to see the prisoners was a rank offence to his eyes. His great white wig flowed down over his broad shoulders, as if Heaven’s clouds had gathered round his head, and he peeked out at mere mortals. His robe was blood red, cut short at the sleeves, while extended white undersleeves reached his interlocked pink, puffy, and well-manicured hands.
To either side were other judges looking much the same. They put me in mind of a row of birds of prey sitting on a fence.
The trials soon got under way and to my mazement the individual judgments were hardly more than fifteen or twenty minutes in length for each accused person.
Charges were read. Witnesses, under oath, made statements. The accused was allowed to speak, but he (or she) had no lawyer to speak for them, not even the children. Rather, the prisoner was allowed to make a plea, which clearly was of pathetic use.
Next, juries were consulted. In haste they consulted after which they shouted out their verdicts—mostly “Guilty!” Then the chief judge pronounced a sentence.
A man stole a horse. He was condemned to be hanged.
A boy cut down a tree in a garden; in his sobbing plea he claimed he was cold and only wanted to use the wood for heat. He was sentenced to seven years transportation.
Someone was accused of shoplifting a bolt of cotton cloth valued at five shillings. He, too, was to be transported. For fourteen years.
Another boy broke the window of a shop after five in the evening (the hour seemed to have some bearing in the charge) and that was a hanging offence. He was led off, shrieking horribly.
But then, it was all horrible. Endlessly ghastly and cruel judgments. Endless indifference to pleas and circumstance. Yes, real crimes were presented, but they were treated in no ways different than trivial acts.
What would be my sentence? I kept thinking. My increasingly frantic hopes turned toward marvels: that I might become invisible, or turn into a flea so I could hide in someone’s wig, or perhaps miraculously become a flying horse. Useless wishes like that. Needless to say, I remained myself, my miserable self.
During that one long day—and it was truly terrible—among my fellow and sister prisoners, six were accused and found guilty, receiving sentences of death by hanging. Forty-seven were found guilty and sentenced to be transported to the American colonies. Seven more were found guilty and were to be branded on the hand with a hot iron. Six others, also guilty, were to be whipped. One old man was fined and sent to suffer three months’ imprisonment.
Only one person was acquitted.
Oh, wicked world where to be merely whipped is thought a kindness!
We three were included in my summation. This is what happened.
Exactly how many hours we were there, I don’t know. I do know that the tension I felt at not knowing my fate was almost too much to bear. My stomach was a fist. My head a lump of lead. My heart weak with pounding. Though I felt like crying out for sympathy for all of us, I did not do so. I had no energy.
After a while, anything the court said to me would have been a relief. Just tell me my fate! I felt like shouting. Don’t torture me so.
Of course I stayed mute. Enforced silence brings loud pain.
At some point in time, someone—I know not who—called out our names: “Mr. Gabriel Pitts, Master Oliver Pitts, and Mistress Charity Pitts.”
Our trial was about to begin.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHt
In Which We Come to Trial.
Staying close together, we were moved toward the prisoners’ dock—and climbed the narrow, rickety steps to the little uneven platform, railed in on three sides. There we stood, my little family, midst a sea of faces, only some of which were looking at us with emotions ranging from indifference to hostility. Nary a friendly face did I see anywhere.
“Let me do the talking,” Father whispered to us.
Below, various officials, black robed and bewigged, barely considered us. The jury men in various dress and most with wigs sat in slouching poses, some not even looking at us. One, I am sure, was asleep.
A black-robed man sitting below the judges stood up.
“Clerk of the court,” Father whis
pered.
This clerk read the charges against us, and they were fairly well what we had anticipated: My father cheating at backgammon. I was accused of stealing money from a wrecked ship, aiding and abetting a highway robbery, assaulting a children’s poorhouse headmaster. My sister charged with being an aggravated pickpocket. Furthermore, the clerk said we were a family of wicked thieves, a veritable gang, which prompted a reign of misrule in the kingdom.
“How do you plead?” intoned the judge.
“Not guilty,” cried Father.
“Let us hear from witnesses!” said the clerk.
It must be noted that each of the following witnesses swore an oath that they would tell nothing but the truth.
The first witness was Mr. Bartholomew, decked out in his finery like a man-o’-war dressed in bunting, who informed the court first of his importance. Then, pointing to me with his walking stick, he said, “This wicked boy caused a ship to be wrecked by building a fire on the Dorset coast, thereby luring it to shore. Ignoring the suffering and hurt sailors, he broke through the ship’s hull and stole a tar’s lifetime wages from his very bed of rest. From there he went on to become part of a vicious highway gang that stopped a stagecoach and stole Crown revenues. From me, my Lord, from me!”
Considering my age and size and strength, it was all monumentally absurd. When no one objected, it took all my willpower not to scream out, “Lie-teller! Rogue! Shake-bag!”
“But,” Mr. Bartholomew continued, “it is no wonder the boy took to crime: His father is a notorious cheating gambler. My lord, if England is to be safe, you must make an example of father and son.”
The next witness was none other than his manservant. Pointing to me, he said, “That boy brazenly halted a stagecoach so as to allow it to be robbed by a mob of masked men. He may look young, my lord, but he was the leader of this gang of highwaymen.”