The Ballad of John Clare (13 page)

If Wisdom had been thin and stringy before his arrest, he is like a skeleton now, the skin drawn tight across the bones of his face. His cheeks and chin have sprouted a first beard, as silky and raven black as his cropped hair. In his eyes there is a new smouldering light that seems to be equal parts hunger and anger. His coarse prison canvas hangs loose from the angles of his body. He is a boy no longer.

The judge tapped his gavel: “Wisdom Boswell. Aged seventeen. You stand accused of trespassing upon the Property of the Earl of Fitzwilliam, of trapping and killing one of his bucks, and of the attempted murder of a keeper of his game. How do you plead?”

Wisdom spoke quiet, but his voice carried clear to the back of the room:

“Innocent.”

“On all counts?”

“I took the buck, but I fired no shot …I do not have a gun.”

King Boswell stood up:

“That is the truth by God.”

“Order, order! You shall have your chance to speak in due course Sir.”

Then the witnesses for the prosecution were called to the box. First came the keeper who had heard the shots and met Will Bloodworth on the night of the incident, he swore his oath and said his piece. Bill Henderson spoke of Will’s good character and long and steady service to the Earl. Then Will Bloodworth himself stood and rested his hand upon the Bible and swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. With a steady voice and his eyes fixed almost unblinking ahead of him he unravelled his lie, as though he knew that the pebble he had set rolling down the slope of Swordy Well had loosened another that was rolling beyond his control. As though he knew that nothing could be put back into its former place, or reneged upon. And this gave a resignation, a slow sorrow to the rise and fall of his voice that seemed to make his story ring all the more true.

As Will spoke John could feel King Boswell trembling, like a pot that is brought to the boil with its lid too tight fixed.

When he’d finished his story Will added in a whisper that seemed to hold some forlorn hope of his own redemption:

“’Twas but a small buck your honour, and when all’s said and done, the bullets went wide of their mark.”

“You seem inclined to give your murderer the benefit of the doubt sir, very generous-spirited for one so seriously aggrieved.”

Will Bloodworth lowered his head to acknowledge the compliment.

King Boswell leapt to his feet and roared like a bull.

“Damn him for a liar! The wesh-engro will roast in Hell for this!”

The Judge pounded his gavel again.

“Order in the Court! Take him out! Take him out by God!”

From the back of the room a dozen militia-men waded through the crowd and seized King Boswell. He kicked and struggled, flailing with his arms, his dogs yapping at the ankles of his assailants, but soon they overpowered the old man and dragged him through the doors. He turned and shouted over his shoulder.

“Kiss my blind cheeks. There’ll be a reckoning for this. No Boswell forgets a lie.”

When order had been restored the judge turned to Will Bloodworth again:

“Do you have anything to add?”

Will was trembling like a leaf. King Boswell’s interruption had woken his secret terrors and he suddenly felt the weight of his own damnation. It was as though it was he that was condemned and Wisdom the accuser.

“Don’t hang him your honour …”

The Court Room quietened. Will’s voice was cracked so that it slipped into a high falsetto:

“He’s but a boy when all’s said and done …”

Judge Ashurst looked him up and down:

“And you fear for your soul, perhaps, having lied under oath and committed perjury?”

He turned to the Aldermen and whispered:

“I’ve seen it before, by God. I’ve seen it before.”

Will pulled himself together, seeing his own liberty hanging in the balance before him:

“No, no your honour, I have spoke truth …”

He swallowed and turned to the judge:

“I ask only for clemency.”

The judge raised his eye-brows:

“Most affecting, sir. Most affecting to be sure.”

Will stepped down from the witness box. Bill Bullimore took his place and told how Wisdom had been arrested in the camp on Langdyke Bush. The picture he painted of the Boswell crew was not a pretty one, and was given substance by the rage of King Boswell that still hung in the air like a thundercloud. He ended his testimony:

“For my part I firmly believe, your honour, that this tribe of wandering vagabonds should be made outlaws in every kingdom.”

The judge sighed and lifted the nose-gay to his face, then mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“There is one more testimony I understand.”

Robert Smethwick, secretary to the Earl of Fitzwilliam, stepped forward then, dressed in the Earl’s livery, wigged and spectacled. He swore his oath and then unfolded a piece of paper.

“I have this, your honour, from the Earl of Fitzwilliam:
‘William Bloodworth has worked as a trusted keeper upon my estate for full twenty years, he has executed his work with skill and I have never had reason to doubt him.’
There we have it.”

“Do we have any witnesses for the defence of the accused?”

John Clare and Old Otter got to their feet and came forward. Each in turn entered the box and said his piece, telling in his own way the story of Rogation Day, each testifying to Wisdom’s character, each swearing that he had never possessed any fire-arm. The heat in the Session Court, as the morning approached full noon, was near unbearable now. The judge fanned himself with his sheaf of papers. Old Otter spoke plain and forthright and very loud as is his custom, being one who is used to talk across furlong and common. John, overwhelmed by the eyes fixed upon him, talked down into his shirt so that only those in the first rows could follow him, but for those that could catch his drift it was a testament as to how he considered the race of gypsies to be misunderstood and unfairly maligned and Wisdom more so than any, he being young and strong and never shy of work nor play.

When John had finished, the judge spoke:

“We have two sides of an argument here. I hold the scales of Justice in my hand and into one pan I put the testimony of two keepers, a constable and the Earl of Fitzwilliam. Into the other I drop the words of a squatter upon the common, a landless labourer and the intemperate ranting of an old gypsy who had needs be dragged from the Court. Is it any wonder which carries the greater weight?”

He banged his gavel and looked across at Wisdom.

“I have no hesitation, Sir, in finding you guilty on all charges.”

He looked into the Court Room and smiled.

“Now Ladies and Gentlemen we will adjourn for luncheon and I will return this afternoon to pass sentence.”

*******

It was two hours after noon that Justice Ashurst returned to the Sessions Court, refreshed from his luncheon and the several glasses of claret that had washed it down. Every eye was on his hands as he made his entrance. Would he be wearing the spotless white gloves that signalled a Maiden Assize? He was not. He took his place at the desk. He cleared his throat:

“It is the King’s earnest desire, as well as his truest intent, that all his subjects be easy and happy. He places his greatest security and glory in the preservation of the laws of his kingdom and the liberties of his people. Without order how miserable must be their condition? Without order surely every man’s lust, his avarice, his revenge, his contempt for property and his vaunting ambition would become a law unto itself. It is with these thoughts in mind that I ask the officers of law to bring in the accused.”

The four prisoners were brought into the cage. The judge looked at them. There was a long silence. And then he spoke, his voice momentous.

“Elizabeth Firth … you have been found innocent and blameless and I hereby acquit you with no besmirchment upon your name or character and I do set you free.”

There was a clicking and rattling as the turn-keys unfastened the manacles from the girl’s wrists, the door of the cage was opened and Elizabeth Firth ran sobbing into her mother’s arms.

“Sam Moody ….you have been found guilty of a filthy and despicable act that would shame even the beasts of the field. I do therefore sentence you to twelve lashes, twelve hours in the public stock and seven years transportation.”

“Oh Sam, no!”

From the gallery Sam Moody’s mother keened out her shame and sorrow. Two men led her from the Court.

Then the judge reached down and picked up the black cap. A deep silence filled the Court. He passed it solemnly from hand to hand.

“There are transgressions that are unpardonable upon earth.”

He turned and fixed his eyes upon the accused, waiting until every last echo of his words had left the room.

“William Samson and Wisdom Boswell, you both are found guilty of an assault upon property and an attempt upon life - that most sacred and sweetest of gifts.

That neither of your victims perished is due to providence rather than intent. Were you guilty of mere theft, whether of game or monies, I might have been more disposed to mercy. That Luke Rowbotham crawled bloodied from his assault and raised the alarum; that William Bloodworth felt only the wind of the shot that was intended for his heart, does nothing to soften the gravity of your wicked and sinful acts. Greed for gain and contempt for life have conspired, in both your cases, to bring you before me, and were I to spare you ‘twould make an example that would spread a contagion of lawlessness throughout the land.”

He paused and took a breath.

“But because of his youth, and because of the heart-felt pleading of his intended victim on his behalf, in the case of Mr Wisdom Boswell I have stepped back from the ultimate sanction.”

He turned to Wisdom:

“It is ordered and adjudged, that you shall be transported upon the seas to such a place as His Majesty shall think fit to direct and appoint, for the term of your natural life.”

He lifted the black cap, then, and fitted it carefully to his head.

“And as for you, Mr William Samson, poverty can be no excuse. On Wednesday next you will be taken to a place of execution and there hanged by the neck until dead, so help me God.”

William Samson crumpled to the floor and sobbed like a child. The turn-keys jerked him to his feet again. Wisdom merely opened his mouth as though to speak. Then he closed it and turned away from the silent eyes that scrutinised him.

*******

On the outer edges of the Milton Estate Will Bloodworth walked briskly homewards along the ride beneath the dappled shade of the beeches that were beginning to turn to their autumn browns and yellows. There was an ease in his manner, a lilt to his stride that had eluded him these last months. He knew that he would be ribbed by Bill Henderson for pleading on a gypsy’s behalf. He knew Bill wanted Wisdom and his kind to swing like stoats and weasels on a keeper’s gibbet. But for Will Bloodworth the verdict was neat and trim as a well sewn seam. He settled down on a stile and scraped his pipe clean with a piece of twig. He filled it from his pouch, struck fire and sucked it to life. Yes, the damned gypsy youth had been properly rewarded and there was to be no hanging to trouble his conscience. He blew a mouthful of smoke into the warm evening air and got up to his feet. Life was sweet again and he its master, and the cold dread of the court-house and his glimpse of damnation all but forgotten.

Farmer Joyce had been overseeing the thatching of the last of the ricks in his yard. He watched the four men on their ladders that were set against the round bastion of straw. He watched them as they passed the coils of sisal rope from one to the other and pulled the knots true, fastening an intricate web and weighing it with stones so that the rush thatch was held firm over the precious corn until the time came for threshing. As they climbed down he surveyed his fourteen golden ricks, like round towers with conical rooves, a testament to the labours of the year. Behind them stood the green-grey rise of his hay stacks. And behind them the steep point of Glinton church spire rose up against the sky, its pale barnack stone yellow in the afternoon sunlight. To Farmer Joyce rick, stack and steeple seemed all of apiece.

He was uneasy. He knew there was a chance that the Boswell youth would be hanged. He’d seen the gifts that are bestowed upon visiting judges by the gentry: the sides of venison, the beef and carp and pheasant that fill their coaches on their return to London. He did not cling to any great hope for clemency. He was uneasy, too, that he had incurred the Earl’s displeasure. Out loud he addressed his men:

“We’ve done our best lads, and the best can do no more … We’ll call it a day now.”

As the men went their ways he put his hand to Will Farrell’s shoulder.

“Will, could you spare me a few more minutes?”

Will shrugged:

“Aye.”

“Would ye do me the kindness of reaching into one of the ricks and breaking off an ear of wheat.”

Will Farrell thrust an arm shoulder-deep into a rick. He felt for an ear and twisted it. He pulled it out and held it on his palm as though he had guddled a little golden fish from a deep stream.

“Bring it to the kitchen Will.”

The two men made their way to the farm-house kitchen. The fire was smouldering as always, despite the heat of the day. Farmer Joyce crouched down and with the iron fire-shovel he scooped up the smouldering embers and threw them to the back of the fireplace. He swept the front of the hot red-brick hearth clean with a brush. Then he straightened himself, went to one of the shelves against the wall and took a piece of paper and a goose-feather quill. He did not notice Mary’s note that had lain unread all day upon the kitchen table.

“Now Will, I’ll show ye a secret that my father showed me, and his father showed him before. Break the ear apart and blow the chaff away.”

Will rubbed the ear between his hands just as Ben Price had done the day before. He blew away the chaff so that there was a little cluster of grains against his leathery palm.

“Say no word of this to the Parson Will, for it has a savour of witchery to it …but my old Grand-Sire swore by it. Now, take one of the grains and throw her onto the hearth. She’s for September see.”