“My lord,” he exclaims, “I cannot hear in this place. I hope your lordship will permit me to sit near my counsel.”
“It is perfectly impossible,” stammers the scandalised scion of the Lords of the Isles. “There is a regular place appointed by law. I can make no invidious distinction.”
Jaundice-souled Law opens the attack in most persuasive cut-throat manner, compelled to be fair in spite of his opportunity by reason of instinctive tolerance for all savouring of bloodthirsty tyranny. Pinning the jury down to the first indictment, he bids them think only of the fustigation of Armstrong. “Can the prisoner prove a mutiny?” is Law’s reiterated demand. “You cannot flay soldiers alive, unless they deserve it!”
Law-logic is a marvellous thing. “Wall left island day after flogging,” it persists; “ergo, no mutiny.” The jury suck in this eloquence open-mouthed—visions of neatly-plaited halters hover before their retinas. “Governors never turn their backs directly mutiny is quelled,” argues Law, and the myriad black-and-white sprites, who, invisible and in silence, weave their gossamer threads of passion into the webs of poor human nature, hear and tremble. Yet their handicraft still sparkles with the hues of Iris, for not even British law-giver can paint the spirits of the soul in the dull self-colour of his own dreary brain. “Generals never desert their beaten army,” we can hear Law thunder at Judges’ dinner ten years later; “Napoleon is still with his troops on the Beresina!” Wonderful logic, wonderful Law! Pity, for the sake of cocksuredom, that hearts do not beat as he bade them.
“Prisoner did not report this rope’s-end business to Secretary Townshend,” cries the logician. “Why not? Because mutiny plea was an after-thought to cloak his crime.” One wonders of what fashion were the accounts of his stewardship, if any, that this stalwart pillar of Church and State made in daily confession to his God. Did he omit naught? Or did he report all cruel lashes for which he had given sentence, and did he speak of his savage opposition to a change of the bloody code? Kind forgetfulness given by Providence to those who need it most! “Prisoner did not report flogging, because he did not know the man was dead.” Jury mouths open wider upon this marvellous Law, for reason whispers in their ears, “Then prisoner did not intend that the man should die.” But reason is dinned out of their tradesmen pates. “After-thought—after-thought!” clangs ding-dong Law, and echo comes to the true and bewildered twelve: “Away with him to the gallows!”
First witness appears—Evan Lewis—Cambrian bred; a race of man for the most part having no mean, superlative, or unspeakable. Lewis was, or says he was, orderly sergeant on the day of the Goree flagellation; now he is Bow Street runner, brave in scarlet waistcoat. “No mutiny!” declares this Lewis. “Men were as good as gold. They couldn’t have been bad if they’d tried.” Perceval gently leads the witness along, and much is communicated. “Flogged to death without trial”—such is the meaning of Taffy’s testimony. In due course, other soldiers of the precious garrison follow—one, two, three, four, five—and the parrot cry, “No mutiny,” smites the ears of the tradesmen in the jury-box. The Scotch lip of the Lord-of-Isles grows more attenuated, and he sees the man in the dock crowned with halo of crimson. His busy pencil scribbles notes for the edification—at the proper time—of the luckless twelve men, good and true. “Witnesses each say different things,” writes Caledonian pencil. “But what else can you expect? The thing happened twenty years ago!” And this Caledonian tongue repeats—at the great and proper time.
A gentleman and officer—for things are not what they seem—is produced by Law in due course, one Thomas Poplett, a lieutenant under untamable Wall. This estimable Poplett confesses the Governor had him safely under lock and key—for disobedience—on the day of flagellation, which shows that the red Irishman was not a bad judge of some men’s deserts. From his prison Poplett witnessed the thrashing of Armstrong, and he produces rope with which it was done, or rather someone told him, who had it from one of its nigger wielders, that this was the very same. The Caledonian pencil scribbles industriously. Hearsay evidence? not a bit of it. Nor proof of malice neither, for the nice Poplett may be a collector of curios. But the nice Poplett had done some odd things in his time; had been sacked from Lord George Germaine’s office for telling tales out of school—a dabbling-in-Funds speculation—such things as disgrace men still. The name of Poplett, too, had been posted in the Stock Exchange, with a footnote, ‘Lame-duck’ or some equivalent compliment. A most estimable witness, indeed, this nice Poplett. Splendid material for Caledonian pencil.
There was yet another of similar breed—Peter Ferrick, surgeon of Goree. The rope’s-end business was well in hand when he arrived. Peter takes much credit for this unpunctuality, and the Lord of Isles jots it down a black mark against the prisoner—the why is not clear. “The Armstrong back-slashing did not seem more severe than usual to Doctor Ferrick, but the man is dead.” Doctor Ferrick was amazed at the time, but he knows now that the rope’s-end killed him—a marvellous pair of eyes in the skull of this Ferrick! “Brandy-drinking in the tropics after such fustigation would not be wholesome, and would be done contrary to leech-Ferrick’s orders.” Corollary, note by Scotch pencil—if there was brandy-drinking, the treatment was unskilful, and prisoner must answer for the leech-folly. Query—“Why didn’t Ferrick stop the flogging?” Great wrangling among counsel on account of this same query. “Improper question—the twelve honest tradesmen must not be prejudiced against the man in the dock.” Still, innuendo remains: i.e. leech-Ferrick did not interfere, because he was afraid of Wall! The Scotch lip lengthens, and its owner pats the timid leech on the back approvingly. What a grim, bloodthirsty tyrant, this Governor Wall! think the honest twelve. Leech-Ferrick steps down, proud and satisfied that Caledonian pencil has wrote him down an ass. To hang Wall is all he cares. Better a live donkey than a dead giant. Going home, he comes to the bad end of many fools—he writes a letter, which is printed by The Times.
Then the tyrant is called upon for his defence. It is simple and straightforward, for he knows nothing of Law-logic. “The soldiers were turbulent; Armstrong was disobedient; every cat-o’-nine-tails was destroyed, so he did the thrashing with a rope; he had no intention of killing the man, who might not have died but for brandy-soaking in hospital; he ran away from Reading twenty years ago, because the mob was howling for his blood, believing that he, like Kenneth Mackenzie, had blown men from cannons.” N.B.—The red soldier must have remembered how successfully the ’57 mob had howled for the death of kid-gloved Byng.
Witnesses for the crimson tyrant follow—a poor lot. Number one, mincing Mrs Lacy, wife of late second in command at Goree. This lady gets angry with magnificent Law, to the great scandalisation of the Lord of Isles, and tries to put everyone right, for they are all wrong. Contradictions annoy the Court. When there has been plain sailing—though close to the wind, no matter—it is annoying to think out new and perplexing tracks. “Welshman Lewis was not orderly-sergeant,” persists Mrs Lacy. “The deputation to the Governor was eighty strong. Her husband’s brain was turned by the sun in 1784, so he would have been no use as witness to the arrested Governor.” All this borders on the superfluous, shocking the Chief Baron, upon whom the honest twelve glue their round and honest eyes. “The soldiers threatened the Governor—upon my oath, they did,” vociferates Mrs Lacy, while the Lord-of-Isles, no doubt, thinks sadly of another such shrill voice that assails his ears at home. Then magnificent Law—a naughty Attorney-General now—plies witness with searching questions about solitary visits to imprisoned giant, here in Old Bailey; and though the military widow makes wrathful repudiation, this thin-ice skating exhibition sinks deep into the pious souls of the virtuous twelve. A wicked profligate also, think they, is this cruel red Irishman!