This superstition of the jails had so impressed Bame, that the sword was the first thing he noticed as he faced the judge’s bench, the jury-box and the bar. There it hung under the square canopy and against the crimson drapery on the wall. It was a more striking object to Bame than the judge himself. He determined to keep his eyes fixed on the bar and jury during his ordeal. Moreover, the judge’s face was not attractive; it was so unemotional, and his lips seemed unready to move with any words or tones except those as harsh as the jury’s verdict of “guilty.”
Bame’s counsel, Thomas Eliot, was within the bar. He was a consequential barrister with long flowing robe and powdered periwig. He condescended to recognize the prisoner, and to confer with him. A loud buzz of conversation filled the room, stilled at intervals by the bailiff, who looked as dried and shriveled as though he had been cut down alive from the Tyburn tree after having hung there in hot winds for several weeks. He was the only object in the room that caused Bame to smile.
The day outside was hot, and here the heat was increased by the respiration of the great crowd, and the sunshine pouring through the three windows looking toward the prison. However, the dingy walls of the court-room appeared as cold as the face of the judge. They had been in position to hear too many convulsive cries, following the announcements of verdicts, to grow warm under any circumstances.
The clerk read the indictment in sonorous voice. None of it was understood by the audience; for the Anglo-Saxon words were so thoroughly shaken up with words in Law French and phrases in Latin that it seemed like a recital entirely in a foreign language. None of the lawyers interpreted it as read, for the clerk’s pronunciation was villainous; and as for Bame, he looked stupidly at the clerk until he finished, and the plea of not guilty was entered.
“You might have stood mute,” said the barrister afterwards, “but you would have been taken to the rack or the thumbscrews.”
The attorney for the Crown made no opening statement to the jury. Time was too precious for that; for Newgate was running over with the scum of human life, all of which must find evaporation through this gloomy hall.
The watchman who had made the arrest stated that the prisoner had run into his arms before the first cloud of smoke had poured from the church. He (the witness) was then standing on the edge of the portico, and was positive that the prisoner had come from the church. There could be no mistake about it, for he was coughing as though stifled with the smoke. He had nothing in his hands or arms, and on finding that he was in custody, he immediately protested that he had come up with the crowd from the street. These protestations had been laughed at, for others had seen him. The others were called—two more watchmen, and their testimony was of like effect. The defense failed to shake them on cross-examination, and then a witness named Pence was brought from his cell in the prison. He was one of the arrested robbers,—a ragged, coatless, barefooted boy of sixteen years. Not only the misery of his own brief existence, but of the unknown line of which he was a descendent, had so moulded his face that there was no line nor feature of it but what was debased and expressive of low cunning and viciousness. His trial had not taken place, but being accused and confined as one of the participants in the crime, it was in irons that he entered the Old Bailey. His testimony might be of little weight, but it had been decided to put it in for what it was worth. He was sworn and after prompt answers to preliminary questions, he drifted into a narrative of the night’s work. Cleared of verbiage and the cant of the Straits and translated into modern English, it read:
“The rain had driven me upon the portico of St. Olave. I lay in a recess near one of the doors, and was asleep when the conversation of two men awoke me. I heard them speak of entering the church, and finding the door partially opened, I followed them in.”
“To steal the first thing you could find, eh?” interjected the counsel Eliot for the prisoner. The witness looked fearlessly at the speaker and said:
“Never. I would no more dare steal from a church than I would rob a grave at night. I was curious to learn what they were going to do.”