‘Read it to me, aunt.’
She did so. It was to this effect. After all these years I am unable to give it you word for word:
‘I have a terrible piece of news to convey to poor Marian through you. Captain Butler is arrived in London, having been sent home by the British Consul at Rio in H.M.S. Crusader. He is charged by the mate and carpenter of the Arab Chief with attempting to scuttle her. These two men, together with two sailors belonging to the crew of the Arab Chiefs are landed with him from the Crusader. He instantly sent for me, but I wish there were not so many witnesses against him. That he is absolutely innocent, and that he is the victim of an atrocious conspiracy, I have not the shadow of a doubt. He will be charged at Bow Street on Monday, and will be advised to reserve his defence. He will be committed, of course, to take his trial at the Old Bailey, and we must hope to come off with flying colours. But I say again I could wish there were fewer witnesses. Four to one are fearful odds.’
My aunt had read thus far when a flash of lightning seemed to pass over my eyes, and I remembered no more.
I recovered from a fit rather than a swoon. I had been for above an hour unconscious, and found myself on my bed, with the doctor on one hand of me and my aunt on the other. The doctor went away soon after I had regained my mind. Memory was slow in coming. It rushed in upon me on a sudden with its burden of horror.
‘What are you going to do, Marian?’
‘I am going to London.’
‘Lie still, my dear child. You cannot go to London to-day. I’ll book by the coach to-morrow morning. I’ll write to your uncle and send the letter to Canterbury to catch the Dover mail-coach. He will be ready to receive us and give us all the news.’
And, indeed, I should have found myself too weak in body to carry out my resolution to go at once to London. The railway to Ramsgate was not then made. I do not know that it was even in contemplation. A coach left early for London from Ramsgate every morning; it carried the mails, I think, and travelled by way of Canterbury. When my aunt found me somewhat composed, she went to the office to secure places by the coach on the morrow. She left me her husband’s letter, and I read it again and again, and every time I read it I rolled my eyes around the room, seeking to realise that I was awake.
There was something shocking and frightful to me in my uncle speaking of the Old Bailey; I associated it with Newgate Prison. Living in the City as I did, well did I know the grim, dark, massive walls of that horrid jail. Would Tom be locked up in that prison which I could not think of without a sickening fancy of the executions there—of the remorseless human beasts, men and women white with gin, gaping with the lust of blood, gathered together to witness the sight—of the filthy tenements round about, every window pale with the eager faces of cowards and devils, the grimy roofs littered with sightseers? What was Tom charged with? What was the meaning of scuttling a ship? What punishment was the act visited with? Was a man hanged for scuttling?