“It was your place to know the island. You knew Horton Pen--the
Macdonalds?”
The face of jolly old Mrs. Mac. came to my mind--the impeccable, Scotch,
sober respectability.
“Oh, I knew the Macdonalds,” he said--“_of_ them. The uncle was a damn
rebellious, canting, planting Scotchman. Horton Pen was the centre of
the Separation Movement. We could have hung _him_ if we’d wanted to. The
nephew was the writer of an odious blackmailing print. He calumniated
all the decent, loyal inhabitants. He was an agent of you pirates, too.
We arrested him--got his papers; know all about your relations with
him.”
I said, “That’s all nonsense. Let us hear”--the Attorney-General had
always said that--“what you know of myself.”
“What I know of you,” he sniffed, “if it’s a pleasuah, was something
like this. You came to the island in a mysterious way, gave out that
you were an earl’s son, and tried to get into the very excellent society
of... ah... people like my friends, the Topnambos. But they would not
have you, and after that you kept yourself mighty close; no one ever saw
you but once or twice, and then it was riding about at night with that
humpbacked scoundrel of a blackmailer.
“You, in fact, weren’t on the island at all, except when you came to
spy for the pirates. You used to have long confabulations with that
scoundrel Ramon, who kept you posted about the shipping. As for the
blackmailer, with the humpback, David Macdonald, you kept him, you...
ah... subsidized his filthy print to foment mutiny and murder among the
black fellows, and preach separation. You wanted to tie our hands, and
prevent our... ah... prosecuting the preventive measures against you.
When you found that it was no good you tried to murder the admiral and
myself, and that very excellent man Topnambo, coming from a ball. After
that you were seen encouraging seven of your... ah... pirate fellows
whom we were hanging, and you drove off in haste with your agent, Ramon,
before we could lay hands on you, and vanished from the island.”
I didn’t lose my grip; I went at him again, blindly, as if I were boxing
with my eyes full of blood, but my teeth set tight. I said:
“You used to buy things yourself of old Ramon; bought them for the
admiral to load his frigates with; things he sold at Key West.”
“That was one of the lies your scoundrel David Macdonald circulated
against us.”
“You bought things... even whilst you were having his store watched.”
“Upon my soul!” he said.
“You used to buy things....” I pinned him. He looked suddenly at the
King’s Advocate, then dropped his eyes.
“Nevah bought a thing in my life,” he said.
I knew the man had; Ramon had told me of his buying for the admiral more
than three hundred barrels of damaged coffee for thirty pounds. I was in
a mad temper. I smashed my hand upon the spikes of the rail in front of
me, and although I saw hands move impulsively towards me all over the
court, I did not know that my arm was impaled and the blood running
down.
“Perjurer,” I shouted, “Ramon himself told me.”
“Ah, you were mighty thick with Ramon...” he said.
I let him stand down. I was done. Someone below said harshly, “That
closes our case, m’luds,” and the court rustled all over. Old Lord
Stowell in front of me shivered a little, looked at the window, and then
said:
“Prisoner at the bar, our procedure has it that if you wish to say
anything, you may now address the jury. Afterwards, if you had a
counsel, he could call and examine your witnesses, if you have any.”
It was growing very dark in the court. I began to tell my story; it was
so plain, so evident, it shimmered there before me... and yet I knew it
was so useless.
I remembered that in my cell I had reasoned out that I must be very
constrained; very lucid about the opening. “On such and such a day
I landed at Kingston, to become an improver on the estate of my
brother-in-law. He is Sir Ralph Rooksby of Horton Priory in Kent.” I
_did_ keep cool; I _was_ lucid; I spoke like that. I had my eyes fixed
on the face of the young girl upon the bench. I remember it so well. Her
eyes were fixed, fascinated, upon my hand. I tried to move it, and found
that it was stuck upon the spike on which I had jammed it. I moved it
carelessly away, and only felt a little pain, as if from a pin-prick;
but the blood was dripping on to the floor, pat, pat. Later on, a man
lit the candles on the judge’s desk, and the court looked different.
There were deep shadows everywhere; and the illuminated face of Lord
Stowell looked grimmer, less kind, more ancient, more impossible
to bring a ray of sympathy to. Down below, the barristers of the
prosecution leaned back with their arms all folded, and the air of men
resting in an interval of cutting down a large tree. The barristers who
were, merely listeners looked at me from time to time. I heard one say,
“That man ought to have his hand bound up.” I was telling the story of
my life, that was all I could do.
“As for Ramon, how could I know he was in the pay of the pirates, even
if he were? I swear I did not know. Everyone on the island had dealings
with him, the admiral himself. That is not calumny. On my honour, the
admiral did have dealings. Some of you have had dealings with forgers,
but that does not make you forgers.”
I warmed to it; I found words. I was telling the story for that young
girl. Suddenly I saw the white face of my father peep at me between the
head of an old man with an enormous nose, and a stout lady in a brown
cloak that had a number of little watchmen’s capes. He smiled suddenly,
and nodded again and again, opened his eyes, shut them; furtively waved
a hand. It distracted me, threw me off my balance, my coolness was gone.
It was as if something had snapped. After that I remembered very little;
I think I may have quoted “The Prisoner of Chillon,” because he put it
into my head.
I seemed to be back again in Cuba. Down below me the barristers were
talking. The King’s Advocate pulled out a puce-coloured bandanna,
and waved it abroad preparatorily to blowing his nose. A cloud of the
perfume of a West Indian bean went up from it, sweet and warm. I had
smelt it last at Rio, the sensation was so strong that I could not tell
where I was.
The candles made a yellow glow on the judge’s desk; but it seemed to be
the blaze of light in the cell where Nichols and the Cuban had fenced. I
thought I was back in Cuba again. The people in the court disappeared
in the deepening shadows. At times I could not speak. Then I would begin
again.
If there were to be any possibility of saving my life, I had to tell
what I had been through--and to tell it vividly--I had to narrate the
story of my life; and my whole life came into my mind. It was Seraphina
who was the essence of my life; who spoke with the voice of all Cuba,
of all Spain, of all Romance. I began to talk about old Don Balthasar
Riego. I began to talk about Manuel-del-Popolo, of his red shirt, his
black eyes, his mandolin; I saw again the light of his fires flicker on
the other side of the ravine in front of the cave.
And I rammed all that into my story, the story I was telling to that
young girl. I knew very well that I was carrying my audience with me;
I knew how to do it, I had it in the blood. The old pale, faded,
narrow-lidded father who was blinking and nodding at me had been one of
the best raconteurs that ever was. I knew how. In the black shadows of
the wall of the court I could feel the eyes upon me; I could see the
parted lips of the young girl as she leaned further towards me. I knew
it because, when one of the barristers below raised his voice, someone
hissed “S--sh” from the shadows. And suddenly it came into my head, that
even if I did save my life by talking about these things, it would be
absolutely useless. I could never go back again; never be the boy again;
never hear the true voice of the Ever Faithful Island. What did it
matter even if I escaped; even if I could go back? The sea would be
there, the sky, the silent dim hills, the listless surge; but _I_ should
never be there, I should be altered for good and all. I should never see
the breathless dawn in the pondwater of Havana harbour, never be
there with Seraphina close beside me in the little _drogher_. All
that remained was to see this fight through, and then have done with
fighting. I remember the intense bitterness of that feeling and the
oddity of it all; of the one “I” that felt like that, of the other that
was raving in front of a lot of open-eyed idiots, three old judges, and
a young girl. And, in a queer way, the thoughts of the one “I” floated
through into the words of the other, that seemed to be waving its hands
in its final struggle, a little way in front of me.
“Look at me... look at what they have made of me, one and the other of
them. I was an innocent boy. What am I now? They have taken my life from
me, let them finish it how they will, what does it matter to me, what do
I care?”
There was a rustle of motion all round the court. On board Rowley’s
flagship the heavy irons had sawed open my wrists. I hadn’t been ironed
in Newgate, but the things had healed up very little. I happened to look
down at my claws of hands with the grime of blood that the dock spikes
had caused.
“What sort of a premium is it that you set on sticking to the right? Is
this how you are going to encourage the others like me? What do I care
about your death? What’s life to me? Let them get their scaffold ready.
I have suffered enough to be put out of my misery. God, I have suffered
enough with one and another. Look at my hands, I say. Look at my wrists,
and say if I care any more.” I held my ghastly paws high, and the candle
light shone upon them.
Out of the black shadows came shrieks of women and curses. I saw my
young girl put her hands over her face and slip slowly, very slowly,
from her chair, down out of sight. People were staggering in different
directions. I had had more to say, but I forgot in my concern for the
young girl. The turnkey pulled my sleeve and said:
“I say, that ain’t _true_, is it, it ain’t _true?_” Because he seemed
not to want it to have been true, I glowed for a moment with the immense
pride of my achievement. I had made them see things.
A minute after, I understood how futile it was. I was not a fool even in
my then half-mad condition. The real feeling of the place came back upon
me, the “Court of Law” of it. The King’s Advocate was whispering to the
Attorney-General, he motioned with his hand, first in my direction, then
towards the jury; then they both laughed and nodded. They knew the ropes
too well for me, and there were seven West India merchants up there who
would remember their pockets in a minute. But I didn’t care. I had made
them see things.