spin the rope, grind the axe, and hammer the nails into the
scaffold.
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Chapter IX
A DISSAPOINTMENT
Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the
prisoner before them, though young in years, was old in
the treasonable practices which claimed the forfeit of
his life. That this correspondence with the public enemy was not a
correspondence of today, or of yesterday, or even of last year, or of
the year before. That, it was certain the prisoner had, for longer
than that, been in the habit of passing and re-passing between
France and England, on secret business of which he could give no
honest account. That, if it were in the nature of traitorous ways to
thrive (which happily it never was), the real wickedness and guilt
of his business might have remained undiscovered. That
Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of
the prisoner’s schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them
to his Majesty’s Chief Secretary of State and most honourable
Privy Council. That, this patriot would be produced before them.
That, his position and attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That,
he had been the prisoner’s friend, but, at once in an auspicious
and an evil hour detecting his infamy, had resolved to immolate
the traitor he could no longer cherish in his bosom, on the sacred
altar of his country. That, if statues were decreed in Britain, as in
ancient Greece and Rome, to public benefactors, this shining
citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as they were not so
decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue, as had
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been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well knew
the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
whereat the jury’s countenances displayed a guilty consciousness
that they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner
contagious; more especially the bright virtue known as patriotism,
or love of country. That, the lofty example of this immaculate and
unimpeachable witness for the Crown to refer to whom however
unworthily was an honour, had communicated itself to the
prisoner’s servant, and had engendered in him a holy
determination to examine his master’s table-drawers and pockets,
and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was
prepared to hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable
servant; but that, in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr.
Attorney-General’s) brothers and sisters, and honoured him more
than his (Mr. Attorney-General’s) father and mother. That, he
called with confidence on the jury to come and do likewise. That,
the evidence of these two witnesses, coupled with the documents
of their discovering that would be produced, would show the
prisoner to have been furnished with lists of his Majesty’s forces,
and of their disposition and preparation, both by sea and land, and
would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed such
information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be
proved to be in the prisoner’s handwriting; but that it was all the
same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the
proof would go back five years, and would show the prisoner
already engaged in these pernicious missions within a few weeks
before the date of the very first action fought between the British
troops and the Americans. That, for these reasons, the jury, being
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a loyal jury (as he knew they were), and being a responsible jury
(as they knew they were), must positively find the prisoner Guilty,
and make an end of him, whether they liked it or not. That, they
never could lay their heads upon their pillows; that, they never
could tolerate the idea of their wives laying their heads upon their
pillows; that, they could never endure the notion of their children
laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that there never
more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon pillows
at all, unless the prisoner’s head was taken off. That head Mr.
Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name
of everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the
faith of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the
prisoner as good as dead and gone.
When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as
if a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in
anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down
again, the unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.
Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader’s lead,
examined the patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The
story of his pure soul was exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had
described it to be—perhaps, if it had a fault, a little too exactly.
Having released his noble bosom of its burden, he would have
modestly withdrawn himself, but that the wigged gentleman with
the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr. Lorry, begged to
ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting opposite,
still looking at the ceiling of the court.
Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base
insinuation. What did he live upon? His property. Where was his
property? He didn’t precisely remember where it was. What was
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it? No business of anybody’s. Had he inherited it? Yes, he had.
From whom? Distant relatives. Very distant? Rather. Ever been in
prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtor’s prison? Didn’t see what
that had to do with it. Never in a debtor’s prison?—Come, once
again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three times. Not five
or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever been
kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked
downstairs? Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of the
staircase and fell downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that
occasion for cheating at dice? Something to that effect was said by
the intoxicated liar who committed the assault, but it was not true.
Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live by cheating at play?
Never. Ever live by play? Not more than other gentlemen do. Ever
borrow money of the prisoner? Yes. Ever pay him? No. Was not
this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced
upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets? No. Sure he saw
the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more about the
lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular
government pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to
do anything? Oh dear no. Swear that? Over and again. No motives
but motives of sheer patriotism? None whatever.
The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the
case at a great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in
good faith and simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the
prisoner, aboard the Calais packet, if he wanted a handy fellow,
and the prisoner had engaged him. He had not asked the prisoner
to take the handy fellow as an act of charity—never thought of
such a thing. He began to have suspicions of the prisoner, and to
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keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging his clothes,
while travelling, he had seen similar lists in the prisoner’s pockets,
over and over again. He had taken these lists from the drawer of
the prisoner’s desk. He had not put them there first. He had seen
the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen at
Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn’t bear it, and had
given information. He had never been suspected of stealing a
silver teapot; he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but
it turned out to be only a plated one. He had known the last
witness seven or eight years; that was merely a coincidence. He
didn’t call it a particularly curious coincidence; most coincidences
were curious. Neither did he call it a curious coincidence that true
patriotism was his only motive too. He was a true Briton, and
hoped there were many like him.
The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called
Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson’s Bank?
“I am.”
“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven
hundred and seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel
between London and Dover by the mail?”
“It did.”
“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”
“Two.”
“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
“They did.”
“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two
passengers?”
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“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”
“Does he resemble either of those two passengers?”
“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we
were all so reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”
“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him
wrapped up as those two passengers were, is there anything in his
bulk and stature to render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
“No.”
“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”
“No.”
“So at least you say that he may have been one of them?”
“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been—like
myself—timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a
timorous air.”
“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”
“I certainly have seen that.”
“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen
him, to your certain knowledge, before?”
“I have.”
“When?”
“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at
Calais, the prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I
returned, and made the voyage with me.”
“At what hour did he come on board?”
“At a little after midnight.”
“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came
on board at that untimely hour?”
“He happened to be the only one.”
“Never mind about ‘happening’, Mr. Lorry. He was the only
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passenger who came on board in the dead of the night?”
“He was.”
“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any
companion?”
“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long
and rough, and I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
“Miss Manette!”
The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and
were now turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father
rose with her, and kept her hand drawn through his arm.
“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and
beauty, was far more trying to the accused than to be confronted
with all the crowd. Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge
of his grave, not all the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for
the moment, nerve him to remain quite still. His hurried right
hand parcelled out the herbs before him into imaginary beds of
flowers in a garden; and his efforts to control and steady his
breathing shook the lips from which the colour rushed to his
heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on
the same occasion.”
“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
“O! most unhappily, I am!”
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The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less
musical voice of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer
the questions put to you, and make no remark upon them.”
“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on
that passage across the Channel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Recall it.”
In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When
the gentleman came on board—”
“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his
brows.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Then say the prisoner.”
“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,”
turning her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was
much fatigued and in a very weak state of health. My father was so
reduced that I was afraid to take him out of the air, and I had
made a bed for him on the deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on
the deck at his side to take care of him. There were no other
passengers that night, but we four. The prisoner was so good as to
beg permission to advise me how I could shelter my father from
the wind and weather, better than I had done. I had not known
how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would set when
we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed great
gentleness and kindness for my father’s state, and I am sure he felt
it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”
“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board
alone?”
“No.”
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“How many were with him?”
“Two French gentlemen.”
“Had they conferred together?”
“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it
was necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their
boat.”
“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to
these lists?”
“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don’t
know what papers.”
“Like these in shape and size?”
“Possibly, but indeed I don’t know, although they stood
whispering very near to me: because they stood at the top of the
cabin steps to have the light of the lamp that was hanging there; it
was a dull lamp, and they spoke very low, and I did not hear what
they said, and saw only that they looked at papers.”
“Now, to the prisoner’s conversation, Miss Manette.”
“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me—which
arose out of my helpless situation—as he was kind, and good, and
useful to my father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay
him by doing him harm today.”
Buzzing from the blue-flies.
“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand
that you give the evidence which it is your duty to give—which you
must give—and which you cannot escape from giving—with great
unwillingness, he is the only person present in that condition.
Please to go on.”
“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he
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was therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this
business had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might,
at intervals, take him backwards and forwards between France
and England for a long time to come.”
“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be
particular.”
“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he
