The judge interrupted him. “This has nothing to do with the case,” he said. “The charge is riot.”
“I didn’t riot,” Mack said. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts, then went on. “I simply refused to let undertakers steal my wages. That’s my crime. Undertakers get rich by stealing from coal heavers. But when the coal heavers decided to do their own undertaking, what happened? They were boycotted by the shippers. And who are the shippers, gentlemen? The Jamisson family which is so inextricably involved in this trial today.”
The judge said irritably: “Can you prove that you did not riot?”
The skeptical juror interjected: “The point is that the fighting was instigated by others.”
Mack was not put off by the interruption. He simply continued with what he wanted to say. “Gentlemen of the jury, ask yourselves some questions.” He turned away from the jurors and looked straight at Jay. “Who ordered that wagons of coal should be brought down Wapping High Street at an hour when the taverns are full of coal heavers? Who sent them to the very coal yard where I live? Who paid the men who escorted the wagons?” The judge was trying to break in again but Mack raised his voice and plowed on. “Who gave them muskets and ammunition? Who made sure the troops were standing by in the immediate neighborhood? Who orchestrated the entire riot?” He swung around swiftly and looked at the jury. “You know the answer, don’t you?” He held their gaze a moment longer, then turned away.
He felt shaky. He had done his best, and now his life was in the hands of others.
Gordonson got to his feet. “We were expecting a character witness to appear on McAsh’s behalf—the Reverend Mr. York, pastor of the church in the village of his birth—but he has not yet arrived.”
Mack was not very disappointed about York, for he did not expect York’s testimony to have much effect, and neither did Gordonson.
The judge said: “If he arrives he may speak before sentencing.” Gordonson raised his eyebrows and the judge added: “That is, unless the jury finds the defendant not guilty, in which case further testimony would be superfluous, needless to say. Gentlemen, consider your verdict.”
Mack studied the jurors fearfully as they conferred. He thought, to his dismay, that they looked unsympathetic. Perhaps he had come on too strong. “What do you think?” he said to Gordonson.
The lawyer shook his head. “They’ll find it hard to believe that the Jamisson family entered into a shabby conspiracy with Sidney Lennox. You might have done better to present the coal heavers as well intentioned but misguided.”
“I told the truth,” Mack said. “I can’t help it.”
Gordonson smiled sadly. “If you weren’t that kind of man, you might not be in so much trouble.”
The jurors were arguing. “What the devil are they talking about?” Mack said. “I wish we could hear.” He could see the skeptical one making a point forcefully, wagging his finger. Were the others listening attentively, or ranged against him?
“Be grateful,” Gordonson said. “The longer they talk, the better for you.”
“Why?”
“If they’re arguing, there must be doubt; and if there is doubt, they have to find you not guilty.”
Mack watched fearfully. The skeptical one shrugged and half turned away, and Mack feared he had lost the argument. The foreman said something to him, and he nodded.
The foreman approached the bench.
The judge said: “Have you reached a verdict?”
“We have.”
Mack held his breath.
“And how do you find the prisoner?”
“We find him guilty as charged.”
Lady Hallim said: “Your feeling for this miner is rather strange, my dear. A husband might find it objectionable.”
“Oh, Mother, don’t be so ridiculous.”
There was a knock at the dining room door and a footman came in. “The Reverend Mr. York, madam,” he said.
“What a lovely surprise!” said Mother. She had always been fond of York. In a low voice she added: “His wife died, Lizzie—did I tell you?—leaving him with three children.”
“But what’s he doing here?” Lizzie said anxiously. “He’s supposed to be at the Old Bailey. Show him in, quickly.”
The pastor came in, looking as if he had dressed hastily. Before Lizzie could ask him why he was not at the trial he said something that momentarily took her mind off Mack.
“Lady Hallim, Mrs. Jamisson, I arrived in London a few hours ago, and I’ve called on you at the earliest possible moment to offer you both my sympathies. What a dreadful—”
Lizzie’s mother said, “No—” then clamped her lips tight.
“—blow to you.”
Lizzie shot a puzzled look at her mother and said: “What are you talking about, Mr. York?”
“The pit disaster, of course.”
“I don’t know anything about it—although I see my mother does.…”
“My goodness, I’m terribly sorry to have shocked you. There was a roof collapse at your pit, and twenty people were killed.”
Lizzie gasped. “How absolutely dreadful.” In her mind she saw twenty new graves in the little churchyard by the bridge. There would be so much grief: everyone in the neighborhood would be mourning someone. But something else worried her. “What do you mean when you say ‘your’ pit?”
“High Glen.”
Lizzie went cold. “There is no pit at High Glen.”
“Only the new one, of course—the one that was begun when you married Mr. Jamisson.”
Lizzie felt frozen with rage. She rounded on her mother. “You knew, didn’t you?”
Lady Hallim had the grace to look ashamed. “My dear, it was the only thing to do. That’s why Sir George gave you the Virginia property—”
“You betrayed me!” Lizzie cried. “You all deceived me. Even my husband. How could you? How could you lie to me?”
Her mother began to cry. “We thought you’d never know. You’re going to America—”
Her tears did nothing to blunt Lizzie’s outrage. “You thought I’d never know? I can hardly believe my ears!”
“Don’t do anything rash, I beg you.”
An awful thought struck Lizzie. She turned to the pastor. “Mack’s twin sister …”
“I’m afraid Esther McAsh was among the dead,” he said.
“Oh, no.” Mack and Esther were the first twins Lizzie had ever seen, and she had been fascinated by them. As children they were hard to tell apart until you got to know them. In later life Esther looked like a female Mack, with the same striking green eyes and the miner’s squat muscularity. Lizzie remembered them a few short months ago, standing side by side outside the church. Esther had told Mack to shut his gob, and that had made Lizzie laugh. Now Esther was dead and Mack was about to be condemned to death—
Remembering Mack, she said: “The trial is today!”
York said: “Oh, my goodness, I didn’t know it was so soon—am I too late?”
“Perhaps not, if you go now.”
“I will. How far is it?”
“Fifteen minutes’ walk, five minutes in a sedan chair. I’m coming with you.”
Mother said: “No, please—”
Lizzie made her voice harsh. “Don’t try to stop me, Mother. I’m going to plead for Mack’s life myself. We killed the sister—perhaps we can save the brother.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Lady Hallim.
* * *
The Sessions Yard was crammed with people. Lizzie was confused and lost, and neither York nor her mother was any help. She pushed through the crowd, searching for Gordonson or Mack. She came to a low wall that enclosed an inner yard and at last saw Mack and Caspar Gordonson through the railings. When she called, Gordonson came out through a gate.