‘Aye, my wife,’ said he, his eyes narrowing as I took her name in vain. ‘What of her?’
‘Cosying up to another lad, she was, when I was being taken down. Cooing in his ear enough to turn your stomach and giving him the eyes that let him know that she wasn’t about to go wanting even if you were.’
‘Why, you little bastard,’ said he, advancing on me then, and I took a notion that I might have made a mistake in provoking him, for as he came closer I could see that he was a bigger man than I took him for originally and those hams of his had curled into fists and looked ready to do me a serious mischief. Luckily for me, just as he reached down and pulled me from my place of rest upon the stony floor, a key was turned in the door and it was wrenched open and who was back to see us, only the bailiff. He took a quick look at the pair of us in our unfortunate positions, me being held off the ground by my throat, my feet dangling an inch or two from the ground, while the man’s fist stood poised to strike me down.
‘Another moment and he’d have had you,’ said the bailiff in a casual voice, as if he couldn’t have cared less what happened to any of us and was perfectly prepared to stand by and watch the assault take place.
‘Out with you, blue, and let me finish the job, then,’ said Mr Wilber-force. ‘He issued a slander against my wife and I’ll take my satisfaction or be damned.’
‘Be damned, then,’ said the bailiff, stepping forward and pushing him out of the way; the hand of my attacker was loosened from my neck and I tumbled to the ground, and not for the first time that day either. My fingers ran to my voice box, wondering whether my pipes were still intact and I would ever sing again. The thought went through my head that my body, underneath my clothes, must have been a rainbow of blacks and blues with the indignities I had suffered over the previous few hours.
‘On your feet, lad,’ said the bailiff, nodding towards me, and I dragged myself up slowly.
‘I can’t stand,’ I replied in a weakened voice. ‘I am beaten.’
‘On your feet,’ he repeated, but this time more severely, and he took a step towards me with such venom that I found my balance again and placed myself in the vertical.
‘Are we for the gaol already?’ I asked him, because although I did not relish the idea of any more time spent there with my violent companion, I was even less enamoured with the concept of my lengthy incarceration. ‘Are there no more trials that can be heard first before we go? Is Spithead cleansed of sinners?’
‘You’re to come with me,’ said the bailiff, taking me by the arm and pulling me out of the cell. ‘And you stay where you are for now,’ he added to Mr Wilberforce. ‘I’ll be along for you presently when the carriage is here.’
‘You’re never letting him go?’ cried my erstwhile chum, seeing me being taken unexpectedly away from his grasp. ‘That lad’s a menace to society, I swear he is. If there’s only room for one of us in the gaol, then by rights it should be him as he has a twelvemonth to pay and I have no more than a quarter of that.’
‘Rest your tongue,’ said the bailiff, pulling the door shut. ‘He’ll be paying for his crime all right, I promise you that.’
‘I’ll remember you to the missus,’ I shouted back at him as the door of the cell closed and a moment later I could hear Mr Wilberforce running against it and pounding the frame with his fists.
‘What’s next for me then, blue?’ I asked as he turned and started marching down the corridor and I chased along behind; he was the first fellow today who hadn’t felt the need to drag me behind him like a dog on a leash.
‘Just follow me, lad, and less of your questions,’ he said. ‘Mr Henderson desires an audience.’
My heart sank when he said that. I wondered whether the old man had consulted further with the Portsmouth constabulary and decided that I was a bad ‘un through and through and a twelvemonth was not sentence enough. Perhaps I would be sent there for longer, or receive a flogging first.
‘What’s it about, though?’ I asked, desperate to know so that I could prepare my argument on the journey.
‘The Lord above knows,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘Do you think he confides in the likes of me?’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘You’re not high enough.’
He stopped and glared at me, but then shook his head and continued along. I got the impression he was not as quick to anger as some around there. ‘Just come along, lad,’ he told me. ‘And no dawdling, if you know what’s good for you.’
I did know what was good for me and would have liked to tell him so. What was good for me would have been my immediate release on to the streets of Spithead with naught but a telling-off and a promise on my part to devote my life henceforth to aiding the poor and crippled and never more to rest my eyes on those things that were not my own. But I said nothing. Instead I did his bidding and followed him until we reached a large oak door. He knocked soundly upon it and it crossed my mind that behind those doors lay either my salvation or my condemnation. I breathed deeply and prepared for the worst.
‘Enter!’ came a cry from within and the bailiff opened the door and stepped out of my way so that I might go inside. No surprise that the magistrate’s room was a shoddy sight nicer than any of the other rooms that I’d seen so far in the courthouse. A fire was burning in the hearth and a tray of meats were laid out on the table beside a bowl of soup for the old scut’s dinner. Mr Henderson was sitting behind the table, a bib tucked into his collar, and he was making short work of the food. Seeing it, my stomach awakened and asserted its rights; I recalled that I hadn’t eaten since morning time and had suffered enormously since.
‘The very boy,’ said Mr Henderson, looking up at me. ‘Come in, come in, you knave, and stand tall when I talk to you. Thank you, Bailiff,’ he added, in a louder voice, looking across at the blue. ‘That will be all for now. You may close the door.’
He did as he was bid and the magistrate took another long slurp of soup before wiping his mouth with the bib and removing it from his collar. He sat back then and narrowed his eyes, making a steeple of his fingertips, and stared at me, licking his lips. I wondered whether I was to be next on his menu.
‘John Jacob Turnstile,’ he said after a long pause, sounding out every syllable as if my own name was a piece of poetry. ‘What a rascal you are.’
I was about to answer the allegation with a steadfast denial, but a chill descended on my body such as you feel when a ghost hovers in the room or your grave has been trod upon, and I sensed another presence nearby. Quick as a flash I turned my head and who did I see sitting in an armchair behind me, quite out of sight from me when I had first entered the room, but the French gentleman, him as I had the timepiece off earlier in the day. Surprised to see him there, I uttered an oath and he smiled and shook his head, but Mr Henderson was having none of that kind of language in his private chambers.
‘You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, lad,’ he shouted, and I turned back to him and let my gaze drop to the floor.
‘I heartily apologize, Your Holiness,’ said I. ‘I meant no disrespect; the words were out of my mouth before I could shake off the bad ones.’