The Man Within · Part II · Chapter 8 (3/5)

“There was suddenly a lot of shouting and the sound of men running. Then there were shots. I waited till all the noise was over and then I crept away.”

“Now, be careful in answering. Can you tell the jury who were with you when you landed?”

“Yes.” He named without hesitation the men in the dock.

“Were there any others?”

“Yes. Carlyon, the leader, a man we called Cockney Harry and Joe Collier.”

“Do you know where these men are now?”

Again his eyes met the eyes in the gallery. Again his enemy’s were full of terrified appeal. Andrews smiled. He was sure of himself now. “No,” he said.

“While you were hiding how many shots did you hear fired?”

“I don’t know. They were all together and confused.”

“More than one man was firing in fact?”

“Yes. Several.”

“It has been suggested that one of your companions had a personal quarrel with the man Rexall. Do you know anything about that?”

“No.”

“Thank you. That will do.”

As Sir Henry Merriman sat down, Mr. Braddock reentered the Court.

He smiled a little maliciously at Sir Henry and began his cross-examination.

“How long have you been associated with the crew of the Good Chance?”

“For three years.”

“Have your relations with them been friendly?”

“In a way.”

“What do you mean by ‘in a way’?”

Andrews narrowed his eyes and answered not to counsel but to the men in the dock. “I was on sufferance,” he said, “treated with contempt. My opinion was never consulted.”

“Why didn’t you leave them?”

“Mr. Braddock, is this relevant?” Sir Edward Parkin asked, with a note of petulance.

“My lord, in my submission, highly. If your Lordship will have patience⁠—”

“Very well then, go on.”

“Why didn’t you leave them?” Mr. Braddock repeated fiercely. Andrews turned his eyes away from the familiar faces in the dock and gazed at the red choleric face of counsel. It amused him to think that a man with a face like that should question him on such shadowy things as motives. Facts, hard and firm as chips of wood, were the only things that he would appreciate.

“I had nowhere to go,” he said, “and no money.”

“Did it ever occur to you to work honestly for your living?”

“No.”

“Did you have any other motive in remaining with the Good Chance for three years?”

“Yes, friendship for Carlyon.”

“Why did you first join?”

“Friendship for Carlyon.”

“The man whom you have betrayed?”

Andrews reddened and felt his cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Yes.”

“What were your motives for laying information with the Revenue?”

“Do you really want to know that?” Andrews asked. “Isn’t it wasting your time and the time of the Court?”

“Don’t make speeches,” Sir Edward Parkin snapped in his high, supercilious voice. “Answer the questions put to you.”

“It was because I had a father whom I hated and he was always being put before me as a model. It made me mad. And I’m a coward. You all know that.” Andrews gripped the edge of the box and leant forward, his voice angry, his face red and ashamed. “I was afraid of being hurt and I hated the sea and the noise and the danger. And unless I did something it would have gone on for always and always. And I wanted to show those men that I was someone to be considered, that I had the power to smash all their plans.”

“And to hang them?”

“I never thought of that. I swear it. How could I tell they’d fight?”

“And your friend, the man Carlyon? Did you do nothing to warn him?”

“It was a case of him or me.”

A bearded man called Hake in the second row of the prisoners sprang to his feet and shook his fist at Andrews. “It’s him or you still,” he cried. “He’ll get you for this.” A warder pulled him down.

The Court was growing unbearably stuffy. The judge and the ladies in the gallery were fluttering scented handkerchiefs. Andrews’s forehead was hot and sticky with sweat. He wiped it with the palm of his hand. He felt as though he had been standing for hours exposed to the gaze of the Court. His lips were dry and he longed for water. Give me strength to go through with this, he implored silently⁠—not of God but of the image which he carried in his heart and behind which he tried to hide the faces that watched him.

“Where is your father?” Mr. Braddock asked.

“In hell I hope,” Andrews answered, and a burst of laughter from the gallery came like a breath of cool spring wind to a tropic night. No relief of cool winds was allowed in a court of justice. Laughter was suppressed by the usher’s cries.

“Do you mean that he is dead?”

“Yes.”

“And it was jealousy of a dead man which impelled you to betray comrades of three years’ standing?”

“Yes.”

“Do you expect the jury to understand that?”

“No.” Andrews’s voice drooped wearily. He felt a sudden longing to explain to this red-faced counsel who plagued him so with questions that he had not slept all night. “I don’t expect anyone to understand,” he said. In his heart he added⁠—save Elizabeth⁠—and Carlyon.

“Do you expect the jury to believe it?”

“It is true.”

The red face came at him again with the persistence of an insect.

“I suggest to you that your whole story is untrue?”

Andrews shook his head, but he could not shake off that voice which came at him again and again and again.

“That you never laid any information?”

“I did.”

“That you are telling this story to save yourself from the dock?”

“No.”

“That you never landed with a cargo on the night of February 10?”

“I did, I tell you.”

“That you were with a woman, a notorious woman?”

“No. It’s untrue.”

Andrews’s weariness grew on him. He held the sides of the witness box as a support. I could sleep now, he said to himself.

“Will you stand there on your oath and tell the jury that you have not been keeping company with a loose woman?”

“No, I refused,” he said wearily. He could not understand how this red bladder with the bullying voice was so well aware of his movements.

“What do you mean you refused?”

“I was in the Sussex Pad at Shoreham when the girl came up to me. But I wouldn’t have her. Carlyon came in to drink and I was afraid that he’d see me. So I said ‘No.’ I said ‘No. I won’t sleep with you. Not tonight.’ And I slipped out. And I don’t know whether Carlyon saw me or not. I was afraid and I ran for miles, for miles up over the downs.”

“That is no doubt another woman. There’s no need to tell the jury of all the women with whom you have consorted.” Mr. Braddock sniggered and the jury tittered. Sir Edward Parkin allowed himself a faint smile as he watched the young women in the public gallery.

The faces in front of Andrews, the solicitors at the table, the usher, the now soundly sleeping Clerk of Arraigns, the bearded prisoners in the dock, the spectators in the gallery, the twelve hostile cow-like jurymen, were becoming rapidly an indistinct blur, one large composite face of many eyes and mouths. Only Mr. Braddock’s face, red and angry, protruded very distinctly out of this mass, as he leant forward to shoot out his questions, which seemed to Andrews absurd and meaningless.

“Do you still persist in saying that you landed with the prisoners on the night of February 10?”

“But it’s true, I tell you.” Andrews clenched his fists and longed to beat back that red aggressive face into the grey mists which surrounded it. Then I could sleep, he thought, and his mind dwelt with longing on the cool white sheets and warm clean blankets which had been wasted on his restless mind and body the night before.

“Carry your mind back two days. Were you not in the company of a notoriously loose woman?”

“No. I don’t understand. I haven’t been with a woman like that for weeks. Can’t you take my answer and have done.” Staring at the face of Mr. Braddock, as it darted back and forth, Andrews was surprised to see it apparently disintegrate under his eyes. It softened and collapsed and reformed itself into a kind of tigerish amiability.

“I don’t want to tire you. This must be a very trying experience for you.” Mr. Braddock paused, and even in his weariness Andrews smiled, remembering the weaver Bottom⁠—“I can roar you as softly as any sucking dove.”

“I think we are talking at cross-purposes. I am sure that you don’t wish to hinder the course of justice. Only tell the jury where you were staying two nights ago.”

“At a cottage out Hassocks way.”

“Not all by yourself, surely?” The red face creased itself into a sneer, the coarse mouth with two great gravestone teeth sniggered out loud, seeming to give a lead and a cue to laughter from gallery and jury. The usher, grinning himself, called perfunctorily for silence.

“What do you mean?” The laughter confused Andrews. It was like a mist between himself and any clear thought.

“Answer the question,” Mr. Braddock snapped at him. “It was plain enough. Were you alone?”

“No. Why? I was with⁠—”

“With whom?”

He hesitated. He did not know her name, he realised.

“A woman?”

The word woman seemed too general and too coarse a name to describe the banner under which he now fought. A woman? He had known many women, and Elizabeth was not like one of them. She was something more remote and infinitely more desirable.

“No,” he said, and then seeing Mr. Braddock’s great mouth open for another question, he grew dismayed⁠—“at least⁠ ⁠…” he said and stood confused, hopelessly barren of words.

“Don’t jest with us. It must have been either a woman, a man or a child. Which was it?”

“A woman,” and before he could add some qualifying phrase he was struck by a wave of laughter from every corner of the Court. He came out of it, as though half drowned, red, gasping, blind to everything but the face of his questioner, which was already darting forward for another question.

“What is her name?”

“Elizabeth,” he murmured indistinctly, but loud enough for Mr. Braddock to hear. He gave it to the Court with the air of a jester. “Elizabeth. And what is the young woman’s surname?”

“I don’t know.”

“What was that the witness said?” Sir Edward Parkin tapped the sheet of paper in front of him with his pen.

“He doesn’t know her surname, my lord,” Mr. Braddock replied with a grin. Sir Edward Parkin smiled, and as though his smile gave an awaited sanction, laughter again swept the Court.

“My lord,” Mr. Braddock continued, when silence had been restored, “the witness’s ignorance is not as astounding as it may seem. Opinion on the point differs a great deal among her neighbours.”

Andrews leant forward and banged the edge of the box with his clenched fist. “What are you insinuating?” he said.

“Be quiet,” Sir Edward Parkin turned on him, fingers poised in the act of taking snuff. He turned and smiled ingratiatingly at Mr. Braddock. The case was proving more amusing than he had foreseen.

“Well, my lord, I shall bring a witness to show that the girl is the daughter, probably illegitimate, of a woman called Garnet. The woman is dead and no one knows whether she ever had a husband. They had a lodger staying with them and he took over the farm when the woman died. It is a common idea in the countryside that the girl was not only the daughter of this man, but also his mistress.”

“Where is the man?”

“He is dead, my lord.”

“Do you propose to call the girl as a witness?”

“No, my lord, the information has only this moment come into my hands, and in any case the girl would not be a witness in whom the jury could place any credence. The whole story is a very sordid one.”

“My God, do you know what’s beautiful?” Andrews cried.

“If you cannot keep silent,” Sir Edward Parkin said, “I shall commit you for contempt of court.”

“My lord,” Andrews appealed, and hesitated, trying to shake off the mist of weariness that clung round his brain and clogged his words.

“Is there something you want to say?”

Andrews lifted a hand to his forehead. He must find words in the mist which shrouded him, words to express the gold which suffused it from the light of candles lit in a far place behind the brain.

“Say what you want to say or be silent.”

“My lord, it’s not sordid,” he muttered very low. It seemed hopeless to find words until he had slept.

“Mr. Braddock, the witness says that it is not sordid.” The laughter beat upon Andrews’s head, till it felt physically bruised as though by hail.

Mr. Braddock felt himself riding to victory upon a gale of laughter.

“Take your mind back to two mornings ago. We will leave out the night,” he added with a snigger. “Do you remember a woman coming to the cottage?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true that your friend without a surname, Elizabeth, told the woman that you were her brother?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Did she say that you’d been staying with her for a week?”

“I think so. I can’t remember anything. I’m tired.”

“That is all I want to ask you.”

Can I at last sit down and sleep? Andrews wondered incredulously. His doubt was justified. Sir Henry Merriman rose.

“Did you stay at the cottage for a week?”

“No. Two nights. That was all.”

“Think hard. Can’t you remember why she told those lies. They were to help you?”

“Of course. She’d never lie for herself. It was because I was afraid that the woman would talk in the town. I was afraid of Carlyon.”

“Why were you afraid?”

“He knew that I’d betrayed him. He was after me. He came to the cottage while I was there. But she hid me. She fooled him. She was brave like a saint. She drank out of my cup. How can he say there was anything sordid? It’s all lies they tell about her. If I wasn’t so tired I could tell you all.”

“Why did she do all this for you? Were you her lover?”

“No. It was just charity. I’ve never touched her, I swear it.”

“Thank you. That is all.” Andrews stood where he was, unbelieving that the end had at last come, that he had done what Elizabeth had urged him to do, that all was over now and he could sleep. He felt a hand pull at his sleeve. He stumbled down the steps to the floor of the court, still under the influence of the guiding hand, which now pulled him gently and insistently towards the door.

As he passed the dock a voice called to him, “Andrews.” He stopped and looked up. It took him a moment to focus his eyes. Then he saw that it was Tims. “Let me out, Andrews,” he implored.

There was a hostile murmur from the gallery and Andrews flushed. Anger, unreasoning and undirected, against himself, against his father, against this boy who held him for one moment from his sleep, tossed back an answer. “You fool, I’ve put you there.” Then he was outside the Court.

“I want to sleep,” he said. “Can I go?”

He found that he was speaking to an officer. “Not outside I shouldn’t,” the man said. “There’s a crowd there. You ain’t too popular. Better wait till the case is over. They’ll look after you then.”

“Anywhere⁠—a chair.” He put his hand against the wall to support himself.

“There’s the witness’s room.”

“I can’t go back there. They won’t give me any peace. Isn’t there anywhere?”

The officer softened a little. “Here,” he said, “you’d better sit here.” He pointed at a bench against the wall. “It’s against orders,” he added grudgingly, but already Andrews had sank down on it and had let sleep come, instantaneous, dreamless sleep, that carried for one instant only a confusion of faces, bearded angry faces, sniggering red faces, one pale face, a gold mist and then nothing at all.