Bruce Alexander - An Experiment in Treason

“Oh? What was that?”

“Well, toward the end of our stay there — just before “we boarded the return coach — the magistrate in Robertsbridge offered Mr. Perkins a job there as constable. He said he would match what-ever he was paid here in Bow Street, and that his money would go much farther in Robertsbridge. I’m sure he’s right about that, too.”

“Did Mr. Perkins accept the offer, or not?” She seemed oddly disapproving.

“Neither one. The magistrate wouldn’t let him turn it down. He told him just to think about it. And frankly, I believe he is doing so.”

“Well, I cannot understand that, ” said she.

“You mean, why he should be considering it? You must remember that he grew up in that part of the country. And as for Roberts — “

“No, that is not what I meant,” said she, interrupting sharply. “I care not if he be considering the matter. What distresses me is that this magistrate should be offering him the position and not you. Could he not see your worth? Your superiority?”

“Clarissa, Oliver Perkins is likely the most capable of alt Sir John’s force of constables. He is brave and intelligent … and …”

“You are far more intelligent. You have the law! When will you cease underestimating yourself? “

“First of all, I do not have the law — not yet. I have not been admitted to the bar. When I am and am looking about for a position, I shall not accept one as a constable. I shall aim higher.”

Still she sulked. “Well, that’s good to hear. Still, I think that the magistrate, whoever he may be, should have offered it first to you. Then at least you would have the chance to turn him down. You deserve recognition. If only you knew what I see in you!”

I was beginning to have some notion of that, and, quite frankly, I found it disquieting. I wondered if I could ever live up to her expectations. I wondered if anyone could. Love, marriage, and all the rest made great demands, did they not? I only hoped that I was equal to them.

Of a sudden we had little more to say, each to the other. I wondered if it might not be true that she, too, had suddenly been struck by the immensity of what lay ahead of us. Until now I had given little thought to anything beyond the completion of my studies and admission to the bar. But beyond that lay all of life. How was I to prepare for that?

Next day, as I went out to do a bit of buying for Molly in Covent Garden, I was halted by the cries of the newsmongers who ran about shouting the news and selling their papers. There were remarkable events in America. I snatched up a gazette from the nearest lad, and raced with it back to Bow Street, ran down the hall, and into Sir John’s chambers.

“What? What is it?” said he to me. “What is worth such a disturbance?”

“News from Boston,” said I.

“Of what sort?”

“Insurrection — or something close to it.”

He groaned. “All right, let us hear what that wretched gang of rebels have gotten themselves into now.”

With that, I set out to read him the entire article, which, I noted, had been reprinted from a Boston newspaper of four weeks past. (It was not always that news came so swiftly from America.) The story it told was bizarre in the extreme. Let me summarize briefly, reader, for the event is no doubt still well known and well remembered.

In protest against the tax levied by Parliament against the tea sold by the East India Company (chartered by the king), many of those in the colonies had simply refused to drink English tea. They instead drank tea smuggled in from Holland, or formed a new habit and took coffee as their morning drink.

Yet a plan was hatched to force the most recalcitrant of the colonies, Massachusetts, to accept English tea in spite of the tax. The price was lowered. The tea was sold in advance to American importers. Nevertheless, the Massachusetts patriots held firm and insisted they would not allow the tea to be unloaded in Boston.

Three ships sailed into Boston Harbor loaded with tea. A mob gathered at the wharf where they tied up, to make certain that they were not unloaded. Yet more was done. That night, three “raiding parties” of fifty men each appeared, made up of individuals with faces darkened with soot and decked out in feathers, who claimed to be Indians. Each of the raiding parties boarded a separate ship. They brought up the cargo and dumped the precious tea into the waters of Boston Harbor. No resistance was offered, and no force was necessary. It was all done in a matter of a few hours.

“Who was it?” said Sir John. “Sam Adams and his crew, I’ve no doubt.”

“It doesn’t say. I don’t think they really know. But you have to admit, sir, that the entire business does have to it a certain comic element.”

He scowled. “Oh, I suppose so. Whoever it was thought of masquerading them as Indians showed a bit of spirit and some imagination, yet I’m sure that the king and the prime minister will not be amused.”

“Even so, sir, I think — “

“Hang it all, a mob is a mob, say I. Perhaps no force was used, but that was because the captain and the crew complied. If they had not, then there probably would have been shots fired and swords bloodied. They’re a violent bunch, those colonials.”

“You are generally hesitant to distinguish any one group or race as more violent or immoral than the rest. I’ve heard you say quite often that all are about the same in the proportion of good to bad. Do you feel that the Americans are an exception to that?”

“Well, the circumstances of their lives — Indian raids and so on — encourage a reliance upon firearms for protection, I suppose.”

“In the hinterlands, perhaps,” said I, “but Boston and Philadelphia are large cities. There are others — New York, Baltimore, and Char — “

“I know, dammit! I’m not entirely ignorant of geography. But just look at this fellow, Burkett. He’s an absolute monster — murdering, mutilating. There’s no end to the brutishness of the man.”

“Aren’t you generalizing rather recklessly? Near all of the Americans are English, are they not? A good many of them were even born here.”

Sir John let forth a great sigh. “I shall not argue the matter further,” said he, “for I admit that in the heat of the moment I have just now said a number of things that were intemperate and unconsidered. But you see? I admit it, now that I have cooled down a bit. Yet there are those of us true-born Englishmen of a more choleric and vengeful nature than mine, and some of them hold high positions in the government. Think of Lord North and Lord Hillsborough; think of their sovereign. Given such provocation, they will not forget, nor will they forgive. I fear that those in the North American colonies — Americans, as they call themselves — are in for a bad time of it, and — oh, my …”

There he broke off, as if a thought had just struck him. From the expression that appeared on his face I judged it to be a particularly distressing thought.

“What is it, sir?”

“They may be planning to strike at him who is nearest at hand.”

“Sir? I don’t quite understand.”

“God help Benjamin Franklin.”

Later that day, long after Sir John had concluded his court session, we were blessed with another of the infrequent visits of the Lord Chief Justice to Bow Street. He was as blustering and rude as ever. He, who could manage a certain style and grace within the four walls of his house in Bloomsbury Square, became ill-mannered the moment he ventured forth into the world outside. As it happened, he had been hearing cases all day at Old Bailey, which seemed to put him in a particularly foul mood. Wearing the black hat more than once in a day would sour anyone, I suppose.