Neil Hanson - The Custom of the Sea

Tom spent the next thirty-six hours in a dark void. No daylight reached his cell and the passing hours were punctuated only by the arrival of his meals — stale bread and water, and a bowl of thin, watery gruel — and the slopping out of the stinking bucket that served as his toilet.

He saw and heard nothing of the others. Only a warder entered his cell, who neither met his eye nor spoke a word to him as he laid down a platter of food and took away the previous one.

Early on the Monday morning Tom was taken up the stairs to an iron-barred room on the ground floor. Shielding his eyes from the strong sunlight, he studied the other occupants of the room. They sat at a table covered with scrolls of paper, bound with ribbon.

One man was thin and bony, with the high collar and ink-stained suit of a clerk. The other was middle-aged, stout and ruddy-complexioned, with thick sideburns and a bushy moustache. His suit was crumpled and shiny with wear and his waistcoat gaped open between the buttons straining to contain his paunch. He had a jovial look and a warm smile, and looked more like a farmer in town for market-day than a lawyer.

‘Captain Dudley, I’m Arthur Tilly.’ He spoke with a broad Cornish accent. ‘I’m a solicitor here, a partner in Fox and Tilly, and am to defend you in court.’

‘Why would I want a lawyer? Is God’s truth not defence enough?’

Tilly paused, as if uncertain how to reply. ‘Perhaps, but I shall have even greater trust in the Lord if we for our part have first done everything that is humanly possible in your defence.’

‘I mean you no offence, Mr Tilly, but I’m sure that once the court has heard the narrative of our sufferings, they will not detain us further. I would prefer to put my trust in the unvarnished truth than in the fine words of a lawyer, no matter how eminent.’

Tilly chuckled. ‘Oh, I am far from eminent, Captain Dudley, though I like to think I have served the people of Falmouth well enough over the years. They have great sympathy for your plight and I owe it to them as much as to yourself to see that you are properly represented in court.’ He paused. ‘It is, after all, a murder charge that you are facing.’

Tom remained silent for some time. ‘I am not a wealthy man, Mr Tilly.’

‘Nor I, Mr Dudley, and I have no intention of enriching myself at your expense. I am not a celebrated criminal lawyer, but I am an honest man and a hard-working one, and if you will have me as your lawyer, I will defend you to the best of my abilities.’

Tom still remained silent and Tilly paused, searching his expression. He checked his fob watch. ‘You are to appear before the magistrates at eleven, and there is no time for another lawyer to acquaint himself with the facts of the case. I shall appear for you this morning, and if you then decide to retain another lawyer to act for you, you are quite at liberty to do so, and you shall not pay me a penny piece. Is this acceptable to you?’

Tom hesitated, then nodded. ‘I thank you, Mr Tilly. If I seem doubtful, it is nothing to your discredit, but I have always preferred to stand my ground and fight my own battles.’

Tilly inclined his head. ‘And that is your right, but let me represent you before the magistrates this morning and then we shall talk again.’

He paused, seeking Tom’s nod of approval before he continued. ‘It will be a brief hearing. I expect the prosecution will apply for a remand in custody pending instructions from London, but I shall endeavour to persuade the magistrates to set you at liberty on bail, so that you may return to your family.’

Tears started to Tom’s eyes at the thought, but the lawyer laid a hand on his arm. ‘Please do not raise your hopes too high. It is almost unheard-of for defendants in a murder case to be released on bail, but I shall do my best for you. Even if I fail I shall, I hope, succeed in persuading the authorities to have you moved from the cells to a room where you may at least get some air and sunlight.’

He paused, his gaze travelling from Tom’s sunken eyes to the wasted flesh on his hands. ‘What is your state of health?’

Tom shrugged. ‘As you would expect. Stephens is the worst of us. He is able to get but little sleep and his head aches very severely. He says he gets so “dazy” at times that if he sits down to write a letter he sometimes forgets the way to spell. We all suffer great pains in our limbs and joints and the muscles of our arms are so tender they will scarcely bear a finger touch. Our feet and legs are also very much swollen. It increases as night comes on and is painfully acute in the tread of the feet.’

He pulled back his sleeve to show the lawyer his arm. ‘The whole skin of our bodies is peeling off; when we were picked up we were as yellow as a gold picture frame. We’ve also noticed that the whites of our nails have started and are growing out. The doctor says it has often been known to supervene upon a severe shock.’

Tilly nodded. ‘I shall do my best for you in court, Captain Dudley. That is all I can promise. Now I must speak to your crewmates.’

Just after ten o’clock that morning, Tom, Brooks and Stephens were brought out of their cells and led up the steps. They formed up into a column just inside the doors of the police station with Sergeant Laverty in the van and two burly policemen on either side of each of them. When Laverty pushed open the door, the crowd gathered outside let out a great cheer.

His face white with anger, Laverty began to elbow his way through the crowd. ‘You treat common murderers as if they were heroes,’ he said. ‘Clear a path or you’ll try the inside of the lock-up yourselves.’

A hand reached out of the crowd and knocked off his helmet, to another burst of cheering.

Still weak and tired, Tom struggled to maintain the pace that the policemen were setting. They half pushed, half dragged him through the jostling mass of people. Many reached past the police to slap him on the back, but each well-meaning blow caused him to wince in pain.

The procession made its slow way up the steep, cobbled street to the Guildhall, a hundred yards from the quay where they had landed. The tall arched windows flanking the entrance were secured with thick iron bars.

Pale and sweating, Tom was helped up the steps. He had no more than a glimpse of the courtroom before the three of them were hustled down into the holding cell in the cellars.

‘Stay with them,’ Laverty said to one of his constables. ‘Make sure there is no talking between them.’

They waited in silence, listening to the tread of feet and the scrape of chairs on the wooden floor above their heads. Half an hour later they were summoned, and began to climb the steep flight of stone steps. The murmur of the spectators grew to a rumble as Tom and the others entered the dock.

The courtroom, no more than forty feet by twenty, was densely packed. Tom could see even more people blocking the street outside and fighting to press their noses against the windows.

Brooks sat down, but Tom’s wounds made it impossible for him to sit on the hard wooden bench and he took his stand at the front of the dock, gripping the rail. Stephens hesitated for a moment, then stood alongside him. He nudged Tom and gestured to the dog-collars on several of the spectators. ‘It seems as if every parson for fifty miles around is here.’

‘Let’s hope they’re here to pray for us.’

The justices’ clerk, John Genn, called for silence and the eight borough magistrates filed in, led by the chairman, Henry Liddicoat. Genn rose to his feet and read out the charge. Only one witness was called, James Laverty. His face reddened as every eye turned towards him. He bowed his head and began to read from his notebook in a slow West Country burr. He recounted what he had heard in the Long Room of the Customs House as Tom talked to Cheesman, then produced the knife from his pocket. There was a gasp from one or two of the spectators at the sight of the murder weapon.