Remember remember, p.13
Remember, Remember, page 13
‘One such melancholy night, I accompanied the lord to Socrat’s. Before leaving home, he had already consumed half a case of wine. My duty was to obey him and ensure his safety throughout our excursion.’
‘How did you attend the club?’
‘Gerard Forthright, who was then Lord Harvey’s coachman, drove us there. I went to rouse him, but found he had not yet retired to bed. He had also been drinking his supply of ale. I wondered if he’d be well enough to man the coach, but he assured me he was, so we set off. The journey to Socrat’s was only half a mile, but as usual, I hung to the back rails of the carriage for the duration, lest any villains attempt to take advantage of Lord Harvey. One cannot be too careful in London at night.’
Several spectators mutter their agreement.
‘The lord bade me accompany him into the club, while Forthright minded the carriage at the adjoining stable yard. But uncommonly, after a point, Forthright too was invited in to partake in a game of cards, after which he joined us at Lord Harvey’s table. That was when I saw Forthright steal the coin purse upon Lord Harvey’s person and as was my duty, I proceeded to challenge the man – albeit discreetly. Lord Harvey would have disliked it if I caused a scene.’
He moves to cup his hands behind his head to support his thoughts better but remembers that this might make him appear too relaxed, perhaps uncaring, and crosses them in his lap instead.
‘After I challenged Forthright, he did not deny his theft but offered me half of the loot in return for my silence. When I denied him, he took great offence and pushed me by the shoulder into the wall.’
Delphine sends Vincent an encouraging smile, which he catches like a rope thrown between them, the cords thickly braided, steady, and strong. Kontiné lèspiwasyon, she mouths. Keep breathing.
He speaks louder.
‘To protect my master’s honour, I pushed the coachman back, and a fight ensued. A crowd gathered, and I eventually claimed victory before returning the coin purse to my master. He was elated. He clapped me on the back and said we should return home immediately to discuss my reward, which he expressly said would be my freedom. Lord Harvey dismissed Forthright from his employment there and then, and after a footman from Socrat’s had driven us back to 20 St James’s Square, the deal was struck. One hundred and sixty pounds was the price I’d need to pay: one hundred and twenty for my release, and forty to ensure a decent start to my future. My boxing career started shortly after that.’
‘Preposterous lies!’ Lord Harvey snarls, and Vincent flinches in his seat. He could not help it. The response was so sudden, so involuntary, that the rest of the court could not have failed to notice it.
As the clerk reminds Lord Harvey to respect this court’s proprieties, Nick gestures towards the press dock – in a manner that says, This is what Vincent had to live with – and cedes the floor for cross examination. To Vincent, he mouths, Well done.
They’ve built the wall of his testimony – now Vincent only needs to defend it from being knocked down. He steadies his breath to steel himself against Dunning – and his nerves.
Dunning rises, tucking his hands into his robe’s pockets with an exaggerated shrug. ‘You mentioned, Mister Mourière, that your master had been drinking on the night of your so-called agreement,’ he says casually. ‘Is that why you set the stage for this pack of lies that evening? Were you hoping that when Lord Harvey woke up the following day with a sore head and didn’t remember making you any such offer, he would simply take your word for it?’
Vincent grips his hands tighter in his lap ‘My testimony is no lie.’
‘I beg to differ,’ Dunning says coldly. ‘Tell me, was Lord Harvey in the habit of freeing his slaves on a whim?’
‘No sir,’ Vincent says. ‘To my knowledge, I was the only one.’
‘How convenient,’ says Dunning. ‘That Lord Harvey should make such a fantastical exception for you, Mister Mourière. And one that was most out of character for him.’ He turns to the assembly. ‘That wine must have put him in a very generous mood, indeed!’
The laughter of a hundred white men echoes in Vincent’ ears. Nick had prepared him for many eventualities, but they could not have practised for this. Vincent bites his lip to stay the tremor, the dull pain confirming that this is a waking nightmare.
‘And this crowd of witnesses, you speak of. Can any of them attest to the veracity of your story, Mister Mourière?’
‘I did not know the names of the gentlemen who gathered to watch the altercation between myself and Mister Forthright,’ Vincent says, struggling to remain composed.
Dunning’s green eyes remain glued to Vincent’s as he addresses Nick. ‘If I understand correctly, Counsel Lyons, you are asking the court to free this man – who we must remember is a slave – on his conjecture alone. Have you no testimony at all?’
‘Your client can attest to it, Counsel Dunning,’ Nick retorts, ‘lest he risk perjuring himself. The coachman would have done too, were he not still a rogue, on the run from the law.’
‘Would he now?’ Dunning puffs out his chest. ‘I am sorry to disappoint the defence counsel, but my next witness will now prove to the court that the coachman is running neither from the law, nor from the truth.’
Nick seems puzzled; in the pews, Delphine pales. Is this another surprise?
Dunning’s grin widens, and his devious eyes flash as he says: ‘Mister Forthright, kindly take to the stand.’
As the former coachman approaches the dock, Vincent notices his neat, cream-silver uniform. Why is he wearing that? Vincent tries to meet Forthright’s eye, but the coachman averts his gaze.
Vincent’s heart sinks as the realisation comes no one is going to believe his testimony by the end of the day.
He can almost see himself from outside his body, on a West Indies-bound ship, all chance of freedom sailing away. After Forthright has confirmed his name, Dunning leans with one elbow on the press dock.
‘Can you confirm for the court what you were doing on the night of twenty-first September 1767, before Mister Mourière summoned you to transport your master to Socrat’s?’
‘I can,’ Forthright says. ‘Hetty, the cook, had brought me up a glass of warm milk. I’m partial to one before I go to bed. She lets the milk and oats for porridge sit overnight so they’re full and thick. But that’s by the by. I was having a glass of milk.’
Is he nervous? He’s not jittering or fidgeting. It’s hard to tell. What Vincent is sure of: Forthright is already lying.
‘What time was this?’
‘Not long before midnight.’
‘And after you’d taken Lord Harvey to Socrat’s, what happened?’
‘Unexpectedly, I was invited in by a kindly gent. I forget his name. I’d been warming my hands by the fire out back – it was February and bone cold. There wasn’t any snow but still, it was freezing. This gent took a leak by the fireside and ended up pissing on my shoe. He invited me in as an apology, I guess. I don’t claim to know the minds of noblemen.’
With a flourishing hand, Counsel Dunning bids the coachman move on with the story.
‘Er, so. I lost a hand and excused myself from the table. I had less to lose than the regular players, you understand. That’s when I saw Mourière swipe Lord Harvey’s coin purse. The master used to hang it on the back of his breeches you see – a great big lump under his frock coat. The boxer was a deft fellow, and easily nabbed it away.’
Or you did. The muscles tighten in Vincent’s jaw, but he manages to keep his face neutral.
‘And what did you do next?’
‘I confronted the man, of course.’ Forthright flings his arms out, apparently roused by the memory. ‘The master’s always been good to me. I didn’t want to lose my position. If you don’t mind me saying, and I’m a bit afeared to say it actually…’
‘Do say it,’ Dunning urges.
‘I always thought the master was a bit too trusting of Mourière. Let him read all them books and saunter round the house and city like a freedman almost. It was unsettling. You know Hetty told me she reckoned he helped the other slave girl escape. Now, that don’t strike me as someone loyal to his master, especially to one so giving. Vincent always came across as a bit of a beau-nasty. And you know Blacks, they don’t abide by the same moral code as me and you.’
‘Mister Forthright,’ the Chief Justice admonishes, brows furrowing over the top of his spectacles. ‘If I require your opinion, I will ask for it. Conjecture is not wanted or valued here, so I request you keep to the facts and the facts alone.’
‘Sorry m’lord.’ Gerard bows his head. ‘I was just saying—’
‘And now you are not,’ he says firmly. ‘Counsel Dunning, continue.’
Vincent’s eyes grow owlish. Is Chief Justice Mansfield on his side?
Dunning gives a slight bow. Vincent catches the lawyer wordlessly mouthing something as he spins from the Chief Justice and then presses on. ‘After you confronted Mourière, what happened?’
‘He did not take kindly to it. Got a wicked air about him, grabbed me by the scuff of my neckerchief and near about flung me against the wall. When the master saw it, Mourière was given a beating and I was praised for my bravery.’
‘So you were not dismissed from your post as Mister Mourière claimed?’
‘Never.’ Forthright sounds outraged at the suggestion, but his eyes are on his silver cufflinks, which look brand new to Vincent’s eye.
Lies. Lies. Lies. Left with two choices – look away or scream – Vincent gazes up at the King’s Bench rafters, focusing on the light flowing through the honeycomb-shaped window. Do not be the person they believe you to be, he tells himself. It all feels. It feels…
Wrong. Heavy. Too much. Shame swipes at his chest, a tiger clawing its already weakened prey.
‘And can anyone else attest to this?’
‘They can. Those men there.’ Forthright points to the back-left corner of the court.
Though he doesn’t want to, Vincent turns to look.
He recognises some of the faces from Socrat’s that day. Things are going from bad to worse.
Over the next five hours, twelve witnesses are called to the dock.
Each one of them swears an oath to tell the truth. In the next breath, each of them breaks it.
On and on, the lies pour like sweet, poisoned wine from their mouths. Vincent feels like he might drown by the thirteenth witness, but Lord Mansfield bats a hand to send the man away. For even he has heard enough.
‘The Crown requires no more testimony on this particular event, thankfully.’
From the dais, he gestures down to Nick with his quill. ‘I trust you have the contract Mister Mourière acknowledged in his testimony.’
‘No,’ Nick says, head bowed. ‘I do not.’
‘Well, then I believe there is no more to discuss. I will be prepared to give my ruling when we next meet.’
With his eyes closed, Vincent tilts his head to the ceiling once more. So, it will come to nothing after all.
All he has achieved.
After a lifetime of hardship, all he has worked for has come undone in one day and thirteen lies. There is no word for this kind of heartbreak. No word could even come close.
‘Chief Justice, if I may…’ Nick rushes to approach the bench, his face as desperate as Vincent feels. ‘May I offer a closing word?’
Lord Mansfield re-dips his quill in acquiescence.
Nick turns to address the court. ‘The Blacks have been intrinsic to our success as an empire. I think, Dunning, even you will grant me that?’ Dunning lifts his hands in response with a gentle, appeasing smile. Like he knows what Nick is about to say will not matter.
Like he’s already won.
‘Yes,’ Nick says, frantically digging in his pocket for his piece of twine, which now looks as frayed as his nerves. He wraps and unwraps it around his fingers. ‘Counsel Dunning argued that our Empire was built on the backs of slaves, to further the greatness of our King and country. Therefore, shouldn’t we consider this another way?’
The court room seems to tilt their heads collectively.
‘Surely, if we can acknowledge the strength of the Negro, their unrelenting wilfulness to work, their humility, then we must also be able to acknowledge what they may contribute to our society if they were freed. The Black, raised to match us, could be key to securing our nation’s future as well as its present.’
Dunning leans back against his desk and turns over a piece of parchment without looking at Nick. ‘Please, Counsel Lyons, we have spent an entire morning discussing the commercial impacts of emancipation. It is not a valuable use of the court’s time. We have since spent this afternoon establishing that a Black cannot tell the truth.’
‘According to your bribed witnesses!’
‘Counsel Lyons!’ Lord Mansfield scolds. ‘Should you wish to make such outrageous claims, you had better have proof.’
Nick’s eyes grow wide.
Vincent draws his jacket closer about him, gritting his teeth. Other than pushing his master, one of Vincent’s biggest regrets is that he never stole the contract from Lord Harvey’s belongings, or asked for a copy himself. If he had, then perhaps Nick wouldn’t have been pushed to such distressed statements.
Dunning, unphased by Nick’s outburst, continues. ‘My lord, if the Blacks were freed our future would inevitably go to Hell.’
‘Dunning,’ the Chief Justice roars, jowls shaking. ‘Have I allowed children into my court room? This is the King’s Bench.’ He slams his hand on his desk. ‘It is an honour to present testimony here. Both of you will cease this callowness and act with the grace and decorum I expect. I do not care how late into the trial it is, I will have you both removed.’
‘Apologies, my lord,’ Dunning says, then smirks at Vincent in that skunkish way of his. ‘I merely meant to remind the court of what we’ve established today: that the Black on trial here is a liar. And a violent one at that. We would be wise to recognise that we could not keep our Empire great, or ensure our nation’s continued rule, if all the Blacks were freed.’
Nausea swirls in Vincent’s throat like smoke.
‘There is no way you can know this,’ Nick says, but no one seems to pay him any attention.
‘We have come this far with the Blacks beneath us. To allow them to rise will be ruinous for all.’
There’s not a whisper, not a breath in the court room. All the newspapermen’s scribbles have ceased; no one is shifting in their seats. Everyone’s eyes are fixed on Dunning.
Everyone but Vincent and Delphine, who are looking straight at each other. There’s a defiance in her eyes that he doesn’t have the strength to match.
She mouths from behind Nick’s bench, ‘Même bête, même lam.’
But Vincent cannot bring himself to mouth back his half of the promise.
‘If we release this man…’ Dunning moves towards Vincent and throws a pointed finger within touching distance of him. ‘If we set the precedent that Blacks should be free, their violence will only grow. There are fifteen thousand now, but in ten years, twenty, there will be so many of them that even an army will struggle to stop them. That is what is at stake here. This case is not about me or you or even about Vincent Mourière. No. This trial is about what we wish our nation to be. It is about our future. It is about protecting what it means to be English – about protecting our heart.’
A burst of applause erupts from the gallery. A lady sighs, moved by Dunning’s sentiment, and a gentleman cries Hear, hear! With a satisfied sneer, Dunning turns to Nick. ‘Oh, apologies Counsel Lyons, weren’t you about to say something?’
Chapter Fourteen
In truth, laws are always useful to those with possessions and harmful to those who have nothing; from which it follows that the social state is advantageous to men only when all possess something and none has too much.
—JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU
Delphine
It’s turning six o’clock when Delphine leaves the King’s Bench. After today’s disastrous turn, Nick had all but flung every book out of his office. She sensed Nick needed space, and Delphine certainly needed air, so now is heading out to the courtyard. Long clouds streak evenly over the marmalade sky, coating Westminster in a coral hue. As she walks down the steps to the pavestones, a domed, two-horse carriage clops into her path. On its door is a crest bearing a knight’s helmet amid a lush green forest. The Mansfield coat of arms.
As if cued, the Chief Justice steps out of the courthouse. Gone are his poodle wig and billowing robe, though he still wears the same crescent glasses. He nods courteously to her as his coachman jumps down onto the street – a sore reminder of today’s first horrible witness. But unlike Forthright, Mansfield’s coachman is not so slick: while opening the carriage door, he misjudges a step and his eyes bulge as he hurtles face-first towards the pavement. With impressive dexterity, the Chief Justice catches him, and it’s in the heartbeat or two it takes for the man to regain his composure that Delphine comes up with a plan.
‘My lord?’ Delphine calls. She tries to imitate the assertiveness Marion adopts when speaking to men of the law – the justices and constables she needs to keep sweet, to keep the doors of the Exoticies open.
The Chief Justice’s foot hovers above the step to his carriage. It has been a long day.
An exhausting trial, and with Monday’s judgment looming, she understands he is likely in no mood to entertain the ramblings of a woman who does not know her station.
But she has to try.
And since the Chief Justice does look back at her and smile – a weary but patient smile – Delphine takes this as her permission to proceed.
‘A word, sir?’ She inclines her head.
‘All that has to be said on this trial will be recorded in the proper place, at the proper time,’ he says, not unkindly.
‘And if what Lord Harvey is doing is improper? If Mister Forthright and all those others lied… Should one wait for justice then?’
