He woke to find himself in a room about the size of Cora’s apartment. It was cold: there was no glass in the windows and no fire in the fireplace. The place smelled foul. At least thirty other people were crammed in with him: men, women and children, plus a dog and a pig. Everyone slept on the floor and shared a large chamberpot.

There was constant coming and going. Some of the women left early in the morning, and Mack learned they were not prisoners but prisoners’ wives who bribed the jailers and spent nights here. The warders brought in food, beer, gin and newspapers for those who could pay their grossly inflated prices. People went to see friends in other wards. One prisoner was visited by a clergyman, another by a barber. Anything was permitted, it seemed, but everything had to be paid for.

People laughed about their plight and joked about their crimes. There was an air of jollity that annoyed Mack. He was hardly awake before he was offered a swallow of gin from someone’s bottle and a puff on a pipe of tobacco, as if they were all at a wedding.

Mack hurt all over, but his head was the worst. There was a lump at the back that was crusted with blood. He felt hopelessly gloomy. He had failed in every way. He had run away from Heugh to be free, yet he was in jail. He had fought for the coal heavers’ rights and had got some of them killed. He had lost Cora. He would be put on trial for treason, or riot, or murder. And he would probably die on the gallows. Many of the people around him had as much reason to grieve, but perhaps they were too stupid to grasp their fate.

Poor Esther would never get out of the village now. He wished he had brought her with him. She could have dressed as a man, the way Lizzie Hallim did. She would have managed sailors’ work more easily than Mack himself, for she was nimbler. And her common sense might even have kept Mack out of trouble.

He hoped Annie’s baby would be a boy. At least there would still be a Mack. Perhaps Mack Lee would have a luckier life, and a longer one, than Mack McAsh.

He was at a low point when a warder opened the door and Cora walked in.

Her face was dirty and her red dress was torn but she still looked ravishing, and everyone turned to stare.

Mack sprang to his feet and embraced her, to cheers from the other prisoners.

“What happened to you?” he said.

“I was done for picking pockets—but it was all on account of you,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“It was a trap. He looked like any other rich young drunk, but he was Jay Jamisson. They nabbed us and took us in front of his father. It’s a hanging offense, picking pockets. But they offered Peg a pardon—if she would tell them where you lived.”

Mack suffered a moment of anger with Peg for betraying him; but she was just a child, she could not be blamed. “So that was how they found out.”

“What happened to you?”

He told her the story of the riot.

When he had done she said: “By Christ, McAsh, you’re an unlucky man to know.”

It was true, he thought. Everyone he met got into some kind of trouble. “Charlie Smith is dead,” he said.

“You must talk to Peg,” she said. “She thinks you must hate her.”

“I hate myself for getting her into this.”

Cora shrugged. “You didn’t tell her to thieve. Come on.”

She banged on the door and a warder opened it. She gave him a coin, jerked a thumb at Mack and said: “He’s with me.” The warder nodded and let them out.

She led him along a corridor to another door and they entered a room very like the one they had left. Peg was sitting on the floor in a corner. When she saw Mack she stood up, looking scared. “I’m sorry,” she said. “They made me do it, I’m sorry!”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

Her eyes filled with tears. “I let you down,” she whispered.

“Don’t be silly.” He took her in his arms, and her tiny frame shook as she sobbed and sobbed.

Caspar Gordonson arrived with a banquet: fish soup in a big tureen, a joint of beef, new bread, several jugs of ale, and a custard. He paid the jailer for a private room with table and chairs. Mack, Cora and Peg were brought from their ward and they all sat down to eat.

Mack was hungry, but he found he had little appetite. He was too worried. He wanted to know what Gordonson thought of his chances at the trial. He forced himself to be patient and drank some beer.

When they had finished eating, Gordonson’s servant cleared away and brought pipes and tobacco. Gordonson took a pipe, and so did Peg, who was addicted to this adult vice.

Gordonson began by talking about Peg and Cora’s case. “I’ve spoken with the Jamisson family lawyer about the pick-pocketing charge,” he began. “Sir George will stand by his promise to ask for mercy for Peg.”

“That surprises me,” said Mack. “It’s not like the Jamissons to keep their word.”

“Ah, well, they want something,” Gordonson said. “You see, it will be embarrassing for them if Jay tells the court he picked Cora up thinking she was a prostitute. So they want to pretend she just met him in the street and got him talking while Peg picked his pocket.”

Peg said scornfully: “And we’re supposed to go along with this fairy tale, and protect Jay’s reputation.”

“If you want Sir George to plead for your life, yes.”

Cora said: “We have no choice. Of course we’ll do it.”

“Good.” Gordonson turned to Mack. “I wish your case was so easy.”

Mack protested: “But I didn’t riot!”

“You didn’t go away after the Riot Act was read.”

“For God’s sake—I tried to get everyone to go, but Lennox’s ruffians attacked.”

“Let’s look at this step by step.”

Mack took a deep breath and suppressed his exasperation. “All right.”

“The prosecutor will say simply that the Riot Act was read, and you did not go away, so you are guilty and should be hanged.”

“Yes, but everyone knows there’s more to it than that!”

“There: that’s your defense. You simply say that the prosecutor has told half the story. Can you bring witnesses to say that you pleaded with everyone to disperse?”

“I’m sure I can. Dermot Riley can get any number of coal heavers to testify. But we should ask the Jamissons why the coal was being delivered to that yard, of all places, and at that time of night!”

“Well—”

Mack banged the table impatiently. “The whole riot was prearranged, we have to say that.”

“It would be hard to prove.”

Mack was infuriated by Gordonson’s dismissive attitude. “The riot was caused by a conspiracy—surely you’re not going to leave that out? If the facts don’t come out in court, where will they?”

Peg said: “Will you be at the trial, Mr. Gordonson?”

“Yes—but the judge may not let me speak.”

“For God’s sake, why not?” Mack said indignantly.

“The theory is that if you’re innocent you don’t need legal expertise to prove it. But sometimes judges make exceptions.”

“I hope we get a friendly judge,” Mack said anxiously.

“The judge ought to help the accused. It’s his duty to make sure the defense case is clear to the jury. But don’t rely on it. Place your faith in the plain truth. It’s the only thing that can save you from the hangman.”

24

ON THE DAY OF THE TRIAL THE PRISONERS WERE awakened at five o’clock in the morning.

Dermot Riley arrived a few minutes later with a suit for Mack to borrow: it was the outfit Dermot had got married in, and Mack was touched. He also brought a razor and a sliver of soap. Half an hour later Mack looked respectable and felt ready to face the judge.

With Cora and Peg and fifteen or twenty others he was tied up and marched out of the prison, along Newgate Street, down a side street called Old Bailey and up an alley to the Sessions House.