Hannah Page 3

  ‘Well, that’s that, not too bad after all, is it?’ Porter queried her friend.

  ‘For us perhaps but not for poor Tilly, I guess. Dying like that—’

  ‘Old Pox Face did that, the bastard.’

  ‘Most likely he did but then again we will never know.’

  ‘Will the Captain find out who done it?’

  ‘You’re joking, Hannah P, they won’t even try.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Porter put her head in her hands. ‘It’s just not fair and now we have to face the court today.’

  Hannah nodded, reflecting, and patted her friend on the shoulder. ‘Life’s not fair, missy Hannah Porter, for people like us.’

  Porter screwed up her nose and reached for the water bucket. ‘Tell me about it. Well, let’s get into this mess.’ She giggled. ‘Feckin’ cleaners, that’s all we are.’

  Hannah laughed. She grabbed Tilly’s tortoise-shell comb and, stomach heaving, scooped the bloody vomit into the bucket. Behind her, on her knees, a cursing Porter followed with a bucket of fresh water and a cloth. When it was finished, they sat back and looked at each other. ‘Like a new pin,’ Porter said.

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. I hope you saved some of that water for us,’ Hannah said, when she’d recovered her breath.

  ‘Yes, there’s about half a bucket, love. That’s what we’ve got. Enough for us to show yon Justice man what fine Kent beauties we are. Maybe, he’ll let us go as free women once he sees how pretty we are.’

  Hannah Stanley smiled. Sometimes Porter was naïve, she thought but she herself had a sense of foreboding about facing this judge. There was a story going around that stealing such as theirs would get the death penalty. Oh, sweet Jesus, she hoped it was just prison talk . . .

  THE MAIDSTONE ASSIZES

  30 March 1809

  Justice Heath called his aide into the Chambers. ‘Frederick, my good man, can you do something about this blasted wig. It will not hold its shape. I’ve primed it with more powder but it still looks like something the cat dragged in.’

  Frederick gave a wry smile. His honorable employer did have a fine turn of phrase, even if, on occasion, it drifted into unseemly jargon. ‘I will fix it, sir,’ he promised, taking the wig.

  ‘Thank you. What time is it? ’

  Frederick pulled out his pocket watch and snapped open the gilt lid. ‘It is precisely ten forty five, sir.’

  ‘Ah, fifteen minutes to go.’ Heath watched his aide’s hasty exit with appreciation. A fine fellow, Frederick Masters, an interesting companion and a first rate clerk of court. Reliability plus. He returned to his desk and ran his eyes down the lists for today’s proceedings. It looked like a long day. He’d been allocated 12 cases ranging from murder to extortion but most of them were for thieving, the most common crime of all. He sat for some minutes, list forgotten, allowing his head to recline on the cool, softly padded leather header of the recliner and closed his eyes. His wife once said he was born to be a judge, but sometimes, he wondered. He had been accused, on more than one occasion by his peers, of allowing his emotions to enter into his findings. This definitely was untrue. He’d always delivered his sentences in accordance with the law but, if he found a valid reason for reducing a penalty for some poor wretch, he did so and would continue to do so.

  ‘Sir, your periwig is ready.’

  Heath woke with a start. Frederick stood in front of the desk offering the offending item, now looking splendid in shape and appearance. ‘Wonderful.’ Heath rose. He moved to the mirror. ‘Ye gad, Frederick, you’ve worked wonders on that old wreck that it was. How did you ever do it?’

  ‘It happened by sheer good fortune and the aid of a hot iron, sir.’

  ‘Frederick, you are a bleedin’ marvel.’ Frederick gave a slight bow.

  ‘Come. It’s time, I think. Yes?’ On his aide’s nod, Heath gathered his papers and tapped his wig to satisfy himself of its proper fitting. ‘Lead the way, Frederick.’ With a swish of his gown, The Honorable Justice Heath followed his clerk out of the Chambers and through the judge’s entrance into Courtroom Two of the Kent Assizes.

  The two women called Hannah scrambled for a vacant space on the scarred bench in the holding room, just heading off the two sullen pickpockets from Rochester. For three hours, they had sat on the hard stone floor, side by side, comforting each other as best they could, each trying to cope with the agony of the unknown. Every few minutes, they’d raise their heads in expectation as the door slammed open and the turnkey entered. They’d held their breath as he shouted out the name of the next poor wretch to face the court. Sometimes, he would prolong the agony, deliberately, it would seem, amusement on his swarthy, north England face, before he’d call out the name.

  ‘A right nasty bugger he is,’ whispered Porter in Hannah’s ear.

  ‘I’m beginning to think they all are,’ Hannah responded.

  They tried to doze but it was impossible, what with the crying and coughing of the sick, the shouted protestations of innocence and the occasional scuffle between short-tempered belligerents. The afternoon moved on interminably as they slumped, staring unseeingly into space, stupefied by stress and oblivious to time and place...

  ‘STANLEY and PORTER.’

  They woke, startled. Their names . . . it was their names that were being called.

  ‘Come on you beauties, move a leg,’ the turnkey smirked. ‘Justice Heath requests your attendance if you’re not too busy, that is. Ha ha. Come on, out you go.’

  Justice Heath watched the two women enter his court. They were ushered with due haste to the prisoners dock and locked within. They were as different as chalk and cheese, he thought, assessing them. The one on the left was pretty in an earthy way, a woman with obvious feminine curves despite the blanket-like calico smock she wore. Her soft brown hair, parted in the middle, fell in waves below the shoulders — an unusual length for a prisoner. She stood upright in the dock, intelligent grey eyes returning his gaze unwaveringly. He had the impression she was a woman of some inner strength.

  The one on the right was a typical miscreant type, he thought. She slouched in the dock, one hand resting rather defiantly on the rail. She had short sand colored — perhaps auburn — hair that had obviously been hacked by a knife or blunt scissors for either health or disciplinary reasons. Notwithstanding, she had an interesting countenance, as criminal faces went, with long, firmly sculpted features and dark, haunting eyes. Her calico smock was supplemented by a neckerchief that resembled the ones he had seen on the necks of Kent gypsies.

  The court grew hushed, awaiting the next Justice Heath directive. He glanced down at his papers. Stanley and Porter, he read, Grand Theft.

  ‘Which is which?’ he asked in an undertone to the Maidstone Clerk of the Court, who, nonplussed, responded. ‘Ah, I am not quite sure, Your Honour.’ He swallowed. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he added.

  Justice Heath shrugged, irritated. ‘Okay, let us get this case underway. Read the shortened version, please.’

  The clerk nodded and rose. ‘Now, hear ye, these proceedings now open, The Honorable Justice Heath presiding, Grand Jury in attendance. Justice in accordance with . . .

  Hannah’s attention waned as the clerk’s address rambled on. She couldn’t understand most of it. It was all in this strange legal talk but she did caught snippets of as she looked around the court . . . our treasured English Constitution . . . the pursuit of justice in accordance with the high standard of morality and the protection of property. What did it all mean? Behind her, high up in the public gallery, at the back of the court, she became aware of whisperings and mutterings. She cocked one ear to listen but it was unintelligible, just soft comments hidden under the never-ending drone of the clerk. Would John be there? Would she be allowed to see him before they took her away to whatever? She turned her gaze back to the judge’s bench where His Honour’s jaw rested on one hand and he appeared disinterested in the clerk’s discourse. Was it her imagination that his eyes kept returning to her, of all the peop
le in the court? She felt a trigger of hope, quickly dashed by the reality of her circumstances. He might be a kind man but, after all this was over, she visualized him going home to a pretty, high society wife, a mansion in London and three fine children. Why would he worry about another lowly criminal coming through his court?

  The barristers fidgeted impatiently with their papers as the clerk of the court appeared to be winding up . . . notwithstanding and accepting the evidence of the authorities and the witnesses. God Save the King. The clerk placed one paper on his desk and picked up another. ‘This session: The Crown v Hannah Stanley and Hannah Porter.’

  ‘Read the charge,’ His Honour snapped.

  ‘Your Honour, it is alleged that on the on the evening of the Twenty sixth day of March, 1809, the said defendants here in court, Hannah Stanley and Hannah Porter, were found in possession of goods stolen from the home of William and Elizabeth Dawson from the Parish of St. Paul, Deptford, namely clothing and bedding material, to the total value of Ten pounds Two shillings. Here is the list of the items, Your Honour.’

  ‘Proceed,’ instructed Heath, briefly perusing the document and placing it to one side.

  ‘Yes, Your Honor. To continue, after questioning by officers of the law on the following morning, the two defendants admitted they had removed the articles from the house of Mr. and Mrs. Dawson with the intention of selling them to sources unknown. The defendants were removed to Maidstone prison on the twenty seventh day of March, 1809.’ The clerk resumed his seat.

  Who represents the Crown?’ The judge asked, even though he already knew.

  ‘I do, Your Honour.’ A tall, black gowned man, with heavy jowls, wig somewhat askew and rimless glasses perched precariously on the bottom of his nose, rose and bowed to the bench. ‘I am Russell Harrow, Your Honour, representing the Kent Home Circuit Jurisdiction.’

  ‘Ah, Mr. Harrow, a long time no see. Greetings.’ He gave the barrister a close scrutiny. ‘Pardon me asking, Mr. Harrow, but you appear to be having the same trouble I have with ill-fitting wigs. Is that so?’

  Harrow, embarrassed, reached up to straighten the offending article. ‘My apologies, Your Honour,’ he offered weakly. ‘Shapeless they are.’ A titter ran through the court. The two Hannah’s shared a nervous smile.

  ‘You have my sympathy, Mr. Harrow. Now, kindly proceed with the prosecution.’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour.’ Harrow took a deep breath and detailed the precise details of the incidents that occurred on the evening of the Twenty Sixth day of March, 1809 at Number Six, Brunswick Place, Deptford. ‘Your Honour,’ Harrow summarized. ‘The defendants admit they hid two bags of stolen articles in the rose bushes of the property when disturbed by Mr. Dawson’s dog on the evening recorded. They also admit that they intended to sell the items at some convenient time. Your Honor, the prosecution is well prepared to call witnesses to verify identification of the stolen property and admittance of guilt by the defendants. That is the case for the prosecution, Your Honour.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Harrow. Now, who appears for the defence?’ He looked questionably to the barrister’s benches, then at the dock, eyes finally settling on Hannah Stanley.

  ‘If it pleases you, sir, I will defend us. We have no money to hire a legal man to help us.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Hannah Stanley, sir, and this person is Hannah Porter, my friend, who—’

  ‘Isn’t it nice to have friends?’ the judge commented, with a wry smile. He turned to the clerk of the court. ‘Note that the defendants will be represented by Hannah Stanley.’ He returned his gaze to the two women in the dock. ‘Have you any of your family here?’ He asked in a soft tone.

  ‘No, sir. I thought my brother would be here but he isn’t. I don’t think he could get away from the farm.’

  ‘And you, Hannah Porter?’

  ‘I ain’t got nobody, sir, nobody in this world.’

  ‘Sad,’ the judge said, nodding. ‘Well, Hannah Stanley and Hannah Porter, Mr. Harrow says you admit stealing the articles described on this list.’ He held the paper aloft. ‘Is that true?’

  Hannah sighed. It was all coming to an end. She glanced across at Porter who shrugged her shoulders. ‘Yes, sir, we took them.’

  ‘May I ask why? You did have jobs. You were in service. Why steal?’

  ‘We wanted something better.’ Hannah said. ‘just a little extra to spend for ourselves. Just to buy a ribbon or a bonnet, that’s all we wanted, sir. It was just a sudden thing. We’re sorry, sir, real sorry.’

  ‘Were you happy in your employment?’

  ‘No, we weren’t,’ Porter cried. ‘She was a cruel, evil woman and─’

  ‘Objection, Your Honour.’ Harrow jumped up from his seat. ‘This has nothing to do—’

  ‘Objection overruled. We will hear more on this matter. What was your opinion of your employer, Hannah Stanley?’

  ‘Sir, Mrs. Dawson could be rude on occasions and very unfair but—’

  ‘She’s a bleedin’ witch.’ Porter grasped the dock rail in both hands, her face red with anger. ‘She treated us like dirt under her feet—’

  ‘That will do,’ the judge thundered, slamming down his gavel. ‘I will not have that language in my court. Be very careful.’

  A contrite Porter hung her head. ‘Sorry, sir, it’s just that . . .’ She burst into tears and Hannah placed a protective arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Bear up, love,’ she whispered. Hannah straightened, eyes focused on the judge. ‘Sir, we are good workers who have never been in trouble before. We worked hard for the lady of the house but she did treat us badly. We were tempted, Your Honour, just this once to make something better for ourselves and we hope you will understand, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ Justice Heath cleared his throat noisily and accepted the glass of water from his aide. ‘Thank you, Frederick.’ He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his sore eyes. He must ask his surgeon for some eye drops when he returned to London.

  ‘Mr. Harrow. Have you any further questions?’

  ‘No, Your Honour.’

  ‘In view of the defendants admitted guilt, you may dispense with your witnesses.’

  ‘Yes, Your Honor.’

  ‘Jurists,’ Justice Heath turned to face the Grand Jury bench. ‘You have heard all the statements relevant to this case. The defendants have admitted guilt so your verdict is not required. Only the sentence is to be decided. I thank you for your attendance and you may leave the court.’ Heath tapped with the gavel to silence the rising noise in the court. His eyes swept the court then returned to the defendants. ‘Hannah Stanley and Hannah Porter, you have been found guilty by your own admission and the testimony of law officers of the Kent Circuit Jurisdiction for the crime of stealing goods, the property of Mr. and Mrs. Dawson of Deptford, to the value of ten pounds and two shillings.’

  Justice Heath paused to take another sip from a glass of water. ‘Whilst I am aware that your employment as maidservants in the service of the Dawson household may not have been a happy one,’ he continued, ‘in this instance there are no extenuating circumstances that have a legal bearing on this case. Consequently, in accordance with the penalties strictly laid down in current British legislation for such an offence as yours, I am forced by legislation to proceed with only one possible sentence to satisfy this court’s legal obligations.’ Justice Heath paused to accept the black cap from his aide.

  ‘Oh, God, no,’ screamed Porter. ‘Not that, sir, please not that...’

  ‘Silence in the court,’ the Clerk of the Court responded, turning to shout at the dock.

  Hannah watched Justice Heath place the black cap over his wig. His face paled and his hands appeared to tremble. He’s affected the same as us, she thought. Poor compensation, though. He would go home to his London mansion, share a wine with his pretty wife and not even mention the day’s work, while we would be sprung up by the neck. Tears formed as she supported a sagging, sobbing Porter.

  ‘Hannah Stanley and Ha
nnah Porter, you are hereby sentenced to death by hanging at a time and place to be confirmed and may God have mercy on your soul.’ Justice Heath tossed the black cap on the bench and stood unsteadily. Frederick moved swiftly to support him but Heath turned to face the court, his eyes seeking a last glimpse of the two women in the dock. His voice was raspy, almost inaudible. ‘I . . . May God Bless you.’

  ‘All rise. Hear ye, this session by The Honourable Justice Heath is now completed,’ the clerk Judge left leaning on the stout arm of Frederick Masters.

  Chapter 3

  MAIDSTONE GAOL, KENT. ENGLAND

  February 1810

  Hannah wondered what day it was. Not that it mattered. Every day had been the same since she and Porter had fronted the court and been shoved back into the dark, dangerous cells of Maidstone prison. They’d learnt quickly to survive in the perpetual filth, standing up for themselves against hardened, desperate women, evading the amorous gropes of turnkey hands, while forever dreaming and yearning for the outside world and freedom.

  John had been her only visitor as the months went by. Her mother couldn’t come but she sends her love, he told her but they both knew better. Their father would have belted her senseless. John brought her food to supplement the tasteless gruel and weevil-ridden bread and paid the Superintendent money — she never asked where it came from — for luxuries like an occasional slab of dark chocolate, a tankard of ale — oh, how glorious — and fruit cake with real sultanas in it. She’d shared it all with Porter, poor little Hannah Porter, now her dear friend and her only support in this rat hole for nearly a year now. If it hadn’t been for her, she could easily have given up, closed her eyes and willed the nightmare to end, to fade away into the blackness of eternity like so many others had done. There were others in their cell now and hateful glances confirmed their enmity. They took it in turns to stay awake, sleep deprived as they were. It became necessary. It was all too easy to smuggle a knife into the cell and kill.