A Sense of Justice

1 LONDON, October 1867Gazing through the bars of the cell, the turnkey could easily be forgiven for thinking that the scruffy and unshaven, but otherwise handsome young man lying before him on a threadbare mattress was on his deathbed. By reputation and deeds, this prison guard was generally devoid of compassion and usually could not have cared less; he’d seen thousands of men pass through this bleak place. He also knew for certain that either a lethal dose of pleurisy or the gallows awaited some and that another kind of death awaited most of the others: their fate… transportation to a Godforsaken location on the other side of the world and then, if they survived that voyage, needing to somehow endure the ongoing loss of their freedom for the next seven years. Even so, the guard’s interest was genuinely aroused on this occasion. To him this lad’s posture was surprising—bizarre in fact—for he had never previously witnessed anyone in his care who had held such a self-satisfied look of resignation as that now on this young man’s face… despite the cell’s filthy, freezing flagstone floor and fetid surrounds. Had the guard then concluded that this was probably another way of dealing with the inevitability of impending death, he would have been wrong. Looks, after all, can be deceiving. Oblivious to his surroundings and discomfort, eighteen-year-old Harry Taylor simply lay on his back contemplating the harrowing events which had so devastatingly upheaved his otherwise stable and secure life during the past six months. * * * As an innocent young boy Harry loved exploring his surroundings and ranged far and wide in doing so. During these jaunts he engaged in many daring, childish, fun activities, which, much to his annoyance and inability to understand why, occasionally landed him in trouble. The consequences back then had been nothing more than a stern word from his father on “doing what you’re told” or “how to look after yourself”. As Harry approached adulthood, he applied himself to a variety of jobs, becoming adept at every task he took on and had a reputation as a reliable, likeable, polite and hard-working lad. However, when provoked, Harry never took a backward step and mastered another bent… that of very efficiently stopping fights, not starting them. For this talent, his father, though secretly proud of his son’s ability to look after himself, would lecture Harry “to pull your head in son. Just walk away, or one day you’ll land yourself in real strife”. But that advice never sat well with Harry. Regardless, whatever punishment then followed, it was never as pointless or inconceivably cruel as what he was now forced to endure. * * * Dear God, if there is one, why was I born English? Harry struggled desperately with this question many times during the initial four months of his incarceration in the Coldbath Fields Prison in Clerkenwell, London, one of England’s most notorious, stinking, vermin-infested, brutal and overpopulated prisons. But strangely, Harry was becoming increasingly more disciplined, self-assured and determined. This, he intuitively and rightly understood, was the only possible human survival response to being continuously deprived of privacy or human interaction, manacled by hand and foot, always cold, on the verge of starvation and without either full daylight or the slightest zephyr of fresh air. * * * The unfathomable unfairness of this “English justice” constantly frustrated and haunted Harry, for he had simply removed from a building site (albeit after dark) a three-foot length of flat timber that appeared to be a discarded off cut; an item he desperately needed to complete the coffin he had been constructing for his recently deceased, much-loved father. However, that need was overridden by a self-important citizen who happened to be strolling past the building site and who found great delight in reporting Harry to the police that night, insisting that “the consequences arising from a citizen’s civic duty to report such actions must prevail over any notion that profiting from stolen goods could be tolerated in England”. The owner of the building site was easily coerced into laying theft charges. After all, as that upright citizen pointed out to him, “surely it’s your duty to support someone who was acting in your best interests”. Had the building site owner not pressed charges, the public’s perception of that “citizen” would have diminished significantly, and so to avoid being made to look stupid, a “donation” exchanged hands—just enough to sway the building owner’s decision to lay the charges that would seal Harry’s fate. Of course, in front of the judge, the words of that wealthy, self-opinionated “witness” carried far more legal weight than a destitute Harry Taylor could provide without the services of a smart solicitor. (The witness had from the outset of the court hearing cleverly and emphatically categorised Harry as an unemployed, impudent lout: a patently wrong description, for Harry was neither of those things.) Nevertheless, the witness had cold-bloodedly employed this tried-and-true tactic to make the job of his regular drinking friend, an overworked judge, less demanding. Clearly the judge cared not a jot for either Harry’s emotional state or his plead for leniency, and so, in the absence of legal counsel, Harry’s attempt to re-establish his bona fides were unworthily and shamefully disregarded by the tired judge— the result being that Harry was now scheduled for “Transportation”. The judge, when summarising his decision explained that in applying the law, precedents, above all else, had to be followed. Also, irrationally, and grossly unfair in Harry’s opinion, there was no obligation for the English Government to provide financial assistance to his family, which had just lost the guiding influence of his father and now himself, the family’s only legal bread winner. This realisation ravaged Harry’s conscience, for there was now absolutely nothing he could do about this absurd situation… one so trivial in its origin. A judicial appeal would not be tolerated, nor could it have been afforded anyway. There were no wealthy relatives or friends who could help… the only recourse for his family now being illegal pursuits necessary just to stay alive. In other words, his mother, two sisters and ailing brother had probably each just been delivered their death sentences. And worse, Harry’s situation guaranteed that he would never hear from them, or ever see them again. However, Harry had a plan. He was still strong, despite the dreadful prison food and conditions, for he had youth on his side. But moreover, he’d discovered a new purpose in life. Yes, his plan was selfish in many ways but his need to survive was paramount, which meant if he was going to remain sane, he had to relinquish all family connections and somehow, ruthlessly disregard every emotion associated with that severing. Later, there might be time for memories of family, but only after his plan succeeded. That plan was indeed cunning despite how implausible it at first seemed to Harry. In his opinion, though the judge had acted slavishly and without compassion in arriving at his ruling, he may also unwittingly have given Harry exactly what he wanted: the opportunity to see the world without ever having to go to war to defend an England he now despised. * * * As if a warm clean blanket had just been thrown over Harry, peace had settled upon him; his anger, emotional confusion and grief were now rapidly in retreat and his physical tension was following suit as his body relaxed. He had no idea how long the gentle smile on his face remained in place—or cared—for his primary thought was… if those fools send me to the other side of the world, it won’t cost me a farthing. In the early hours of the morning a more sobering thought surfaced from Harry’s sub-conscious: I wonder if I’ll ever yearn to return to England? Who knows how many days later, keys rattled outside the cell. Shortly after, the guard cautiously pushed open the cell door, allowing muted light to flood the space that had become Harry’s loathsome living quarters. ‘So what is it, you oaf? Are you here to give me one of your famous beltings?’, Harry asked just a little more condescendingly than he intended. ‘Just get up, Sunshine. The Guv’ wants a word with yah. I’m gunna remove yah leg-irons, an’ then I want yah arse up those stairs. An’ don’t be considerin’ any funny business or I’ll break both yah legs then kick yah straight back down ‘ere.’ Only once since his sentencing had Harry left this cell; a complete surprise only a few weeks previously. For him that outing was a momentous event, which put his survival plan into motion and gave rise to his newfound optimism.