Caribbean (95 page)

“What one must do, all nations, all times,” Cardigan said, “is give manly men duties to do and support ’em when they do ’em. Eyre will not be persecuted so long as I have a right arm to defend him.”

More gravely, Tennyson said: “Not fighting fire with fire, Cardigan. Fighting unreason with reason, an appeal to the everlasting qualities of patriotism, loyalty, love of queen. A return to the faith that made us great in the first place.”

Cardigan rattled his saucer again, then asked: “What did you think of Charles Kingsley’s suggestions that we ask the queen to elevate Eyre to the peerage? Suggested he be made an earl. I’d be proud to have him join me, very proud.”

“We must not move too fast,” Tennyson said. “Do nothing that might raise questions or ridicule. In private life Eyre is, after all, barely qualified to call himself a gentleman. An earldom? No, too soon. It would divert attention. Our task is to put out fires.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent in devising strategies that would keep Governor Eyre out of the courts and out of jail, and in the discussion, Jason noted, the driving force was Tennyson, this almost effeminate poet who showed repeatedly, at difficult points, a courage to make decisions and the valor to execute them. “He sees himself,” said Pembroke to his cousin, “as one of his embattled knights in one of his ancient lays. One goal, one path of honor, one right arm to strike the blow for justice. He will be formidable, and he will save Governor Eyre.”

His chance meeting with Carlyle and Tennyson so disoriented Jason that on the drive back to Cavendish Square he listened attentively as Oliver tried to persuade him to abandon his allegiance to the men trying to persecute Eyre and join the vast majority of patriots who were defending him: “Jason, Eyre’s one of us. He represents all that’s good in England, all that’s safe and proper—our church … our queen … How can you turn your back on everything the Pembrokes have stood for through the centuries? Eyre represents us, he defends us against the hordes … and we must rally round.”

The hammering continued without respite, forcing Jason to question the propriety of heckling a man whom so many sensible people considered a wronged governor and a brave one. In an effort to defend himself he asked: “But the brutality during martial law? You saw Ramsay. I was with Hobbs. Those men, supposed to be officers, behaved like beasts.”

“Jason! It was war. Black brutes against all we held dear. I saw no excess. Harsh punishment for evil acts, nothing more.”

“You lack judgment if you saw no excess in Ramsay’s behavior.”

“But even if I grant that, it in no way touches the governor. He was not there. He did not condone their behavior. And certainly he did not order it.”

“What was that again? He himself was not culpable? Not personally?”

“No! No! And he did terminate martial law as soon as possible. He stands guiltless, and you must call off your dogs.”

They had reached Cavendish Square when Oliver made these final strong points, all of which Jason had to concede, and for some time they stood in the grassy area between their two houses while Oliver nailed down his persuasive reasoning: “A few blacks were killed after having murdered the queen’s representatives. That and nothing more. Tomorrow you must go with me to Tennyson and inform him that you’re joining his crusade to save an innocent man.”

Bewildered, Jason crossed to his mansion where the gargantuan statues writhed in their marble agonies, and he sat in considerable confusion between them, knowing on the one hand that Governor Eyre had been morally responsible for a terrible chain of crimes, but knowing also that Oliver was right: Eyre had not ordered Hobbs and Ramsay to do the dreadful things they did, nor had he been present when they were carried out. “No court will convict him,” he said to Mars and Venus. “Our effort to punish him is doomed.”

This conclusion so distressed him that he left the mansion, whistled for a carriage, rode posthaste to the modest house where John Stuart Mill kept his headquarters during the battle for men’s minds, and there blurted out his apprehensions: “Eyre cannot be held technically responsible for something he did not order or personally supervise. I do fear our effort will be fruitless.”

The powerful intellect behaved as always when a problem was placed before it, pausing and evaluating relevant facts. Then the man with the placid face and endless brow asked quietly: “Now, friend Jason, what experience inspired this defeating conclusion?” and he listened intently as Pembroke described his discussions with Carlyle, Tennyson, the Earl of Cardigan and his cousin Oliver Croome.

At the end of the long report Mill sat silent, his fingers forming a cathedral at his waist, and finally he said in a steady voice, never betraying scorn or anger as he delivered his scathing denunciations: “Surely, Jason, you must know from what you’ve read and heard that Thomas Carlyle has a blemished mind which glories only in power and is incapable of pity, moral distinctions or the rights of the oppressed. No man who has written jocularly as he has about slavery and advocated our returning to it is a credible witness in dealing with Governor Eyre. To Carlyle, the man’s grossest misbehavior becomes
his badge of honor, solely because he acted in defense of what Carlyle calls ‘the sacred obligation to law and order.’ Whose law and order—his or humanity’s?”

“But Tennyson was persuasive. You can’t charge that immortal poet with playing the brute.”

“A hundred years from now, Jason, Tennyson will be uncovered for what he is, a doddering old fellow in bedroom slippers who played the sycophant to anyone higher on the social scale than himself. His immortal poetry, as you call it, will be laughed at by those who know what real poetry is, the cry of a human heart. My father recommended that poets be barred from society because they made untruth and irrelevance palatable, deceiving the public with their wit and lack of brains. Tennyson with his sugary confections best exemplifies what my father despised. Do not take him as your moral guide in this troubled year when so much is coming to decision.”

“The Earl of Cardigan said about the same as Tennyson—Eyre is to be commended, not condemned.”

Upon hearing this dubious hero cited as an authority of anything, Mill leaned back, turned his face upward, closed his eyes and reflected for some moments: “How can I phrase this so as to do justice to the truth and to the present debate. I’ll try.” Opening his eyes, he twisted his head so as to face Pembroke, and said quietly: “Cardigan is an ass. And far from being a hero at Balaklava, he proved he was an ass, sacrificing his Light Brigade in his stupidity. And he is the perfect example of Carlyle’s nonsense about heroes and hero worship. Heroes are usually counterfeit in their creation and preposterous in the adoration they receive, none more so than Cardigan.”

“But he did lead his men personally, none braver than he, Tennyson said so.”

“Jason, I shall give you Cardigan in a few sentences. Incredibly stupid in school. Was able to join a regiment only because he paid his way in. Bought the colonelcy, no military talent whatever. Ruled his officers like an insane tyrant, so wretched that most quit and one of his own men with spirit dueled the old fool in an effort to kill him. At Balaklava he and his equally stupid brother-in-law the Earl of Lucan got their orders from that classic incompetent Lord Raglan … all mixed up, and disaster followed. The three should have been court-martialed and shot; instead, a silly poem makes the worst offender a hero. Jason, I pray you, do not look to a ninny like Cardigan for guidance.”

“Do you hold all members of the other side in contempt?”

“Charles Kingsley wants to have the queen create Eyre an earl? You really don’t want me to comment on him, do you? I believe even Carlyle and Tennyson have begged him to remain mute, and not a moment too soon.”

“Surely, Dickens …”

“A master storyteller whom time will not treat kindly. Can tug at the heartstrings, but no brain at all.” He brought his fingertips to his lower lip, bowed his head in dismay, and then looked up with a rueful smile: “Our nation is not under good leadership these days.” When Jason said nothing, Mill added, his voice growing ever more determined: “But we fight on many battlegrounds, Jason, and we lose individual skirmishes here and there, but in the long run we win the war. Our fight to bring Eyre to justice is a struggle we may lose, but in doing so, we shall educate the people in the greater questions of social justice, and it is our war for the reform of Parliament that we shall win. Great Britain will be a finer place when you and I are through.”

“Then you’re surrendering in the Governor Eyre case?”

The answer to this penetrating question came in a curious way, not in words but in actions, for a messenger from the rest of the Jamaica Committee broke in with startling news: “The magistrates of Market Drayton have refused to indict Governor Eyre! He goes free!”

Mill did not rise from his chair, nor did he speak until he had rung for a servant, who received instructions: “I think you had better speed about and assemble the others,” and on that night of defeat, with Bright at his elbow and powerful men like Huxley and Darwin in support, Mill revealed his daring strategy: “English law allows any citizen who has been outraged by the refusal of ordinary channels to deal with an obnoxious case, especially where murder is concerned, to bring his own charges, which the courts must adjudge. Tomorrow I shall lodge a formal accusation of murder against Governor Eyre, and I shall take Jason Pembroke with me to establish a Jamaica connection.”

Some of the members considered this so radical a move, and so likely to fail, that they dissociated themselves from the attempt, but the icy determination of Mill kept Jason and others in line, and early next morning Mill and he reported to legal authorities and took the first steps toward entering a charge of murder against the governor, thus throwing all of thoughtful Britain into a great debate.

It degenerated into a savage affair, with Carlyle tossing incendiary bombs of his turgid prose at anyone who spoke or acted against his hero, and Mill hanging on like a determined bulldog and infuriating the stable central portion of the population who resented any attack upon “a brave man what only done his duty.” Jason, volunteering to handle the flood of letters that reached Mill, opened each week many that promised “to throw you out of Parliament come next election,” and a regular two or three whose anonymous writers threatened to assassinate the austere philosopher.

One night, as Jason walked slowly back to Cavendish Square, he thought: I’ve watched three fine men trapped in the toils of their monomanias the way a peccary in some South American jungle is encoiled by a python. Eyre was so determined to punish Gordon that his judgment was affected. Carlyle is driven almost insane by his desire to establish Eyre as a hero and to protect him against all charges. And Mill, in his cold way, sees himself as an avenging angel … Then Jason broke into a laugh: And the Church of England zealots see the whole affair as proper punishment for the Baptist nonconformists. A crazy world.

But it was not until he reached his door and turned to look at the other Jamaican mansion facing his that he appreciated how painfully this affair had separated the families: There’s Oliver and Nell in their lonely hall, there’s Beth and me in ours, and that’s insupportable. And despite the late hour, he determined to have a talk with his cousin. Quickly he went across the square and banged on Oliver’s door until a light showed, and when the butler asked in sleepy tones: “What’s this?” he brushed his way in and ran up the stairs. He found Oliver and Nell in their bedroom, exhausted by hours of rushing about London, drumming up support for Eyre.

“Jason!” Oliver said, startled at this sudden appearance. “What brings you here?”

“My committee is haling Governor Eyre into court … Charge? Murder.”

“Oh my God!” Like a tense spring uncoiling, Oliver was out of bed. “This is terrible. Are your people out of their minds? Can’t they see that all England is against them?”

“Mill says that doesn’t signify. He’s out to establish a principle.”

“Let him write a book, not destroy a good man.” Gripping his cousin by the arm, he said with great fervor: “And he is a good man, Jason, misguided in details perhaps, but damned good.”

“I’m beginning to see that. Mill forced me to lodge the complaint, but I will refuse to testify against the governor. Tell him that.”

“You shall tell him,” and calling to Nell to bring him his trousers, he joined his cousin in the square, then waited while Jason ran to inform Beth that he would be away for a bit longer.

“Doing what?” she pleaded, and he kissed her: “I’ve a job to do. An error to correct,” and he hurried to the cab which his cousin had waiting. Through the London night they sped to the modest house into which Eyre had moved from his sanctuary in Market Drayton. There they wakened him, and in his nightclothes he sat with them and listened quietly as Jason spoke: “I’ve supported Mill and his men because, as I warned you in Kingston, I felt you were persecuting poor Gordon for solely personal reasons. Many have abused you for that. But I cannot stand by and see a loyal public servant charged with murder because of atrocities committed by his half-crazed subordinates when he was in no way involved.”

The gaunt hero of Australian exploration, in only his early fifties but his life already ruined, nodded deferentially to the young man who had in recent years been his enemy. His hair was still a solid black, but his copious beard now showed flecks of white and his once-fierce eyes had lost their ardor: “Thank you, Pembroke, for your gentlemanly support. I shall stand trial and testify as to my motives. But I assure you of this. I have never wavered in my belief that the English people and their splendid courts of law will in the end vindicate me as a civil servant who faced a cruel crisis and handled it as best he could. Do I repent the cruelties that others perpetrated during my proclamation of martial law? Of course. But do I repent of anything I myself did to save Jamaica for the empire? Never. Never.” Thanking Croome for having brought him the news, he nodded gravely to Pembroke and went off to bed.