wielded power, on behalf of those who wielded power, as a sword – a weapon dripping more and more blood each hanging day. James Morneau’s sentence and death had shaken me, and it was clear they had shaken Susan as well.
“… And you, Mattie, you are the one who needs to do something about it,” after a time she concluded. Truthfully, Susan and I had had a variation on this conversation half a dozen times before. Today, a picture in my mind’s eye of James Morneau swinging on the gallows – a raucous, cheering crowd – ale gulped, spilt and spit – his barefoot sons wailing – Jennie Morneau’s face in her hands – all of it stirred me beyond the noncommittal, the someday I’ll….
Still, my press license allowed me to report what the condemned did, said and thought. If I embellished, Susan-like, my license could be forfeit. Even if not, if my customers learned they were getting fiction for their coins, I could lose them without the help of the Aldermen. They bought novels for their fiction, or newspapers.
But I would not deter Susan worrying about my livelihood. Instead I tested her, aiming to plumb the depth of her conviction – and thereby steel my own. I argued points in which I did not believe, or believed only reluctantly.
I told her that the poor people whose cause she championed could avoid swinging on Tyburn tree by not breaking the law. James Morneau could have obeyed the law, and he would be alive today.
“Where does that end, Mattie? The Aldermen could say all must carry at least ten crowns on their person at all times. All you need to do is to obey the law, you say? If you haven’t got two