The Great Cat Massacre (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

THE LAW

T
he law is the point of friction between the individual and the state – a set of restrictions on personal freedom. That is because there are many freedoms that no one should have, such as the freedom to push someone off a bus on an afternoon whim. Laws also demand that you keep others safe when those people reasonably expect you to. If the law had stated that the RMS
Titanic’
s look-out had to present his binoculars to the captain before the ship set sail, things might have turned out differently for more than 1,000 passengers who found they didn’t need the return halves of their tickets.

Often terrible outcomes have happened because keeping others safe would have cost time or money. But, in the first case we’re going to look at, the protagonist made his error because he believed he could mock the system, without taking into account the size of the beast he was taunting.

Government is traditionally split into three branches: legislative, executive and judicial. Those who enter the first two are frequently accused – often with very good reason – of only having done so to feather their own nests. Yet, for a long time, the third branch was every bit as riddled with corruption as the others. Corruption, however, breeds enemies: often the envious, rather than the outraged, and they will ensure any wrongdoing by an official on the take is brought to light, even if it is only so they can take his place.

Robert Tresilian, for example, quite liked making cash. As a thoroughly corrupt Chief Justice to the King’s Bench who was always ready to hang an enemy of Richard II, he had many ways of doing so. His downfall, however, was a result of his attempt to play both sides in the struggle between the King and the Lords Appellant, a group of nobles demanding a say over the royal spending patterns.

When these noblemen rose up against the King and ordered Tresilian’s arrest, Robert made himself scarce. It was rumoured that he had fled abroad – which would have been the sensible thing to do – and the heat died down. But Tresilian had not run away to the Continent, he had not even gone to Berkshire: he was still ensconced in London.

The very least he should have done was to keep his head down and stay indoors in order to continue evading justice. Instead, he decided to play detective and keep his enemies under his personal surveillance. Donning a fake beard, he took rooms in a house opposite Westminster Hall, where the Lords Appellant were meeting. In order
to get a better view, he climbed onto the roof of an apothecary’s house, shinned down the gutter and hid, watching to see who came and went. Quite what he would do with the information and why he wanted to get it personally instead of asking someone else to keep watch, is unknown.

What
is
known is that the Lords in the hall were wishing they could get their hands on Tresilian and wondering where he was, when one of them pointed out that he was on the other side of the road. After a couple of seconds, it was decided that a party should be sent over to arrest the fugitive. They scoured the house outside of which he had been seen, but could not find where Tresilian had gone. After a few threats, the house owner informed them that he was hiding under the table.

Surprised by this stroke of luck, they marched their man back to the Hall, where the Lords ordered that he be taken to the Tower of London, whence he would be dragged by a horse to the execution ground. But as he was pushed towards the gallows, Tresilian scoffed at the Lords’ plan. For, he announced, he could not die. Then he dramatically tore open his clothes to reveal that he was covered in magic amulets that would protect him from death. The Lords quickly proved him wrong.

In 1782 Luke Collingwood put in a false insurance claim and accidentally ended the slave trade. It was a bit of a mistake for Collingwood, who was captain of a slave ship.

The trade was a truly international affair. West Africans would capture rival tribesmen, who would be sold to Arab slave dealers. These would take the slaves to the coast, where European ships would transport them to the West Indies and America to work on plantations.

Slaves were a valuable commodity, but the weak link in the chain from African villages to Jamaican sugar plantations was the sea voyage. The slaves were crammed into a tiny space below decks, often not much more 60cm high. The stench of the human waste and disease festering in these conditions meant that a slave ship could be identified just by its smell. Often the enslaved would throw themselves overboard through fear or misery. Many more simply died due to the appalling conditions.

Although the slave trade was lucrative – indeed, Bristol grew fat on it – slavery itself was not something most Britons would have been happy about. Britain itself had long been a free society, with legal rights enjoyed by all. Slavery itself was probably illegal in Britain itself and certainly rarely practised. The trade was tolerated because slavery either in its most brutal form or in the sense of indentured servitude was common throughout the world and because the Church of England didn’t seem to mind it – the Church itself owned slaves at a plantation in the West Indies that it possessed. But, most of all, Britons tolerated it because they simply didn’t hear about it all that much. Luke Collingwood, as captain of the slave ship
Zong
, was about to change all that.

In 1782 Collingwood was on his way from Africa to the Jamaican colonies, carrying 400 slaves. But he was an
inexperienced trafficker and had overloaded his ship. Down in the hold, the cargo were dying so he decided to throw the ill slaves overboard. Of course, each one had a substantial monetary value, but he would be OK because they were all insured for £30 each – a few thousand pounds in today’s values. He would tell the insurers that he had had no choice because the ship was running out of water. The insurers might grumble, but they would pay out; 133 slaves were therefore thrown to their deaths.

When he reached port in England, after dropping off his surviving cargo in the Caribbean, his ship’s owners put in their insurance claim for the dead slaves. But things didn’t go entirely to plan. The insurers were suspicious and took the case to court. Of course, no one was really concerned about the fate of the slaves other than as commodities and, the court eventually found for the
Zong’
s owners against the insurers, who were ordered to pay up.

Like any other civil case, there was minor interest from the newspapers of the day, but it would soon have been forgotten had not one Olaudah Equiano caught sight of a report. Equiano was a freed slave, originally from modern-day Nigeria, where he had been captured at the age of 11. In 1783, he was 40 and working in London as a house servant when he spotted the news story about the
Zong
and had an idea. He took the report to Granville Sharp, a self-taught lawyer whom he thought would be the man to start a fire.

For two decades, Sharp had been involved in the Abolitionist cause. His interest had begun in 1765 when a young black slave had been brought to the home of his
brother, William, a doctor who would later become surgeon to the King.
*

The slave boy, Jonathan Strong, had been badly beaten and then abandoned by his owner. Once he was fit and well, Granville found him a job as footman to a pharmacist, but when Strong’s former master spotted him two years later he tried to kidnap his former possession. Granville went to court to stop him and had Strong legally declared a free man. Since then, Sharp had become something of a nuisance for slave owners, taking them to court over anything he could think of. He willingly agreed to help Equiano.

Based on Collingwood’s insurance claim, which included an admission of having thrown many men to their death, Sharp attempted to have Collingwood and the ship owners prosecuted for murder. The attempt failed but the resulting publicity gained him more supporters among the growing political classes and from the Quakers, without doubt the most radically political of the Christian denominations of the time. On 22 May 1787, the Society for the Abolition of the Slave Trade was born, consisting of nine Quakers and three
Anglicans, including Sharp. Together they set about documenting the treatment of slaves and even brought examples of shackles and punishment devices to London, so the citizens could see how innocent men were being treated as – at best – criminals. It became the first public civil rights campaign. The Society regularly wrote to newspapers and organised public meetings and petitions to end the slave trade – one was signed by a fifth of the population of Manchester, which illustrates how deep and wide the campaign permeated.

As the spirit of the day turned to the Abolitionist cause, they recruited William Wilberforce MP, who offered to introduce a bill to Parliament to abolish the slave trade. It wasn’t until 1807 that Wilberforce managed to get a bill through but it did happen. And 15 years later a bill was passed to abolish slavery itself in most parts of the British Empire. Soon the Royal Navy was actively destroying the slave trade wherever it could find it.

Collingwood’s attempt at insurance fraud had had global effects.

Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh, was a controversial fellow. For decades he was one of the most influential men in Europe – and therefore the world. His reputation rested on his position as Britain’s Foreign Secretary, which allowed him to build the European system of diplomacy that delivered peaceful but conservative government across the continent. He was also hated by poets.

For example, after the 1819 Peterloo Massacre of
political radicals, blamed on the reactionary Cabinet of which Castlereagh was a leading member, Shelley wrote:

Shelley died in July 1822. Had he lived another month he might have perked up a little to hear that Castlereagh had been acting distinctly oddly. In an interview with George IV, the minister told the King that he was being watched by a mysterious servant. His ominous words were: ‘I am accused of the same crime as the Bishop of Clogher.’

The Bishop, Percy Jocelyn, had, the previous month, been defrocked and prosecuted after he was found in the back room of the White Lion in Haymarket with his trousers and a Grenadier Guardsman around his ankles. Sensibly, Jocelyn ran away to Scotland, to become a butler. A popular ditty of the time described the tale:

It is uncertain, however, whether Castlereagh (a) really had been foolish enough to do it with a Grenadier Guardsman and was being blackmailed, (b) had not been foolish enough to do it with a Grenadier Guardsman but was being blackmailed anyway or (c) was completely mad.

The King, very concerned, told him to speak to a doctor. Perhaps he was worried that Castlereagh had picked up a dose of something he wanted to get rid of, or maybe he thought the minister was one seat short of an overall majority. Certainly, the Duke of Wellington, a chum of the Foreign Secretary, believed it was the latter and wrote to Castlereagh’s physician, asking him to see his patient as soon as possible.

Castlereagh, in a state of agitation, retired to his home in Kent, where his wife, Amelia, took away all the razors to stop him killing himself. Ever resourceful, however, on 12 August 1822 he managed to find a letter opener and cut his own throat. His doctor found him bleeding and recorded his dying words: ‘Bankhead, let me fall upon your arm. Tis all over.’ It put an unambiguous end to an exceptional career.
*

Yet, even after dying, Castlereagh managed to influence legislation. An inquiry into his death was held a few days later and ruled that he was mentally ill at the time. This was
a charitable judgment because had the ruling been ‘suicide’, he would have had a stake driven through his heart and been buried in unconsecrated ground – possibly at a crossroads in order to prevent his ghost from haunting anyone who lived nearby (crossroads were known to confuse ghosts, who wouldn’t know which way to go).

At the time, many people compared the fact that Lord Castlereagh was buried with full rites in Westminster Abbey with the fact that one Abel Griffiths, a 22-year-old law student who killed himself soon after Castlereagh, was buried in ‘drawers, socks and a winding sheet’ at the intersection of Eaton Street, the King’s Road and Grosvenor Place in London. (At least, according to
The Annual Register,
a record of the year’s political and social events, which has been published continually since 1758, ‘the disgusting part of the ceremony of throwing lime over the body and driving a stake through it was dispensed with’.) The result of the public outrage was an 1823 law banning crossroad burials altogether, so much good came from his death.