Part 16 (1/2)
And before he could put that project into action here was Defoe-a prisoner during the Queen's pleasure and sentenced to stand three times in the Pillory-at Cornhill, at Cheapside and at Temple Bar.
”I could have warned him,” muttered Harley. ”I wish I had seen that pamphlet of his before it had been published.”
”It's a brilliant pamphlet,” said St. John.
”Too brilliant. That's the trouble, I've told you that the pen is a mighty weapon, St. John. It is because others are beginning to realize this that Defoe stands where he is today.”
”He's coming now....” warned St. John.
And there he was, the unrepentant scribe, the martyr to his cause, riding in the cart on his way to the pillory. This was usually the moment for which the crowd waited-when they would see the poor condemned wretch set in the wooden frame, his hands hanging before him, his neck and head in the holes provided for them, and himself helpless to face the scorn and fury of the mob. It was the custom to pelt the victim with rotten fruit and vegetables, stinking fish and any filth that could be found; many died of exposure to a cruel mob. And that this should be the fate of a man of great talent, perhaps genius-particularly a man who could be useful to him-filled Harley with indignation.
”He was a fool,” said St. John.
”He wrote nothing that was not true.”
”But this pamphlet of his The Shortest way with the Dissenters-why it gave pleasure to no one.”
”It gave pleasure to me, St. John, as all good writing must.”
”But the sentiments, Master, the sentiments.”
”All this conformity controversy in Parliament nowadays needs to be ridiculed, and that is precisely what Defoe did.”
”Yes, but in such a way that the High-Flyers took him seriously.”
”These High Churchmen take themselves so seriously that they think everyone else does the same. They have no humour-and that's what Defoe has. If they hadn't at first supported the Pamphlet before they realized Defoe was writing with his tongue in his cheek, they would not have made this trouble for him. So he is prosecuted for libelling the Church.”
”And what now?”
”G.o.d knows if he'll withstand the pillory. If he survives Cornhill, it'll be Cheapside tomorrow and the day after that Temple Bar. Come away, St. John. I don't care to see the man subjected to insults.”
”Is there nothing we can do?”
Harley shook his head. ”I shall do my best to have him released, but that would take time. If only I could talk to the Queen.”
”Well, why not?”
”I need to bring her to my way of thinking and I could not do that by a formal visit. I need to be on terms with her ... as Marlborough is.”
”Ah, he has the d.u.c.h.ess to help him.”
”Yes and Anne dotes on the woman. Would that I could find someone to plead for me as Marlborough's wife does for him.”
”There's only one Viceroy Sarah.”
”G.o.d be praised for that. It is a marvel to me that she keeps her place in the Queen's favour. Look. The crowd has divided. How silent they are! Usually the mob shouts so that you cannot hear yourself speak. How strange! What's happening?”
The two men were silent while Daniel Defoe was set in the pillory. His expression was serene and untroubled; he looked as though he had no fear of the crowd and was completely unrepentant.
This was most unusual. A band of men with cudgels had placed themselves about the pillory.
”Listen now,” said one. ”This is our Daniel. Anyone who tries to harm Daniel will get a crack on the head. Is it understood?”
”Aye,” roared the crowd. ” 'Tis understood.”
Someone in the crowd lifted a pot of beer and cried: ”Good health and long life to you, Daniel.”
The crowd took up the cry.
Harley and St. John exchanged looks and Harley began to laugh.
”By G.o.d,” he cried. ”He's got the crowd with him. He's got them, St. John.”
The hot July sun poured down on the prisoner's head; he was clearly in great discomfort; yet his eyes lit up with appreciation for he had realized that the crowd was friendly.
A handful of roses was tossed at the pillory. Two girls ran forward and twined their ready-made garlands about it. Someone brought up a pot of beer and held it up to Daniel to drink.
”G.o.d bless you, Daniel,” cried someone in the crowd.
”Aye,” went up the shout. ”We're with you, Daniel.”
A ballad seller accosted the two men.
”Buy a ballad, sir. Daniel's own. Buy a ballad. He's a good man with seven children to support.”
Harley bought the verses and signed to St. John to do the same.
When the man had moved off, Harley said: ”This is a sight such as I have never seen before. They'll take him to Newgate after this. But I'll have him out, I tell you.”
The crowd was becoming more noisy as Daniel's supporters were growing. The guard about the pillory had doubled and if any man had dared throw anything but flowers at Daniel Defoe he would probably have paid for it with his life.
Harley said: ”There's no need to see more. Daniel will be well cared for.”
As they moved away he glanced at the verses and read aloud: ”Tell them the men that placed him here
Are scandals of the times,
Are at a loss to find his guilt
And can't commit his crimes ...”
”You see what I mean, St. John. Words like that can't be ignored. Why do you think the crowd is pelting Defoe with roses? Why are they drinking his health? Because of words, St. John. Words ... words ... words! We are going to do battle and our first weapon will be words.”