instead, and as I write, I have hope that the former will drag the latter along with it in the months and years to come.
I was arrested for sedition, on the same day that Mme. Graveau was found guilty of it. She was sentenced to transportation. I hope someone forewarned America.
I had many visitors at my eight-foot by ten-foot cell of stone at Newgate, at first. Adjoints, well-wishers, sympathizers. Never Susan. The visits dwindled, in number and in length, and became a trickle. Other than from the Ordinary of Newgate, determined as he was to save my soul.
I was found guilty by a jury that, if I had to guess, believed martyrdom would be my wish, the cause of capital punishment reform being so dear to me. The guaranty of a trial by jury is another stone in the foundation of England. Someday, soon, we are going to need a stone that guarantees trial by a smart jury. I was sentenced to hang.
I was philosophical as my hanging day approached. It was a stupor from which I was only roused by the increasing frequency of visits by the Ordinary, and by the newly regular appearance of all three of my – Mme. Graveau’s – former Adjoints-turned-authors. All three were now planning to publish, without a license, Accounts, the condemned to be apportioned among them, by them. Except for me. All three wished to have a hand in drafting my Account, saying they planned to make it the fiercest, most persuasive, most devastating one yet. There was talk of publishing it in my name, but I scotched it, saying that they ought to shout to the sky that it was their work, if it turned out as well as they thought it would. My career did not stand to benefit not at all. Theirs would.