He allowed himself to be pushed forward into the witness box, murmured without noting them the familiar words “the whole truth … nothing but the truth,” but still did not raise his eyes. He was afraid of the anger and astonishment on the faces of the prisoners. He knew too well how each would look, how Druce would finger his lower lip, how Hake would pull at a particular portion of his beard. He knew, as though he heard them, the words they would whisper to each other. Haven’t I lived with them, eaten with them, slept with them, for three years, he thought. He was afraid to look at the gallery. There would be young, desirable women there who would watch him with contempt—“The informer, traitor, Judas.” Not even honour among thieves. And he was afraid, too, damnably afraid. Suppose that he should raise his eyes and see Carlyon there, the apelike face he had seen transfigured with an ideal, the face which, during three years of misery, he had come near to worshipping, now filled with loathing. It was not incredible. It was just the kind of quixotic, romantic, foolish thing that Carlyon loved—to venture his neck voluntarily into the noose for the sake of his companions.
“Are you Francis Andrews?” It was Sir Henry Merriman who spoke, but the question struck the witness like an accusation, like another blow on the cheek. His blood quickened to meet it. Elizabeth had said to him, “Go to Lewes, go to the Assizes, bear your witness and you will have shown yourself to have more courage than they.” You are here for lust of your body, the inner critic murmured, but with a gesture of the hands visible to those in Court, he renounced that motive and that reward. “No,” he whispered, his lips moving, “for Elizabeth.” The sound of her name gave him courage. It was like a trumpet blown a long way off by a pale courageous spirit. He raised his eyes.
“I am,” he answered.
Imagination had steeled him to meet the expected gestures. They did not affect him. For the unexpected he was not ready. Tims leant forward with a smile of recognition and of relief. His smile said as clearly as though he had spoken: “We are all right now. Here’s a friend.”
Andrews turned his eyes hastily away and watched the gallery.
“Where were you on the night of February 10?”
“On board the Good Chance.”
“What were you doing there?”
Thank God! Carlyon was not there. “I was engaged in smuggling. We were to run a cargo that night.”
Mr. Farne smiled triumphantly along the table at Mr. Braddock and Mr. Braddock scowled back. His purple face turned an unpleasant shade of blue. He rose and began to speak hurriedly to one of the men in the dock.
“How long had you been engaged in this—profession?”
“Three years.”
“Do you see any of your companions in the Court?”
Still watching the gallery in fear of seeing a familiar face Andrews nodded. “Yes.”
“Will you point them out to the jury?”
Out of the vague turmoil of unfamiliar faces, faces old and young, fat and lean, fresh and faded, swam towards him a man’s face, thin, livid, cunning, with receding chin and squinting eyes. The eyes avoided his, but presently returned with a kind of terrified fascination.
“Will you point them out to the jury?” Sir Henry Merriman repeated with impatience. The face knew that it was seen and recognised. A tongue appeared and moistened the lips. The eyes no longer avoided Andrews’s, but clung to them in apprehensive appeal. Andrews knew that he had only to raise his finger, point to the gallery, “there,” and another of his enemies would be rendered powerless. Only Carlyon and that blundering giant Joe would remain. The face knew it also. Andrews began to raise his hand. It was the safest course. If he let Cockney Harry go free, Carlyon would know for certain who their betrayer was.
“There,” he said and pointed to the dock. You fool, you fool, you sentimental fool, he taunted silently in his heart, and his heart marvellously, miraculously, did not care. It was light and drunken with its triumph over his cowardly body and carried with pride like a banner the name of a girl. This will cost you your life, he told himself, but that distant trumpet and that close banner at his heart gave him courage. I will win through, he answered, and she will praise me. This is the first foolish thoughtless thing which I have ever done.
Because he looked no longer at the gallery, Andrews did not see a stout old woman, with flippant streaks of yellow hair struggling towards the door, and when two minutes later Mr. Braddock, a scrap of white paper in his hand, left the Court, he was answering a question from Sir Henry Merriman. “And what did you do there?”
“I helped load the boat with the casks of brandy. Then I got in with them and rowed to the shore. They began to unload the cargo, and while they were doing it I slipped away. There was no moon. It was very dark and they did not see me go. I got away among the dunes and hid.”
“Why did you slip away?”
“I didn’t want to be there when the gaugers appeared.”
“How did you know that the gaugers were there?”
“Two days before I had sent an anonymous letter to the officer in command at Shoreham stating the time when we intended to run the cargo and the exact place where it was to be run.”
“You went and hid among the dunes. What happened then?”
“There was suddenly a lot of shouting and the sound of men running. Then there were shots. I waited till all the noise was over and then
