With a speed that astonished Pembroke, Colonel Seymour signaled for the horns to resume blowing, and within minutes an expeditionary force consisting of some two hundred black men from various villages assembled, bringing with them a surprising number of good horses. Ordering the men who held Jason’s horse to return it to him, Colonel Seymour said: ‘You ride, too. Speak the officers what we do.’ As Jason started for his horse, reluctant to participate in what might become a fearsome raid, he heard Seymour say: ‘Battle over, you can leave,’ and he deemed it wise to go along.
Moving back down the mountain trail at a clip which made Jason gasp, the Maroon cavalry reached the main road, and there they turned east toward the settled areas where rioting had taken place. In the first half-hour of the charge Pembroke learned what character this expedition was going to take, for when they reached the black village of Conari, named for some ancient African settlement, Seymour divided his force into two groups, one to encircle the place, the other to dash in with flaming brands to set all huts afire. As the terrified occupants ran out to escape immolation, he shouted: ‘Kill! Kill!’ and everyone was chased down through the smoke. Men, women and children alike were slain by clubs and long cane knives if they were caught, by masterly gunfire in the middle of their backs if they tried to run. None survived.
‘Seymour,’ Jason cried as the murder continued in a second village the riders encountered, ‘no more killing!’ But the colonel harshly ignored this plea: ‘Niggers no good. Kill all,’ and he encouraged his Maroons to annihilate any blacks they came upon. Women and children were burned alive in their flaming shacks or shot as they tried to escape, and in this way the Maroons approached the principal town of Morant Bay.
There, fortunately, an army man, Colonel Hobbs, was in command, and he, anticipating the great confusion that would result if the Maroons were allowed into the town already beset by riots and hangings, had drawn his soldiers into a line to prevent the savage mountain men from entering. Undaunted, Colonel Seymour turned and led his marauders toward other rural areas where they could rampage at will. Pembroke, left behind and awed by the storm he had let loose and its fiery results in death and destruction, told Hobbs: ‘I came here on orders from the governor. To try to persuade the Maroons not to join the black rioters. I never dreamed they’d assassinate them.’
Hobbs waved his left hand as if dismissing the dead bodies: ‘Forget them. They’re rebellious niggers and there’ll be hundreds more dead before we get through.’ Then he turned his horse northward and said: ‘Before you head back for Kingston you might like to see one of our courts-martial in operation,’ and he led the way to an improvised grass-walled shack in which three very young army and navy officers were conducting that day’s trials.
A group of twenty-seven black men and two women stood shackled in one corner of the room guarded by armed sailors with dogs. The trial took exactly nine minutes, with the president of the court, an army man in his early twenties, asking: ‘What are the charges against these criminals?’ Pembroke supposed that since Hobbs was senior officer present, he would object to this terribly pejorative implication that the accused were already criminals before the evidence was in. But then he discovered that there was to be no evidence. A white man told the court: ‘These were all involved in the rebellion.’
‘Even the women?’
‘Yes.’
‘Verdict?’ the judge asked his two fellow officials, and they said: ‘Guilty,’ whereupon the judge handed down his sentence: ‘Hang the men. Seventy-five lashes for the women,’ and the twenty-seven men were led out to be hanged. There were, however, spaces on the suspended beam for only twenty ropes, so the sergeant in charge, without consulting the court, shot the others, moving from one pinioned man to the next and firing a pistol through the head, then kicking the body aside as the corpse fell.
In a sense those seven were lucky, for the improvised mode of hanging allowed for no sudden drop to break the neck. The men were hauled aloft, kicking and struggling and slowly strangling, until the sergeant shouted: ‘Pull those men’s legs!’ and soldiers moved forward to lift the almost dead bodies slightly, then jerk them down with as much force as could be applied in that unsatisfactory way. Since this accomplished little, most of the men continued to strangle and gyrate on their ropes until the sergeant, in disgust, moved along the line shooting at them upward from the point of the chin through the head.
Pembroke was sickened by this brutality performed in the name of Governor Eyre and Queen Victoria, but it was what happened to the two women prisoners that made him realize the awful things a military court restrained by no law was capable of doing. The two women were stripped from the waist down, thrown on the ground with buttocks uncovered, and given twenty-five lashes each on the bare skin, not with an ordinary whip but with a cat-o’-nine-tails into which strong wires had been woven. The sailors given the task of whipping the women seemed to enjoy it, for they struck with such force that by the end of the fifth application of this almost deadly instrument, the flesh along the women’s backsides and legs was raw and bleeding. Young soldiers watching the beatings counted out the strokes in a chorus, and at the end of the first twenty-five lashes the beatings stopped, with the women almost unconscious from the pain.
But that was far from the end of their punishment, for after they were revived by water thrown in their faces, they were again thrown onto the ground and another twenty-five were applied with increasing vigor by the energetic sailors, who were applauded by the counting soldiers. Again Jason expected Hobbs to intervene, but the latter stood near the two women, a smile on his face, fists clenched, and counting as the blows fell.
When the fiftieth lash tore at the shredding skin, the beating stopped, and Jason felt impelled to protest: ‘Colonel Hobbs, stop this cruelty, please.’
‘You heard the verdict. Guilty of rebellion. You heard the sentence,’ and he watched smiling as the women were thrown to the ground for the third time, with the dreadful metal-clothed cats cutting into their bloodied flesh. Only with supreme self-control did Pembroke refrain from leaping to their defense, and this was fortunate for him, for had he tried to make any move of compassion in this frenzied atmosphere of revenge, the young military men present, who saw nothing wrong with the punishment, might have turned on him and killed him.
When the hideous performance ended, with the flayed women unconscious beside the seven men who had been shot and below the dangling legs of the twenty who had been hanged, Pembroke wanted to flee, but as he prepared to ride back to Kingston, fifteen more accused were led into the shack where the same impartial court awaited them. At this moment, Hobbs said something which spurred Jason into precipitate action, regardless of the consequences: ‘Good news just in from Kingston. They’ve caught that bastard Gordon, and Governor Eyre is sending him over to us for trial.’
As soon as he heard this wretched news, Jason realized how improper it was, and wishing to dissociate himself from the murderous Hobbs, he quietly slipped away and galloped eastward, hoping to persuade Governor Eyre to countermand what he knew to be a misguided order.
By dint of forced riding on a horse already tired, Jason reached Eyre’s Kingston residence before the decision to ship Gordon to a St. Thomas court-martial had been put into effect, and breaking unannounced into Eyre’s office, he blurted out: ‘Governor, for the love of God and mercy, do not send George Gordon to a court-martial in St. Thomas-in-the-East. They’ve gone crazy over there.’
‘They’re doing their duty,’ Eyre said sternly, holding himself erect and speaking with controlled force. ‘Those who rebelled against the queen must pay the price.’
‘But the court’s behavior is inhuman. Lashing women with wire bands in the cats.’
‘Women are often the worst offenders. They should be hanged also.’
‘Governor Eyre, I reached the Maroons. Kept them from joining the riots on the side of the blacks.’
‘Sterling job, Jason. Dangerous, too.’
‘The Maroons went on a rampage against the blacks. Killing, burning. Women and children.’
‘When a man like Gordon launches a rebellion, he should anticipate consequences.’
‘But he was not in St. Thomas. He played no role in starting the riot.’
Governor Eyre was so infuriated by this defense of the man he was determined to hang that he almost dismissed Pembroke, but the young man’s gallantry in going alone into Maroon territory warranted approval, and Eyre had to bestow it: ‘You’ve behaved like a true Englishman, Pembroke. Duty called and you answered.’
‘Now it’s my duty, Governor, to tell you one basic truth. Everything you’ve done so far, every action you’ve taken has been impeccable. Governorship at its best. The rioting has been brought under control. Island-wide disturbance has been avoided.’
‘Thank you. I tried my best … against great difficulties, I must say. They all wanted me to declare martial law throughout the island.’
‘Thank God, you didn’t. And now you must halt it where it does exist.’
Eyre could hardly bear to listen to such advice: ‘Gordon has done a terrible wrong in starting this rebellion. Punishment must continue as a lesson to rebels and he must bear his share.’
‘But you can’t send him to St. Thomas. That’s judicial murder.’
‘He must learn his lesson.’
With anguish in his voice, Pembroke begged: ‘Governor Eyre, all you’ve done so far bears the mark of greatness. But if you do this to Gordon, and keep the courts-martial operating, you run a terrible risk. You will be seen as having corrupted the channels of justice. England could well condemn you.’
The words stung, for they touched upon the weakness of Eyre’s position, his lust for personal revenge so strong that he was willing to ignore the traditions of English justice. He knew that Gordon was not legally responsible for the rioting, which he termed rebellion. He knew that a civil court in Kingston would never convict the preacher, or hang him if it did. And worst of all, he was fully aware that he had no authority to kidnap Gordon from civil law in Kingston and throw him into the hands of a court-martial which had no authority over him, an act equivalent to murder. But his smoldering animosity toward this difficult man was so great that in his self-defense he made an appalling admission: ‘I have always detested George Gordon. A man of color marrying a white woman to gain advantages. A Baptist sectarian always denigrating our national religion. And worst of all, an unlettered peasant daring to ridicule our queen.’
‘I don’t believe he ever did,’ Pembroke said. ‘He merely protested the silly letter released in her name,’ but Eyre insisted: ‘He spat upon her letter,’ and when Jason again corrected: ‘Some foolish women did, not he,’ Eyre snapped: ‘He encouraged it and must pay the penalty. Come, we’re sailing to St. Thomas today.’
‘Governor, I must protest again. You do this at great risk to your reputation. All honest men, Governor, will see that your actions are illegal and colored by a desire for personal vengeance. For the sake of your honorable name, do not do this thing.’
Eyre could not be deterred. George Gordon, a frail bookish man in steel-rimmed glasses, was marched in handcuffs to the waiting Wolverine; Eyre came aboard attended by Pembroke, who still hoped to dissuade the governor from committing a hateful deed, and the fatal journey to St. Thomas-in-the-East began. But the short sea passage was like something from an ancient drama in which gods and nature conspired against an evil act, for a great storm arose, buffeting the ship for three days and nights and delaying Governor Eyre from delivering the preacher to the waiting court-martial. During this turbulence Pembroke had a last opportunity to talk with Gordon, who said with a surprising calmness: ‘I shall be hanged tomorrow, and Jamaica will never forget that day, for it will be murder.’
When the storm abated, the preacher was led ashore under a naval guard and marched through the streets to where the court was sitting, and as he went, soldiers and sailors, convinced of his guilt, hurled epithets at him, and some cried: ‘Here comes Parson Gordon on his way to be hanged,’ while others shouted: ‘I’d love to give you a taste of the cat before you die, you traitor!’ The mood was so savage that one reporter noted accurately: ‘Doubtless, if the blue jackets had been left to exercise their own will, he would have been torn to pieces alive.’
In the improvised shed from which so many had been dragged to be hanged, the court-martial consisted of two young naval officers and one army man even younger. They had no concept of what jurisdiction was nor whether they had any authority to pass judgment on a man who had not been in St. Thomas, and certainly no idea whatever as to what constituted admissible evidence. They had been ordered to mete out justice to criminals, and they had no trouble in recognizing Parson Gordon as the principal instigator of the riots, because they were told that was what he had been.
There was evidence: letters written to the court from persons elsewhere in the island who were not present to be cross-questioned. Several people said they were sure Gordon had been responsible for the rebellion, and very damaging evidence was brought forth that he had scorned The Queen’s Advice. The Morant Bay postmistress testified that since she always read whatever material came through her office in printed or open form, she could state positively that Gordon had mailed subversive literature, though what it was precisely she could not remember.
The young judge allowed Gordon to make a statement in his defense, but it contained only what the preacher had always said to Pembroke and others of his friends, that he wanted to help the citizens of Jamaica better their lot. The three judges paid little attention to his rambling and had no difficulty in finding him guilty, or in sentencing him to be hanged.
The trial was held on Saturday afternoon, and because the officer who would carry out the sentence felt it might be improper to hang a clergyman on a Sunday, the execution was deferred till Monday morning. It rained Sunday night, and on Monday heavy clouds, fringed by the sun which hid behind them, darkened the stone archway from which the rope was suspended. The preacher stood on a wooden plank, totally pinioned lest he try to escape, and when that plank was suddenly withdrawn he plunged to his slow, strangling death. Governor Eyre had been avenged for the insults he imagined that Gordon had heaped upon him.
Jason Pembroke, now anxious to return to Trevelyan, hoped that with the hanging of Gordon, martial law throughout St. Thomas would be terminated and that the various courts-martial, over which no one had any control would be dissolved, but neither of these desired orders was given. Instead, Governor Eyre assigned him to serve with that Colonel Hobbs he had met while with the Maroons. Hobbs, who had seen action overseas, especially at the siege of Sebastopol in the Crimean War, was an easy man for ordinary soldiers to like, for he treated his men well and obeyed a keen sense of military duty. Jason, aware that the rebellion, if it was one, expected Hobbs to exert stern discipline, keep his youthful charges under control, and report that military rule, at least in his quarter, should be ended, there being no signs of any further disturbance.
But Jason’s analysis was flawed, for the real horror of martial law had not yet shown its cruel face. The Maroons, considering themselves free to loot and burn, shot nearly two hundred blacks, rejoicing as if engaged in a jolly hunting party. Colonel Hobbs’ men specialized in shooting any blacks they saw on remote hillsides, competing among themselves as to who could kill at the greatest distance. When Jason protested these barbarities, Hobbs showed him the letter from the island headquarters under which he served:
Push on. Colonel Hole is doing splendid service, shooting every black man who cannot account for himself, sixty during one march. Colonel Nelson is hanging like fun. I hope you will not bring in any prisoners. Do punish the blackguards well.
That, of course, was license for extermination, and Hobbs discharged his assignment with exuberance, finding special delight in hanging men or lashing women if it was said of them: ‘That one scorned the queen.’ He could not tolerate the thought that a black had
cast aspersions on the queen, and his eyes glazed over when Jason argued: ‘Hobbs, can’t you see that their protest was not disrespect for the queen?’
‘How could that be?’
‘They were unwilling to believe that she could have dismissed them so coldly, for they love her.’ Hobbs, eyes still glazed, rasped: ‘You heard. They laughed at her Advice. Hang them.’
Jason could never anticipate what Hobbs might do next. Once along a distant road they came upon a black man who could have had no connection with the rioting, but when Hobbs heard that the man’s name was Arthur Wellington and he was reputed to be an obeah man, a sorcerer, he fell into a maniacal rage: ‘How dare a nigger take the name of a great man like the duke! How dare he claim to have strange powers! I’ll teach him!’ and he had Wellington tethered to a tree on the far side of a gully. Then, ordering all blacks from nearby to watch, he had his men line up and fire from a distance of more than four hundred yards. Several of the bullets struck the tethered man, killing him, whereupon Hobbs shouted to the watchers: ‘What mystical powers does he have now?’ and they were impressed with the superiority of the white man’s gun over the black man’s powers.
One soldier serving with Hobbs showed Jason the letter he was sending his parents in England:
I tell you we have never had so much fun. We leave no man or woman or child if they be black. We shoot them all, sometimes a hundred a day. Some we put aside to have sport with. We tie them to a tree, give them a hundred lashes, then drag them to the ships and hang them from the yardarm. I do believe we average fifty to sixty hanged every day. Such sport.
Pembroke, revolted by such excess, begged Hobbs to halt the killing, but the honored veteran of the Crimea, a man of proved valor, seemed to have turned into a frenzied savage, for all he would respond was: ‘It’s like India … colored men rising against white. And it cannot be permitted.’