Bread and Judgement

The oppressive silence fractured without warning, torn apart by the coarse jangling of iron keys. The sound cleaved through the stillness, and I started, my heart thudding painfully against my ribs before reason returned to steady me. Moments later the heavy oak door lurched open, its swollen timbers grinding on their hinges with a weary groan I had come to know as intimately as my own breathing these past two weeks.

In stepped Mr Culpepper, the gaoler. His bulk filled the doorway, shoulders squared beneath the low lintel so that he seemed carved into the frame itself. In his roughened hands he bore a wooden tray, and ahead of him drifted the unmistakable scent of bread and cheese—ordinary fare, yet it roused a sharp pang in my empty belly, cruel in its simplicity.

Culpepper was a man shaped by years of routine and stone. Stocky of build, middle-aged, his skin held a permanent ruddy hue, as if the cold damp of the gaol had long ago settled in his very flesh. A furrow marked his brow, not of cruelty but of weary habit, as though every sigh and grunt of the place had pressed its weight upon him. His coat, once a proud blue, was dulled by time, the seams drawn tight against his girth and the fabric polished to a shine at elbows and cuffs where it had rubbed for countless years. His breeches told the same tale—sturdy, serviceable, their fibres thinned with honest wear. At his hip the iron ring of keys caught what little light filtered through the window slit, flashing darkly, a cruel jewellery of power and promise.

“Well, then,” he muttered, his voice gravelled, rasping as though ground down by stone walls and sleepless nights. He set the tray upon the rickety table with a thud that made its spindly legs tremble under the weight. For a moment the scent of the food filled the cell, mingling with the mildew and sweat, and I hated how my body responded, mouth watering though my stomach had earlier scorned the stale crust.

“Up with you, lad,” Culpepper said, tilting his head in that brusque, businesslike manner of his. “Can’t have you looking like a corpse on a slab when you stand before the judge.”

I pushed myself upright, every movement setting loose a ripple of pain through my stiffened joints. The straw mattress gave a feeble rustle as I swung my legs over its edge, and then the soles of my bare feet met the flagstones. The shock of the cold was immediate and merciless, a sharp lance that shot up through my body as though some gaoler had thrust an iron prod into me. I gasped, teeth catching on the breath, yet I did not shrink from it. Better the sharp sting of discomfort than the slow suffocation of numbness, which threatened to dull both body and spirit if I yielded to it.

Culpepper’s gaze fell upon me, keen and measuring. His frown deepened into familiar furrows, and I knew he was weighing not just the state of my body, but the cast of my resolve. There was nothing soft about the man, yet his scrutiny was never cruel—it was the look of one accustomed to reading men, marking their strengths, their weaknesses, their chances of holding fast.

“You look a fright,” he muttered, his words gruff, half-spoken to himself. From his coat pocket he drew out a battered tin cup, dented and dulled with age, and filled it with water from the pitcher that rested upon the tray. The liquid sloshed with a muted sound, thin and unremarkable, yet it carried with it the weight of a ritual, as though he had performed this same act countless times before. He extended it towards me with a nod.

“Here. Drink. Wash the sleep from your mouth, at least. His Worship doesn’t take kindly to a man who looks as though he’s been dragged from the gutter.”

I accepted the cup. The metal was biting cold against my fingers, its surface rough where it had been knocked and battered in long service. I raised it to my lips and swallowed. The water was lukewarm, tasting faintly of rust and the pipes of Portsmouth—a far cry from the sweet, clear draughts I remembered from the well in our cottage yard, drawn fresh on a summer morning. Still, it eased the parched dryness of my throat, the coolness settling the tightness there.

I drained it in a few swallows, then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, the gesture as unthinking as breathing. For a moment, I let the tin linger in my grasp, heavy with more than water, before setting it back upon the tray with a muted clink.

“Is there any hope for a man condemned before he’s even heard his sentence?” The words slipped from me before I could call them back, low and hoarse, raw with the strain of too many sleepless nights. They carried more of my fear, more of my nakedness, than I ever meant to show another soul.

Culpepper paused mid-motion, the tray balanced in his broad hands. His eyes lingered on me, weighing something unspoken. For a moment the gaoler’s face, usually hewn into lines of habit and fatigue, softened in the pale light filtering through the narrow slit of window. The morning caught the threads of grey in his hair, lending him a quiet dignity I had never thought to grant him.

“The world’s a hard place, William,” he said at last, his voice stripped of its usual roughness. It came softer, as though the words cost him something to give. “But if you’ve the truth on your side, there’s always hope. Even in Portsmouth Gaol.”

A sound rose in me before I could stop it—a laugh, dry and bitter, more bark than mirth. It scraped my throat on its way out, harsh as the frost that clung to the stones. “Truth’s a fine thing, Mr Culpepper,” I said, the words falling heavy between us. “But it carries little weight when the rich man’s word sits heavier on the scales. Mr Blackwell’s influence reaches far beyond his fortune, as we both well know.”

The name alone seemed to thicken the air, casting a shadow across the dim cell. Blackwell. The merchant prince of Portsmouth, his coffers deep, his friends seated high, his hand in matters that never should have been his to touch. His wealth was armour, his reputation a blade. I felt the injustice of it burn in me afresh, a heat my thin shirt could not contain, even as the damp chill pressed in on all sides.

The sound of dripping water filled the silence that followed, each drop striking stone with the rhythm of a ticking clock, counting down to a judgement already written.

Culpepper’s frown deepened, and for a fleeting instant I thought he might challenge me, might press the matter until his words outweighed my bitterness. Yet he said nothing. Instead, he turned back to the table, his movements slow, deliberate, as though even the setting down of bread and cheese demanded ceremony. He placed the wedge of pale cheese beside the half-loaf with a care that struck me, his broad hands unusually gentle in their task.

“Eat,” he said at last, his tone gruff, the command firm as iron. Straightening to his full height, he fixed me with that gaoler’s stare—a face carved in stern lines, accustomed to obedience, offering no room for refusal. “You’ll need your strength. The courthouse is no place for a weak constitution.”

I hesitated, my eyes fixed on the humble fare. The bread was coarse and dark, its crust thick and unyielding, and the cheese bore the dull waxen hue of something long kept in storage. Yet to my hollow gut, it might as well have been a banquet. Slowly, almost reluctantly, I reached for the loaf, my fingertips grazing the rough surface. I could feel Culpepper’s gaze upon me still, a silent urging that pressed as surely as any spoken word.

The bread yielded more easily than I expected, the crust cracking beneath my fingers with a muted sound. It was fresher than its appearance suggested—an unexpected mercy in a world where mercies were scarce. I tore away a piece and raised it to my lips, chewing without pleasure, more out of obedience than desire. The taste was plain, flour and salt, dry against my tongue, the crumbs sticking at my teeth. Yet it filled the emptiness within me, and that was something.

I broke a smaller piece of cheese, its texture firm and waxy, the flavour faintly sour. Together, the bread and cheese made for a meal of sorts, and I forced it down, each bite heavy as lead. It felt less a comfort than a duty, a necessary act to keep body upright when summoned to stand before the judge. Still, a thought lingered as I swallowed—that perhaps this was more than the gaol’s ration. Perhaps Culpepper had spent his own coin to see me fed this morning. If so, it was an act of kindness I had not earned, and one I could never repay.

Culpepper lingered by the door, his great arms folded tight across his chest, the keys at his hip clinking faintly as he shifted his weight. His eyes strayed to the barred slit of the window, where the grey light of morning pressed its way in like a reluctant guest, before returning to rest on me.

Beyond the walls, Portsmouth was stirring. The muffled clamour drifted into the cell in scraps and fragments: the shrill cries of gulls wheeling above the harbour; the dull thunder of cartwheels jolting over cobblestones; the clipped, singsong calls of vendors at the Point, crying fish, bread, trinkets, their voices carrying the urgency of trade. Life was beginning afresh in the city—indifferent, unstoppable—its wheels grinding on without thought for the men and women crushed beneath them. My life, my fate, would be but another stone turned beneath those wheels, scarcely worth a pause.

“The courtroom’ll be full,” Culpepper said at last, breaking the weight of silence that had pressed between us. His tone was even, but I heard the faint edge of weariness in it. “People’ve been talking of nothing else for days. Not every day a man like Blackwell accuses a clerk of theft.”

“I’m sure they have,” I muttered, forcing another mouthful of bread past the lump in my throat. Each bite seemed heavier than the last, settling like stones in my belly. My words came out bitter, sharp-edged, more shield than statement, a defence against the fear gnawing at my chest. “What’s the good of justice if there’s no one to watch it being done? I suppose they’ll all want their spectacle, to see William Jeffries get his due. The ungrateful clerk who betrayed his master’s trust.”

The title sat foul in my mouth, yet I could not spit it out. It clung to me like the damp of the gaol itself, branding me before the judge had even spoken.

Culpepper did not answer at once. Instead, he shifted his stance, the leather of his boots rasping against the rough stone flags. The sound carried through the small chamber, amplifying the confinement, as though the walls themselves leaned closer to press the moment upon us. He drew in a breath, held it, and when at last he spoke his tone was steady, careful, and touched with a reluctance I had not heard in him before.

“They’ll be watching you, lad,” he said, each word weighted, deliberate. “Every word, every gesture. The whole of Portsmouth society will be there, and half of Portsea besides. So keep your chin up. Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you break.”

I froze, the crust of bread halted halfway to my lips. His counsel fell over me like a cloak made of lead, dragging my shoulders lower, heavy with truth I could neither shrug off nor ignore. The bread in my hand seemed suddenly transformed, no longer food but ash, a pitiful offering against the gnawing hollowness in my gut. I held it there, staring as though the coarse crust might yield some strength if I could only believe it so.

“What difference does it make?” I murmured, the words forced past a throat gone tight. My voice carried sharp edges, bitterness honed fine by weeks of dread. “The verdict’s as good as written. Mr Harrison’s word against mine, and who would believe a clerk over a merchant? Especially one who’s been so… generous… to the county?”

The name lingered bitter on my tongue, thickening the air like smoke. Harrison’s generosity—his donations to the poor box, his hand in church repairs, his carefully cultivated benevolence—was but a mask. Behind it lay a power that reached into the courts themselves, invisible fingers tipping the scales of justice. I felt the unfairness of it sear through me, a heat I could do nothing to quench, even as the damp chill gnawed at my skin.

Culpepper’s gaze grew darker, shadow gathering in the furrows of his brow, yet his tone held firm, steady as a man planting his feet against a tide.

“It makes a difference,” he said. “Maybe not to them, but to you. A man’s dignity is his own, no matter what chains they put on him. Remember that, William. Seven years is a long time, but not so long that a man can’t return with his head held high.”

The words found their mark, striking some hidden chord I had thought dulled by fear and smothered by despair. They rang within me, faint but clear, like the echo of a church bell carried on the wind. For the briefest moment, I felt the stir of something long absent—pride, perhaps, or the ghost of defiance. His voice left an imprint in the silence that followed, weighted with more meaning than his plain speech revealed.

He cleared his throat then, brusque, as though to shake off his own lapse into sentiment. Turning towards the door, he set his boots to the stone with their familiar scrape, and the ring of keys at his waist gave a sudden jangle, sharp and insistent. Their sound cut through the air like iron truth—a reminder that however kindly his words, the bars and bolts were still mine to endure.

“I’ll fetch you when it’s time,” he muttered, his tone roughened back to habit, the mask of the gaoler restored. “Best make the most of what’s left.”

With that, he stepped out. The oak door swung shut with a long, complaining groan, its hinges crying out before the heavy thud sealed me in once more. The sound reverberated through the chamber, settling into the stones like a tolling bell, deep and final, leaving me alone with the echoes and the weight of what lay ahead.

I remained where I was, hunched upon the pallet, my gaze fixed upon the tray. The bread lay broken and forgotten, the cheese barely touched, its pale wedge glistening faintly in the half-light. Whatever hunger I had felt was gone, scattered like chaff before the sharp wind of fear. Yet within the hollow where dread had lodged these many weeks, something new stirred—small, uncertain, but alive. A flicker of resolve, faint and fragile as the first spark coaxed from flint, yet stubborn in its refusal to be snuffed out.

Culpepper had been right. They might strip me of freedom, clap irons upon my wrists, and thrust me to the world’s far edge, but dignity was mine to yield or mine to keep. No gaoler’s key nor magistrate’s word could claim it unless I placed it in their hand.

From far off, a bell began its toll, its voice deep and mournful. The sound rolled across the stone, filling the cell with its heavy presence. I closed my eyes and let it wash over me, each note marking the dwindling of time, each chime a reminder that the hours left to me in this place were numbered. Seven years in Botany Bay might await me—if the sea itself did not claim me first—but I would meet it upright, shoulders square, not crumbling under the weight of whispers and lies. Let them watch. Let them judge. Let them brand me traitor and thief. I knew the truth, and if that knowledge was all I carried into exile, then it would have to be enough.

The grey light crept further into the cell, inch by inch across the flags like a wary intruder, softening nothing, revealing everything. It marked the birth of another day within these walls, but for me it was an ending. By nightfall, the matter would be decided. My path would either carry me out of Portsmouth Gaol a free man—or set me upon the long march into exile.

Either way, the William who had entered these walls—the boy from Portsea, the clerk trusted with ledgers and sums, the dutiful son who once knelt at his mother’s hearth—was already gone.

The only question that remained was who would take his place.