Sir George had never made any secret of the fact that he was a Catholic. He and his brother had, during the war, raised a troop of horse for the Royalist cause. He had fought against the Parliament and had been in prison at the time of the Restoration. He was a man of charm and intellect; he was well liked. There must surely have been many who marvelled that a man like Titus Oates could set himself against such as Sir George and have the weight of public opinion supporting him.
Accused with Sir George were three Benedictine monks who, Oates asserted, were working with the physician in these dastardly schemes.
The chief witnesses for the prosecution were, of course, Oates and his crony Bedloe.
I was glad in a way that I was not present, although I knew that everything that was said would be of the utmost importance to me.
I heard an account of the trial from an eyewitness, so I could well imagine the tension in that court room. Everything depended on Lord Chief Justice Sproggs. I had heard of him. He was the one who had condemned Coleman to death.
Oates, I was told, gave his evidence with the assurance that he must be believed. He was a little sanctimonious, trying to create the impression that he was God’s advocate, throwing off his lies as though they were inspired by heaven. It was so difficult to understand why people could not see through him. He said that Wakeman had been offered ten thousand pounds to kill the King, which he could do with the Queen’s help, but at first he had folded his hands and refused.
“The court was so still,” said my informant, “that you could hear the sharp intake of people’s breath.” Was Oates going to admit that he had lied? But of course not. He went on to say that Wakeman had protested that it was a daring operation they were asking him to undertake and ten thousand pounds was not enough. “Moreover, what of his post in Your Majesty’s household? He would lose that. There would be a new queen. No, ten thousand pounds was not enough. ‘Then,’ said Oates, ‘came the offer.’ When the deed was done, Sir George was to be offered the post of Physician General to the Army, and five thousand would be added to the reward. ‘That was an offer,’ said Oates, ‘which he could not refuse.’ Sir George declared that there was not a shred of truth in this. Then Bedloe was called to corroborate Oates’s story.”
I heard how outside the Old Bailey the mob was calling for a verdict of guilty. I could imagine the satisfaction of Oates and Bedloe. They were confident of success. However, the Lord Chief Justice was not afraid of the mob, and the comparison between the evil countenances and the wild accusations of the witnesses for the prosecution and a man of Sir George’s reputation and obvious integrity had its effect on him.
Sir George was shrewd in his evidence. He proved that some of the papers produced by Oates were forgeries. Bedloe professed that he himself had had several interviews with Sir George.
“Does Your Honor think that I would consort with a man such as that?” Sir George demanded.
Most people would admit that it was unlikely.
Oates grew very excited. He could not endure opposition. He went a little too far, even for him. He declared that he had seen Sir George sign the receipt for the first thousand pounds. In his zeal he said that he had been present — hidden as usual — and had actually seen another receipt which Sir George had signed accepting the five thousand pounds and the appointment as Physician General to the Army.
The Lord Chief Justice asked him how he knew that the document was not a false one. Anyone could produce such a piece of paper.
“Oh, it was Sir George’s signature, my lord.”
“You know his signature well?”
“Oh yes, my lord. I have seen it many times. There was no mistaking it.”
“And how did it come into your possession?”
Oates looked sly. “My lord, in my zealous pursuit of those who would seek to destroy our country, I have engaged people…those whom I can trust and who have the same ideals that I have…to work for me. It is dangerous work for which I must pay them.”
“So you tell me, Mr. Oates,” said Lord Chief Justice Sproggs, “that you were sure this document was not false because you knew the signature of Sir George Wakeman so well.”
“That is so, my lord.”
It was then that Oates was greatly discomfited, for the Lord Chief Justice brought out several specimens of handwriting in the name of George Wakeman.
“Now, Mr. Oates,” said Sproggs, “will you be good enough to tell me which of these is the signature of Sir George Wakeman?”
With an air of confidence Oates made his selection.
The Lord Chief Justice smiled slowly. “Mr. Oates,” he said, “you clearly could not recognize Sir George’s signature, for it was among those shown to you, and you have selected one which is quite unlike his.”
Oates was furious. He would soon be discovering that Sproggs was plotting treachery.
The Lord Chief Justice summed up the case decisively. He addressed the jury with eloquence. Could they in the light of what they had heard in the court find Sir George Wakeman guilty? Of course they could not.
Charles came to me in great delight. He swept me into his arms.
“Odds fish!” he cried. “This must be the beginning of the end. Wakeman is acquitted.”
SHORTLY AFTERWARD Sir George was asking the King to receive him. Charles did so with the utmost pleasure, and I was with him when Sir George arrived.
He came and knelt before the King. He looked pale and drawn, which was not surprising after his ordeal.
Charles congratulated him. “I cannot express my joy,” he said with emotion.
“Your Majesty is gracious.”
I took his hand. “I have prayed for you,” I said. “I thank God my prayers were answered.”
“That villain got a trouncing,” said Charles. “Thank God Sproggs had the courage to do it.”
“It takes courage, Sire, at this time.”
“Are you going to return to my household?” I asked.
He hesitated. Then he said: “There is something I would say to your Majesties. Oates will not let this matter rest.”
Charles nodded in agreement.
“He will find some other charge,” went on Sir George. “He will not be content to let me go. He will hate me the more for this.”
“It would appear to me,” said Charles, “that he will be less confident now. I am of the opinion that even the people who shout for him in the streets may be asking themselves whether they should not look at his actions more closely.”
“That may be so, Sire, but the man is dangerous still. I would not feel confident to remain where he could wreak his vengeance on me.”
“I understand your feelings,” said Charles ruefully.
“Your Majesty, I am asking your permission to leave the country.”
I was dismayed, but I saw his reasoning, and recognized the wisdom of it.
“What do you propose to do?” I asked.
“To cross the Channel tomorrow, Your Majesty.”
“I see,” said Charles. “Of course, you must go and you are right. You want no more of these ordeals. I trust that soon we shall be free of this obnoxious fellow. Godspeed. I shall write letters for you to take, and one day perhaps you will come back to us.”
Sir George fell onto his knees in a state of great relief.
I wished him well and he left us.
I was very sorry to see him go, but I knew he was wise to do so. He was free and yet with a lesser man than Lord Chief Justice Sproggs, he might have been in a cell at this moment awaiting execution.