CHAPTER IX. OLD NEWGATE.
At the beginning of the twelfth century,—whether in the reign of Henry the First, or Stephen is uncertain,—a fifth gate was added to the four principal entrances of the city of London; then, it is almost needless to say, surrounded by ramparts, moats, and other defences. This gate, called Newgate, “as being latelier builded than the rest,” continued, for upwards of three hundred years, to be used as a place of imprisonment for felons and trespassers; at the end of which time, having grown old, ruinous, and “horribly loathsome,” it was rebuilt and enlarged by the executors of the renowned Sir Richard Whittington, the Lord Mayor of London: whence it afterwards obtained amongst a certain class of students, whose examinations were conducted with some strictness at the Old Bailey, and their highest degrees taken at Hyde-park-corner, the appellation of Whittington's College, or, more briefly, the Whit. It may here be mentioned that this gate, destined to bequeath its name—a name, which has since acquired a terrible significance,—to every successive structure erected upon its site, was granted, in 1400, by charter by Henry the Sixth to the citizens of London, in return for their royal services, and thenceforth became the common jail to that city and the county of Middlesex. Nothing material occurred to Newgate, until the memorable year 1666, when it was utterly destroyed by the Great Fire. It is with the building raised after this direful calamity that our history has to deal.
Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. The body of the edifice stood on the south side of Newgate Street, and projected at the western extremity far into the area opposite Saint Sepulchre's Church. One small wing lay at the north of the gate, where Giltspur Street Compter now stands; and the Press Yard, which was detached from the main building, was situated at the back of Phoenix Court. The south or principal front, looking, down the Old Bailey, and not upon it, as is the case of the present structure, with its massive walls of roughened freestone,—in some places darkened by the smoke, in others blanched, by exposure to the weather,—its heavy projecting cornice, its unglazed doubly-grated windows, its gloomy porch decorated with fetters, and defended by an enormous iron door, had a stern and striking effect. Over the Lodge, upon a dial was inscribed the appropriate motto, “Venio sicut fur.” The Gate, which crossed Newgate Street, had a wide arch for carriages, and a postern, on the north side, for foot-passengers. Its architecture was richly ornamental, and resembled the style of a triumphal entrance to a capital, rather than a dungeon having battlements and hexagonal towers, and being adorned on the western side with a triple range of pilasters of the Tuscan order, amid the intercolumniations of which were niches embellished with statues. The chief of these was a figure of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard Whittington. On the right of the postern against the wall was affixed a small grating, sustaining the debtor's box; and any pleasure which the passer-by might derive from contemplating the splendid structure above described was damped at beholding the pale faces and squalid figures of the captives across the bars of its strongly-grated windows. Some years after the date of this history, an immense ventilator was placed at the top of the Gate, with the view of purifying the prison, which, owing to its insufficient space and constantly-crowded state, was never free from that dreadful and contagious disorder, now happily unknown, the jail-fever. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony.
Old Newgate was divided into three separate prisons,—the Master's Side, the Common Side, and the Press Yard. The first of these, situated a the south of the building, with the exception of one ward over the gateway, was allotted to the better class of debtors, whose funds enabled them to defray their chamber-rent, fees, and garnish. The second, comprising the bulk of the jail, and by many degrees worse in point of accommodation, having several dismal and noisome wards under ground, was common both to debtors and malefactors,—an association little favourable to the morals or comforts of the former, who, if they were brought there with any notions of honesty, seldom left with untainted principles. The last,—in all respects the best and airiest of the three, standing, as has been before observed, in Phoenix Court, at the rear of the main fabric,—was reserved for state-offenders, and such persons as chose to submit to the extortionate demands of the keeper: from twenty to five hundred pounds premium, according to the rank and means of the applicant, in addition to a high weekly rent, being required for accommodation in this quarter. Some excuse for this rapacity may perhaps be found in the fact, that five thousand pounds was paid for the purchase of the Press Yard by Mr. Pitt, the then governor of Newgate. This gentleman, tried for high treason, in 1716, on suspicion of aiding Mr. Forster, the rebel general's escape, but acquitted, reaped a golden harvest during the occupation of his premises by the Preston rebels, when a larger sum was obtained for a single chamber than (in the words of a sufferer on the occasion) “would have paid the rent of the best house in Saint James's Square or Piccadilly for several years.”
Nor was this all. Other, and more serious impositions, inasmuch as they affected a poorer class of persons, were practised by the underlings of the jail. On his first entrance, a prisoner, if unable or unwilling to comply with the exactions of the turnkeys, was thrust into the Condemned Hold with the worst description of criminals, and terrified by threats into submission. By the old regulations, the free use of strong liquors not being interdicted, a tap-house was kept in the Lodge, and also in a cellar on the Common Side,—under the superintendence of Mrs. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern.
The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place “The Jigger,” through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. Thus, the same system of plunder was everywhere carried on. The jailers robbed the prisoners: the prisoners robbed one another.
Two large wards were situated in the Gate; one of which, the Stone Ward, appropriated to the master debtors, looked towards Holborn; the other called the Stone Hall, from a huge stone standing in the middle of it, upon which the irons of criminals under sentence of death were knocked off previously to their being taken to the place of execution, faced Newgate Street. Here the prisoners took exercise; and a quaint, but striking picture has been left of their appearance when so engaged, by the author of the English Rogue. “At my first being acquainted with the place,” says this writer, in the 'Miseries of a Prison,' “the prisoners, methought, walking up and down the Stone Hall, looked like so many wrecks upon the sea. Here the ribs of a thousand pounds beating against the Needles—those dangerous rocks, credulity here floated, to and fro, silks, stuffs, camlets, and velvet, without giving place to each other, according to their dignity; here rolled so many pipes of canary, whose bungholes lying open, were so damaged that the merchant may go hoop for his money,” A less picturesque, but more truthful, and, therefore, more melancholy description of the same scene, is furnished by the shrewd and satirical Ned Ward, who informs us, in the “Delectable History of Whittington's College,” that “When the prisoners are disposed to recreate themselves with walking, they go up into a spacious room, called the Stone Hall; where, when you see them taking a turn together, it would puzzle one to know which is the gentleman, which the mechanic, and which the beggar, for they are all suited in the same garb of squalid poverty, making a spectacle of more pity than executions; only to be out at the elbows is in fashion here, and a great indecorum not to be threadbare.”
In an angle of the Stone Hall was the Iron Hold, a chamber containing a vast assortment of fetters and handcuffs of all weights and sizes. Four prisoners, termed “The Partners,” had charge of this hold. Their duty was to see who came in, or went out; to lock up, and open the different wards; to fetter such prisoners as were ordered to be placed in irons; to distribute the allowances of provision; and to maintain some show of decorum; for which latter purpose they were allowed to carry whips and truncheons. When any violent outrage was committed,—and such matters were of daily, sometimes hourly, occurrence,—a bell, the rope of which descended into the hall, brought the whole of the turnkeys to their assistance. A narrow passage at the north of the Stone Hall led to the Bluebeard's room of this enchanted castle, a place shunned even by the reckless crew who were compelled to pass it. It was a sort of cooking-room, with an immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar, before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge. Above this revolting spot was the female debtor's ward; below it a gloomy cell, called Tangier; and, lower still, the Stone Hold, a most terrible and noisome dungeon, situated underground, and unvisited by a single ray of daylight. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. Adjoining it was the Lower Ward,—“Though, in what degree of latitude it was situated,” observes Ned Ward, “I cannot positively demonstrate, unless it lay ninety degrees beyond the North Pole; for, instead of being dark there but half a year, it is dark all the year round.” It was only a shade better than the Stone Hold. Here were imprisoned the fines; and, “perhaps,” adds the before-cited authority, “if he behaved himself, an outlawed person might creep in among them.” Ascending the gate once more on the way back, we find over the Stone Hall another large room, called Debtors' Hall, facing Newgate Street, with “very good air and light.” A little too much of the former, perhaps; as the windows being unglazed, the prisoners were subjected to severe annoyance from the weather and easterly winds.
Of the women felons' rooms nothing has yet been said. There were two. One called Waterman's Hall, a horrible place adjoining the postern under the gate, whence, through a small barred aperture, they solicited alms from the passengers: the other, a large chamber, denominated My Lady's Hold, was situated in the highest part of the jail, at the northern extremity. Neither of these wards had beds, and the unfortunate inmates were obliged to take their rest on the oaken floor. The condition of the rooms was indescribably filthy and disgusting; nor were the habits of the occupants much more cleanly. In other respects, they were equally indecorous and offensive. “It is with no small concern,” writes an anonymous historian of Newgate, “that I am obliged to observe that the women in every ward of this prison are exceedingly worse than the worst of the men not only in respect to their mode of living, but more especially as to their conversation, which, to their great shame, is as profane and wicked as hell itself can possibly be.”
There were two Condemned Holds,—one for each sex. That for the men lay near the Lodge, with which it was connected by a dark passage. It was a large room, about twenty feet long and fifteen broad, and had an arched stone roof. In fact, it had been anciently the right hand postern under the gate leading towards the city. The floor was planked with oak, and covered with iron staples, hooks, and ring-bolts, with heavy chains attached to them. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light.
Over the gateway towards Snow Hill, were two strong wards, called the Castle and the Red Room. They will claim particular attention hereafter.
Many other wards,—especially on the Master Debtor's side,—have been necessarily omitted in the foregoing hasty enumeration. But there were two places of punishment which merit some notice from their peculiarity. The first of these, the Press Room, a dark close chamber, near Waterman's Hall, obtained its name from an immense wooden machine kept in it, with which such prisoners as refused to plead to their indictments were pressed to death—a species of inquisitorial torture not discontinued until so lately as the early part of the reign of George the Third, when it was abolished by an express statute. Into the second, denominated the Bilbowes,—also a dismal place,—refractory prisoners were thrust, and placed in a kind of stocks, whence the name.
The Chapel was situated in the south-east angle of the jail; the ordinary at the time of this history being the Reverend Thomas Purney; the deputy chaplain, Mr. Wagstaff.
Much has been advanced by modern writers respecting the demoralising effect of prison society; and it has been asserted, that a youth once confined in Newgate, is certain to come out a confirmed thief. However this may be now, it was unquestionably true of old Newgate. It was the grand nursery of vice.—“A famous university,” observes Ned Ward, in the London Spy, “where, if a man has a mind to educate a hopeful child in the daring science of padding; the light-fingered subtlety of shoplifting: the excellent use of jack and crow; for the silently drawing bolts, and forcing barricades; with the knack of sweetening; or the most ingenious dexterity of picking pockets; let him but enter in this college on the Common Side, and confine him close to his study but for three months; and if he does not come out qualified to take any degree of villainy, he must be the most honest dunce that ever had the advantage of such eminent tutors.”
To bring down this imperfect sketch of Newgate to the present time, it may be mentioned, that, being found inadequate to the purpose required, the old jail was pulled down in 1770. Just at the completion of the new jail, in 1780, it was assailed by the mob during the Gordon riots, fired, and greatly damaged. The devastations, however, were speedily made good, and, in two years more, it was finished.
It is a cheering reflection, that in the present prison, with its clean, well-whitewashed, and well-ventilated wards, its airy courts, its infirmary, its improved regulations, and its humane and intelligent officers, many of the miseries of the old jail are removed. For these beneficial changes society is mainly indebted to the unremitting exertions of the philanthropic HOWARD.
CHAPTER X. HOW JACK SHEPPARD GOT OUT OF THE CONDEMNED HOLD.
Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge. On that morning the death warrant had arrived from Windsor, ordering Sheppard for execution, (since his capture by Jonathan Wild in Bedlam, as related in a former chapter, Jack had been tried, convicted, and sentenced to death,) together with three other malefactors on the following Friday. Up to this moment, hopes had been entertained of a respite, strong representations in his favour having been made in the highest quarter; but now that his fate seemed sealed, the curiosity of the sight-seeing public to behold him was redoubled. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. As the day wore on, the crowds diminished,—many who would not submit to the turnkey's demands were sent away ungratified,—and at five o'clock, only two strangers, Mr. Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr. Griffin, who held the same office in Westminster Gatehouse were left in the Lodge. Jack, who had formerly been in the custody of both these gentlemen, gave them a very cordial welcome; apologized for the sorry room he was compelled to receive them in; and when they took leave, insisted on treating them to a double bowl of punch, which they were now discussing with the upper jailer, Mr. Ireton, and his two satellites, Austin and Langley. At a little distance from the party, sat a tall, sinister-looking personage, with harsh inflexible features, a gaunt but muscular frame, and large bony hands. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay. She had a nut-brown skin, a swarthy upper lip, a merry black eye, a prominent bust, and a tun-like circumference of waist. A widow for the fourth time, Mrs. Spurling, (for she it was,) either by her attractions of purse or person, had succeeded in moving the stony heart of Mr. Marvel, who, as he had helped to deprive her of her former husbands, thought himself in duty bound to offer to supply their place. But the lady was not so easily won; and though she did not absolutely reject him, gave him very slight hopes. Mr. Marvel, therefore, remained on his probation. Behind Mrs. Spurling stood her negro attendant, Caliban; a hideous, misshapen, malicious monster, with broad hunched shoulders, a flat nose, and ears like those of a wild beast, a head too large for his body, and a body too long for his legs. This horrible piece of deformity, who acted as drawer and cellarman, and was a constant butt to the small wits of the jail, was nicknamed the Black Dog of Newgate.
In the general survey of the prison, taken in the preceding chapter, but little was said of the Lodge. It may be well, therefore, before proceeding farther, to describe it more minutely. It was approached from the street by a flight of broad stone steps, leading to a ponderous door, plated with iron, and secured on the inner side by huge bolts, and a lock, with wards of a prodigious size. A little within stood a second door, or rather wicket, lower than the first, but of equal strength, and surmounted by a row of sharp spikes. As no apprehension was entertained of an escape by this outlet,—nothing of the kind having been attempted by the boldest felon ever incarcerated in Newgate,—both doors were generally left open during the daytime. At six o'clock, the wicket was shut; and at nine, the jail was altogether locked up. Not far from the entrance, on the left, was a sort of screen, or partition-wall, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, formed of thick oaken planks riveted together by iron bolts, and studded with broad-headed nails. In this screen, which masked the entrance of a dark passage communicating with the Condemned Hold, about five feet from the ground, was a hatch, protected by long spikes set six inches apart, and each of the thickness of an elephant's tusk. The spikes almost touched the upper part of the hatch: scarcely space enough for the passage of a hand being left between their points and the beam. Here, as has already been observed, condemned malefactors were allowed to converse with such of their guests as had not interest or money enough to procure admission to them in the hold. Beyond the hatch, an angle, formed by a projection in the wall of some three or four feet, served to hide a door conducting to the interior of the prison. At the farther end of the Lodge, the floor was raised to the height of a couple of steps; whence the whole place, with the exception of the remotest corner of the angle before-mentioned, could be commanded at a single glance. On this elevation a table was now placed, around which sat the turnkeys and their guests, regaling themselves on the fragrant beverage provided by the prisoner. A brief description will suffice for them. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. The only difference between the officers of Newgate and their brethren was, that they had enormous bunches of keys at their girdles, while the latter had left their keys at home.
“Well, I've seen many a gallant fellow in my time, Mr. Ireton,” observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; “but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard.”
“Nor I,” returned Ireton, following his example: “and I've had some experience too. Ever since he came here, three months ago, he has been the life and soul of the place; and now the death warrant has arrived, instead of being cast down, as most men would be, and as all others are, he's gayer than ever. Well, I shall be sorry to lose him, Mr. Griffin. We've made a pretty penny by him—sixty guineas this blessed day.”
“No more!” cried Griffin, incredulously; “I should have thought you must have made double that sum at least.”
“Not a farthing more, I assure you,” rejoined Ireton, pettishly; “we're all on the square here. I took the money myself, and ought to know.”
“Oh! certainly,” answered Griffin; “certainly.”
“I offered Jack five guineas as his share,” continued Ireton; “but he wouldn't take it himself, and gave it to the poor debtors and felons, who are now drinking it out in the cellar on the Common Side.”
“Jack's a noble fellow,” exclaimed the head-jailer of Clerkenwell Prison, raising his glass; “and, though he played me a scurvy trick, I'll drink to his speedy deliverance.”
“At Tyburn, eh, Mr. Shotbolt?” rejoined the executioner. “I'll pledge you in that toast with all my heart.”
“Well, for my part,” observed Mrs. Spurling, “I hope he may never see Tyburn. And, if I'd my own way with the Secretary of State, he never should. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. There haven't been so many ladies in the Lodge since the days of Claude Du Val, the gentleman highwayman; and they all declare it'll break their hearts if he's scragged.”
“Bah!” ejaculated Marvel, gruffly.
“You think our sex has no feeling, I suppose, Sir,” cried Mrs. Spurling, indignantly; “but I can tell you we have. And, what's more, I tell you, if Captain Sheppard is hanged, you need never hope to call me Mrs. Marvel.”
“'Zounds!” cried the executioner, in astonishment. “Do you know what you are talking about, Mrs. Spurling? Why, if Captain Sheppard should get off, it 'ud be fifty guineas out of my way. There's the grand laced coat he wore at his trial, which I intend for my wedding-dress.”
“Don't mention such a thing, Sir,” interrupted the tapstress. “I couldn't bear to see you in it. Your speaking of the trial brings the whole scene to my mind. Ah! I shall never forget the figure Jack cut on that occasion. What a buzz of admiration ran round the court as he appeared! And, how handsome and composed he looked! Everybody wondered that such a stripling could commit such desperate robberies. His firmness never deserted him till his old master, Mr. Wood, was examined. Then he did give way a bit. And when Mr. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. Poor young lady! She trembled too, and was unable to give her evidence. When sentence was passed there wasn't a dry eye in the court.”
“Yes, there was one,” observed Ireton.
“I guess who you mean,” rejoined Shotbolt. “Mr. Wild's.”
“Right,” answered Ireton. “It's strange the antipathy he bears to Sheppard. I was standing near Jack at that awful moment, and beheld the look Wild fixed on him. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones. When the prisoner was removed from the dock, we met Jonathan as we passed through the yard. He stopped us, and, addressing Jack in a taunting tone, said, 'Well, I've been as good as my word!'—'True,' replied Sheppard; 'and I'll be as good as mine!' And so they parted.”
“And I hope he will, if it's anything to Jonathan's disadvantage,” muttered Mrs. Spurling, half aside.
“I'm surprised Mr. Wild hasn't been to inquire after him to-day,” observed Langley; “it's the first time he's missed doing so since the trial.”
“He's gone to Enfield after Blueskin, who has so long eluded his vigilance,” rejoined Austin. “Quilt Arnold called this morning to say so. Certain information, it seems, has been received from a female, that Blueskin would be at a flash-ken near the Chase at five o'clock to-day, and they're all set out in the expectation of nabbing him.”
“Mr. Wild had a narrow escape lately, in that affair of Captain Darrell,” observed Shotbolt.
“I don't exactly know the rights of that affair,” rejoined Griffin, with some curiosity.
“Nor any one else, I suspect,” answered Ireton, winking significantly. “It's a mysterious transaction altogether. But, as much as is known is this: Captain Darrell, who resides with Mr. Wood at Dollis Hill, was assaulted and half-killed by a party of ruffians, headed, he swore, by Mr. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard. Mr. Wild, however, proved, on the evidence of his own servants, that he was at the Old Bailey at the time; and Sir Rowland proved that he was in Manchester. So the charge was dismissed. Another charge was then brought against them by the Captain, who accused them of kidnapping him when a boy, and placing him in the hands of a Dutch skipper, named Van Galgebrok, with instructions to throw him overboard, which was done, though he afterwards escaped. But this accusation, for want of sufficient evidence, met with the same fate as the first, and Jonathan came off victorious. It was thought, however, if the skipper could have been found, that the result of the case would have been materially different. This was rather too much to expect; for we all know, if Mr. Wild wishes to keep a man out of the way, he'll speedily find the means to do so.”
“Ay, ay,” cried the jailers, laughing.
“I could have given awkward evidence in that case, if I'd been so inclined,” said Mrs. Spurling, “ay and found Van Galgebrok too. But I never betray an old customer.”
“Mr. Wild is a great man,” said the hangman, replenishing his pipe, “and we owe him much, and ought to support him. Were any thing to happen to him, Newgate wouldn't be what it is, nor Tyburn either.”
“Mr. Wild has given you some employment, Mr. Marvel,” remarked Shotbolt.
“A little, Sir,” replied the executioner, with a grim smile.
“Out of the twelve hundred subjects I've tucked up, I may safely place half to his account. If ever he requires my services, he shall find I'm not ungrateful. And though I say it that shouldn't say it, no man can tie a better knot. Mr. Wild, gentlemen, and the nubbin' cheat.”
“Fill your glasses, gentlemen,” observed Ireton, “and I'll tell you a droll thing Jack said this morning. Amongst others who came to see him, was a Mr. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. As this gentleman was going away, he said to Jack in a jesting manner, 'that he should be glad to see him to-night at supper.' Upon which the other answered, 'that he accepted his invitation with pleasure, and would make a point of waiting upon him,' Ha! ha! ha!”
“Did he say so?” cried Shotbolt. “Then I advise you to look sharply after him, Mr. Ireton; for may I be hanged myself if I don't believe he'll be as good as his word.”
At this juncture, two women, very smartly attired in silk hoods and cloaks, appeared at the door of the Lodge.
“Ah! who have we here?” exclaimed Griffin.
“Only Jack's two wives—Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot,” replied Austin, laughing.
“They can't go into the Condemned Hold,” said Ireton, consequentially; “it's against Mr. Wild's orders. They must see the prisoner at the hatch.”
“Very well, Sir,” replied Austin, rising and walking towards them. “Well, my pretty dears,” he added, “—to see your husband, eh? You must make the most of your time. You won't have him long. You've heard the news, I suppose?”
“That the death warrant's arrived,” returned Edgeworth Bess, bursting into a flood of tears; “oh, yes! we've heard it.”
“How does Jack bear it?” inquired Mrs. Maggot.
“Like a hero,” answered Austin.
“I knew he would,” replied the Amazon. “Come Bess,—no whimpering. Don't unman him. Are we to see him here?”
“Yes, my love.”
“Well, then, lose no time in bringing him to us,” said Mrs. Maggot. “There's a guinea to drink our health,” she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand.
“Here, Caliban,” shouted the under-turnkey, “unlock Captain Sheppard's padlock, and tell him his wives are in the Lodge waiting to see him.”
“Iss, Massa Austin,” replied the black. And taking the keys, he departed on the errand.
As soon as he was gone, the two women divested themselves of their hoods and cloaks, and threw them, as if inadvertently, into the farthest part of the angle in the wall. Their beautifully proportioned figures and rather over-displayed shoulders attracted the notice of Austin, who inquired of the chief turnkey “whether he should stand by them during the interview?”
“Oh! never mind them,” said Mrs. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. “Sit down, and enjoy yourself. I'll keep a look out that nothing happens.”
By this time Caliban had returned, and Jack appeared at the hatch. He was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown of light material, and stood near the corner where the women's dresses had just been thrown down, quite out of sight of all the party, except Mrs. Spurling, who sat on the right of the table.
“Have you got Jonathan out of the way?” he asked, in an eager whisper.
“Yes, yes,” replied Edgeworth Bess. “Patience Kite has lured him to Enfield on a false scent after Blueskin. You need fear no interruption from him, or any of his myrmidons.”
“That's well!” cried Jack. “Now stand before me, Poll. I've got the watch-spring saw in my sleeve. Pretend to weep both of you as loudly as you can. This spike is more than half cut through. I was at work at it yesterday and the day before. Keep up the clamour for five minutes, and I'll finish it.”
Thus urged, the damsels began to raise their voices in loud lamentation.
“What the devil are you howling about?” cried Langley. “Do you think we are to be disturbed in this way? Make less noise, hussies, or I'll turn you out of the Lodge.”
“For shame, Mr. Langley,” rejoined Mrs. Spurling: “I blush for you, Sir! To call yourself a man, and interfere with the natural course of affection! Have you no feeling for the situation of those poor disconsolate creatures, about to be bereaved of all they hold dear? Is it nothing to part with a husband to the gallows? I've lost four in the same way, and know what it is.” Here she began to blubber loudly for sympathy.
“Comfort yourself, my charmer,” said Mr. Marvel, in a tone intended to be consolatory. “I'll be their substitute.”
“You!” cried the tapstress, with a look of horror: “Never!”
“Confusion!” muttered Jack, suddenly pausing in his task, “the saw has broken just as I am through the spike.”
“Can't we break it off?” replied Mrs. Maggot.
“I fear not,” replied Jack, despondingly.
“Let's try, at all events,” returned the Amazon.
And grasping the thick iron rod, she pushed with all her force against it, while Jack seconded her efforts from within. After great exertions on both parts, the spike yielded to their combined strength, and snapped suddenly off.
“Holloa—what's that?” cried Austin, starting up.
“Only my darbies,” returned Jack, clinking his chains.
“Oh! that was all, was it?” said the turnkey, quietly reseating himself.
“Now, give me the woollen cloth to tie round my fetters,” whispered Sheppard. “Quick.”
“Here it is,” replied Edgeworth Bess.
“Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through,” cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. “Keep a sharp look out, Bess.”
“Stop!” interposed Edgeworth Bess; “Mr. Langley is getting up, and coming this way. We're lost.”
“Help me through at all hazards, Poll,” cried Jack, straining towards the opening.
“The danger's past,” whispered Bess. “Mrs. Spurling has induced him to sit down again. Ah! she looks this way, and puts her finger to her lips. She comprehends what we're about. We're all safe!”
“Don't lose a moment then,” cried Jack, forcing himself into the aperture, while the Amazon, assisted by Bess, pulled him through it.
Original Size -- Medium-Size
“There!” cried Mrs. Maggot, as she placed him without noise upon the ground; “you're safe so far.”
“Come, my disconsolate darlings,” cried Austin, “it only wants five minutes to six. I expect Mr. Wild here presently. Cut it as short as you can.”
“Only two minutes more, Sir,” intreated Edgeworth Bess, advancing towards him in such a manner as to screen Jack, who crept into the farthest part of the angle,—“only two minutes, and we've done.”
“Well, well, I'm not within a minute,” rejoined the turnkey.
“We shall never be able to get you out unseen, Jack,” whispered Poll Maggot. “You must make a bold push.”
“Impossible,” replied Sheppard, in the same tone. “That would be certain destruction. I can't run in these heavy fetters. No: I must face it out. Tell Bess to slip out, and I'll put on her cloak and hood.”
Meanwhile, the party at the table continued drinking and chatting as merrily as before.
“I can't help thinking of Jack Sheppard's speech to Mr. Kneebone,” observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; “I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night.”
“Poh! poh!” rejoined Ireton; “it was mere idle boasting. I examined the Condemned Hold myself carefully this morning, and didn't find a nail out of its place. Recollect, he's chained to the ground by a great horse-padlock, and is never unloosed except when he comes to that hatch. If he escapes at all, it must be before our faces.”
“It wouldn't surprise me if he did,” remarked Griffin. “He's audacity enough for anything. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair.”
“Caught you napping, eh?” rejoined Ireton, with a laugh. “Well, he won't do that here. I'll forgive him if he does.”
“And so will I,” said Austin. “We're too wide awake for that. Ain't we, partner?” he added, appealing to Langley, whom punch had made rather dozy.
“I should think so,” responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn.
During this colloquy, Jack had contrived unobserved to put on the hood and cloak, and being about the size of the rightful owner, presented a very tolerable resemblance to her. This done, Edgeworth Bess, who watched her opportunity, slipped out of the Lodge.
“Halloa!” exclaimed Austin, who had caught a glimpse of her departing figure, “one of the women is gone!”
“No—no,” hastily interposed Mrs. Spurling; “they're both here. Don't you see they're putting on their cloaks?”
“That's false!” rejoined Marvel, in a low tone; “I perceive what has taken place.”
“Oh! goodness!” ejaculated the tapstress, in alarm. “You won't betray him.”
“Say the word, and I'm mum,” returned the executioner.
“Will you be mine!”
“It's a very unfair advantage to take—very,” replied Mrs. Spurling; “however I consent.”
“Then I'll lend a helping hand. I shall lose my fees and the laced coat. But it's better to have the bride without the weddin' dress, than the weddin' dress without the bride.”
At this moment, Saint Sepulchre's clock struck six.
“Close the wicket, Austin,” vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone.
“Good bye!” cried Jack, as if taking leave of his mistresses, “to-morrow, at the same time.”
“We'll be punctual,” replied Mrs. Maggot. “Good bye, Jack! Keep up your spirits.”
“Now for it!—life or death!” exclaimed Jack, assuming the gait of a female, and stepping towards the door.
As Austin rose to execute his principal's commands, and usher the women to the gate, Mrs. Spurling and Marvel rose too. The latter walked carelessly towards the hatch, and leaning his back against the place whence the spike had been removed, so as completely to hide it, continued smoking his pipe as coolly as if nothing had happened.
Just as Jack gained the entrance, he heard a man's footstep behind him, and aware that the slightest indiscretion would betray him, he halted, uncertain what to do.
“Stop a minute, my dear,” cried Austin. “You forget that you promised me a kiss the last time you were here.”
“Won't one from me do as well?” interposed Mrs. Maggot.
“Much better,” said Mrs. Spurling, hastening to the rescue. “I want to speak to Edgeworth Bess myself.”
So saying, she planted herself between Jack and the turnkey. It was a moment of breathless interest to all engaged in the attempt.
“Come—the kiss!” cried Austin, endeavouring to pass his arm familiarly round the Amazon's waist.
“Hands off!” she exclaimed, “or you'll repent it.”
“Why, what'll you do?” demanded the turnkey.
“Teach you to keep your distance!” retorted Mrs. Maggot, dealing him a buffet that sent him reeling several yards backwards.
“There! off with you!” whispered Mrs. Spurling, squeezing Jack's arm, and pushing him towards the door, “and, don't come here again.”
Before Austin could recover himself, Jack and Mrs. Maggot had disappeared.
“Bolt the wicket!” shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture.
This was done, and Austin returned with a crest-fallen look to the table. Upon which Mrs. Spurling, and her now accepted suitor, resumed their seats.
“You'll be as good as your word, my charmer,” whispered the executioner.
“Of course,” responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh. “Oh! Jack! Jack!—you little know what a price I've paid for you!”
“Well, I'm glad those women are gone,” remarked Shotbolt. “Coupling their presence with Jack's speech, I couldn't help fearing some mischief might ensue.”
“That reminds me he's still at large,” returned Ireton. “Here, Caliban, go and fasten his padlock.”
“Iss, Massa Ireton,” replied the black.
“Stop, Caliban,” interposed Mrs. Spurling, who wished to protract the discovery of the escape as long as possible. “Before you go, bring me the bottle of pine-apple rum I opened yesterday. I should like Mr. Ireton and his friends to taste it. It is in the lower cupboard. Oh! you haven't got the key—then I must have it, I suppose. How provoking!” she added, pretending to rummage her pockets; “one never can find a thing when one wants it.”
“Never mind it, my dear Mrs. Spurling,” rejoined Ireton; “we can taste the rum when he returns. We shall have Mr. Wild here presently, and I wouldn't for the world—Zounds!” he exclaimed, as the figure of the thief-taker appeared at the wicket, “here he is. Off with you, Caliban! Fly, you rascal!”
“Mr. Wild here!” exclaimed Mrs. Spurling in alarm. “Oh gracious! he's lost.”
“Who's lost?” demanded Ireton.
“The key,” replied the widow.
All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him.
“No Blueskin, I perceive, Sir,” he observed, in a deferential tone, as Wild entered the Lodge.
“No,” replied Jonathan, moodily. “I've been deceived by false information. But the wench who tricked me shall bitterly repent it. I hope this is all. I begin to fear I might be purposely go out of the way. Nothing has gone wrong here?”
“Nothing whatever,” replied Ireton. “Jack is just gone back to the Condemned Hold. His two wives have been here.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Jonathan, with a sudden vehemence that electrified the chief turnkey; “what's this! a spike gone! 'Sdeath! the women, you say, have been here. He has escaped.”
“Impossible, Sir,” replied Ireton, greatly alarmed.
“Impossible!” echoed Wild, with a fearful imprecation. “No, Sir, it's quite possible—more than possible. It's certain. I'll lay my life he's gone. Come with me to the Condemned Hold directly, and, if I find my fears confirmed, I'll—”
He was here interrupted by the sudden entrance of the black, who rushed precipitately into the room, letting fall the heavy bunch of keys in his fright.
“O Massa Ireton! Massa Wild!” ejaculated Caliban, “Shack Sheppart gone!”
“Gone? you black devil!—Gone?” cried Ireton.
“Iss, Massa. Caliban sarch ebery hole in de place, but Shack no dere. Only him big hoss padlock—noting else.”
“I knew it,” rejoined Wild, with concentrated rage; “and he escaped you all, in broad day, before your faces. You may well say it's impossible! His Majesty's jail of Newgate is admirably guarded, I must say. Ireton, you are in league with him.”
“Sir,” said the chief turnkey, indignantly.
“You are, Sir,” thundered Jonathan; “and, unless you find him, you shan't hold your place a week. I don't threaten idly, as you know. And you, Austin; and you Langley, I say the same thing to you.”
“But, Mr. Wild,” implored the turnkeys.
“I've said it,” rejoined Jonathan, peremptorily. “And you, Marvel, you must have been a party—”
“I, Sir!”
“If he's not found, I'll get a new hangman.”
“Zounds!” cried Marvel, “I—”
“Hush!” whispered the tapstress, “or I retract my promise.”
“Mrs. Spurling,” said Jonathan, who overheard the whisper, “you owe your situation to me. If you have aided Jack Sheppard's escape, you shall owe your discharge to me also.”
“As you please, Sir,” replied the tapstress, coolly. “And the next time Captain Darrell wants a witness, I promise you he shan't look for one in vain.”
“Ha! hussy, dare you threaten?” cried Wild; but, checking himself, he turned to Ireton and asked, “How long have the women been gone?”
“Scarcely five minutes,” replied the latter.
“One of you fly to the market,” returned Jonathan; “another to the river; a third to the New Mint. Disperse in every direction. We'll have him yet. A hundred pounds to the man who takes him.”
So saying, he rushed out, followed by Ireton and Langley.
“A hundred pounds!” exclaimed Shotbolt. “That's a glorious reward. Do you think he'll pay it?”
“I'm sure of it,” replied Austin.
“Then I'll have it before to-morrow morning,” said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself. “If Jack Sheppard sups with Mr. Kneebone, I'll make one of the party.”