may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that “there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;” but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. Seconded by his strength and temper, his skill rendered him invincible and he is reputed never to have lost a battle. His imperturbable demeanour in the fight has been well portrayed by Captain Godfrey, who here condescends to lay aside his stilts. “His right leg bold and firm, and his left, which could hardly ever be disturbed, gave him a surprising advantage, and struck his adversary with despair and panic. He had a peculiar way of stepping in, in a parry; knew his arm, and its just time of moving; put a firm faith in that, and never let his opponent escape. He was just as much a greater master than any other I ever saw, as he was a greater judge of time and measure.” Figg's prowess in a combat with Button has been celebrated by Dr. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the “Rake's Progress,” and in “Southwark Fair.”
On the appearance of his visitors, Sheppard arose,—his gyves clanking heavily as he made the movement,—and folding his arms, so far as his manacles would permit him, upon his breast, steadily returned the glances fixed upon him.
“This is the noted house-breaker and prison-breaker, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pitt, pointing to the prisoner.
“Odd's life!” cried Gay, in astonishment; “is this slight-made stripling Jack Sheppard? Why, I expected to see a man six foot high at the least, and as broad across the shoulders as our friend Figg. This is a mere boy. Are you sure you haven't mistaken the ward, Mr. Pitt?”
“There is no mistake, Sir,” rejoined the prisoner, drawing himself up, “I am Jack Sheppard.”
“Well, I never was more surprised in my life,” said the poet,—“never!”
“He's just the man I expected to see,” observed Hogarth, who, having arranged everything to Thornhill's satisfaction, had turned to look at the prisoner, and was now with his chin upon his wrist, and his elbow supported by the other hand, bending his keen gray eyes upon him, “just the man! Look at that light, lithe figure,—all muscle and activity, with not an ounce of superfluous flesh upon it. In my search after strange characters, Mr. Gay, I've been in many odd quarters of our city—have visited haunts frequented only by thieves—the Old Mint, the New Mint, the worst part of St. Giles's, and other places—but I've nowhere seen any one who came up so completely to my notion of a first-rate housebreaker as the individual before us. Wherever I saw him, I should pick him out as a man designed by nature to plan and accomplish the wonderful escapes he has effected.”
As he spoke, a smile crossed Sheppard's countenance.
“He understands me, you perceive,” said Hogarth.
“Well, I won't dispute your judgment in such matters, Mr. Hogarth,” replied Gay. “But I appeal to you, Sir James, whether it isn't extraordinary that so very slight a person should be such a desperate robber as he is represented—so young, too, for such an old offender. Why, he can scarcely be twenty.”
“I am one-and-twenty,” observed Jack.
“One-and-twenty, ah!” repeated Gay. “Well, I'm not far from the mark.”
“He is certainly extremely youthful-looking and very slightly made,” said Thornhill, who had been attentively studying Sheppard's countenance. “But I agree with Hogarth, that he is precisely the person to do what he has done. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. Can I be accommodated with a seat, Mr. Pitt?”
“Certainly, Sir James, certainly,” replied the governor. “Get a chair, Austin.”
While this order was obeyed, Figg, who had been standing near the door, made his way to the prisoner, and offered him his huge hand, which Jack warmly grasped.
“Well, Jack,” said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cut-and-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; “how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. Wouldn't take my advice. Told you how it would be. One mistress enough to ruin a man,—two, the devil. Laughed at me, then. Laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, now.”
“You're not come here to insult me, Mr. Figg?” said Jack, peevishly.
“Insult you! not I;” returned Figg. “Heard of your escapes. Everybody talking of you. Wished to see you. Old pupil. Capital swordsman. Shortly to be executed. Come to take leave. Trifle useful?” he added, slipping a few gold pieces into Jack's hand.
“You are very kind,” said Jack, returning the money; “but I don't require assistance.”
“Too proud, eh?” rejoined the prize-fighter. “Won't be under an obligation.”
“There you're wrong, Mr. Figg,” replied Jack, smiling; “for, before I'm taken to Tyburn, I mean to borrow a shirt for the occasion from you.”
“Have it, and welcome,” rejoined Figg. “Always plenty to spare. Never bought a shirt in my life, Mr. Gay,” he added, turning to the poet. “Sold a good many, though.”
“How do you manage that, Mr. Figg?” asked Gay.
“Thus,” replied the prize-fighter. “Proclaim a public fight. Challenge accepted. Fifty pupils. Day before, send round to each to borrow a shirt. Fifty sent home. All superfine holland. Wear one on the stage on the following day. Cut to pieces—slashed—bloodied. Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. Offer to return it to each in private. All make the same answer—'d—n you, keep it.'”
“An ingenious device,” laughed Gay.
Sir James Thornhill's preparations being completed, Mr. Pitt desired to know if he wanted anything further, and being answered in the negative, he excused himself on the plea that his attendance was required in the court at the Old Bailey, which was then sitting, and withdrew.
“Do me the favour to seat yourself, Jack,” said Sir James. “Gentlemen, a little further off, if you please.”
Sheppard immediately complied with the painter's request; while Gay and Figg drew back on one side, and Hogarth on the other. The latter took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil.
“I'll make a sketch, too,” he said. “Jack Sheppard's face is well worth preserving.”
After narrowly examining the countenance of the sitter, and motioning him with his pencil into a particular attitude, Sir James Thornhill commenced operations; and, while he rapidly transferred his lineaments to the canvass, engaged him in conversation, in the course of which he artfully contrived to draw him into a recital of his adventures. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. During the narration Jack's features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist. All the party were greatly interested by Sheppard's history—especially Figg, who laughed loud and long at the escape from the Condemned Hold. When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell.
“We must change the subject,” remarked Thornhill, pausing in his task; “this will never do.”
“Quite right, Sir James,” said Austin. “We never suffer him to mention Mr. Wild's name. He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him.”
“I don't wonder at it,” rejoined Gay.
Here Hogarth received a private signal from Thornhill to attract Sheppard's attention.
“And so you've given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?” remarked Hogarth.
“That's scarcely a fair question, Mr. Hogarth, before the jailer,” replied Jack. “But I tell you frankly, and Mr. Austin, may repeat it if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild,—I have not.”
“Well said, Jack,” cried Figg. “Never give in.”
“Well,” observed Hogarth, “if, fettered as you are, you contrive to break out of this dungeon, you'll do what no man ever did before.”
A peculiar smile illuminated Jack's features.
“There it is!” cried Sir James, eagerly. “There's the exact expression I want. For the love of Heaven, Jack, don't move!—Don't alter a muscle, if you can help it.”
And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression on the canvass.
“I have it too!” exclaimed Hogarth, busily plying his pencil. “Gad! it's a devilish fine face when lit up.”
“As like as life, Sir,” observed Austin, peeping over Thornhill's shoulder at the portrait. “As like as life.”
“The very face,” exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it;—“with all the escapes written in it.”
“You flatter me,” smiled Sir James. “But, I own, I think it is like.”
“What do you think of my sketch, Jack?” said Hogarth, handing him the drawing.
“It's like enough, I dare say,” rejoined Sheppard. “But it wants something here.” And he pointed significantly to the hand.
“I see,” rejoined Hogarth, rapidly sketching a file, which he placed in the hands of the picture. “Will that do?” he added, returning it.
“It's better,” observed Sheppard, meaningly. “But you've given me what I don't possess.”
“Hum!” said Hogarth, looking fixedly at him. “I don't see how I can improve it.”
“May I look at it, Sir!” said Austin, stepping towards him.
“No,” replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch. “I'm never satisfied with a first attempt.”
“Egad, Jack,” said Gay, “you should write your adventures. They would be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of my favourite rogues,—and far more instructive.”
“You had better write them for me, Mr. Gay,” rejoined Jack.
“If you'll write them, I'll illustrate them,” observed Hogarth.
“An idea has just occurred to me,” said Gay, “which Jack's narrative has suggested. I'll write an opera the scene of which shall be laid altogether in Newgate, and the principal character shall be a highmaywan. I'll not forget your two mistresses, Jack.”
“Nor Jonathan Wild, I hope,” interposed Sheppard.
“Certainly not,” replied Gay. “I'll gibbet the rascal. But I forget,” he added, glancing at Austin; “it's high treason to speak disrespectfully of Mr. Wild in his own domain.”
“I hear nothing, Sir,” laughed Austin.
“I was about to add,” continued Gay, “that my opera shall have no music except the good old ballad tunes. And we'll see whether it won't put the Italian opera out of fashion, with Cutzoni, Senesino, and the 'divine' Farinelli at its head.”
“You'll do a national service, then,” said Hogarth. “The sums lavished upon those people are perfectly disgraceful, and I should be enchanted to see them hooted from the stage. But I've an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard's story. I'll take two apprentices, and depict their career. One, by perseverance and industry shall obtain fortune, credit, and the highest honours; while the other by an opposite course, and dissolute habits, shall eventually arrive at Tyburn.”
“Your's will be nearer the truth, and have a deeper moral, Mr. Hogarth,” remarked Jack, dejectedly. “But if my career were truly exhibited, it must be as one long struggle against destiny in the shape of—”
“Jonathan Wild,” interposed Gay. “I knew it. By the by, Mr. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?”
“Me!—no, Sir,” stammered Hogarth, colouring. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Luckily, Sir James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and gesture escaped him.
“I suppose I was mistaken,” returned Gay. “You've been quizzing my friend Kent, I perceive, in your Burlington Gate.”
“A capital caricature that,” remarked Thornhill, laughing. “What does Mr. Kent say to it?”
“He thinks so highly of it, that he says if he had a daughter he would give her to the artist,” answered Gay, a little maliciously.
“Ah!” exclaimed Sir James.
“'Sdeath!” cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. “You've ruined my hopes.”
“Advanced them rather,” replied Gay, in the same tone. “Miss Thornhill's a charming girl. I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. But, if I were in your place, I know what I'd do—”
“What—what would you do?” asked Hogarth, eagerly.
“Run away with her,” replied Gay.
“Pish!” exclaimed Hogarth. But he afterwards acted upon the suggestion.
“Good-b'ye, Jack,” said Figg, putting on his hat. “Rather in the way. Send you the shirt. Here, turnkey. Couple of guineas to drink Captain Sheppard's speedy escape. Thank him, not me, man. Give this fellow the slip, if you can, Jack. If not, keep up your spirits. Die game.”
“Never fear,” replied Jack. “If I get free, I'll have a bout with you at all weapons. If not, I'll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn.”
“Give you the best I have in either case,” replied Figg. “Good-b'ye!” And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure.
Sir James Thornhill, then, rose.
“I won't trouble you further, Jack,” he remarked. “I've done all I can to the portrait here. I must finish it at home.”
“Permit me to see it, Sir James!” requested Jack. “Ah!” he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. “What would my poor mother say to it?”
“I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack,” observed Hogarth.
“What of her?” exclaimed Jack, starting up. “Is she dead?”
“No—no,” answered Hogarth. “Don't alarm yourself. I saw it this morning in the Daily Journal—an advertisement, offering a reward—”
“A reward!” echoed Jack. “For what?”
“I had the paper with me. 'Sdeath! what can I have done with it? Oh! here it is,” cried Hogarth, picking it from the ground. “I must have dropped it when I took out my note-book. There's the paragraph. 'Mrs. Sheppard left Mr. Wood's house at Dollis Hill on Tuesday'—that's two days ago,—'hasn't been heard of since.'”
“Let me see,” cried Jack, snatching the paper, and eagerly perusing the advertisement. “Ah!” he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. “She has fallen into the villain's hands.”
“What villain?” cried Hogarth.
“Jonathan Wild, I'll be sworn,” said Gay.
“Right!—right!” cried Jack, striking his fettered hands against his breast. “She is in his power, and I am here, chained hand and foot, unable to assist her.”
“I could make a fine sketch of him now,” whispered Hogarth to Gay.
“I told you how it was, Sir James,” said Austin, addressing the knight, who was preparing for his departure, “he attributes every misfortune that befals him to Mr. Wild.”
“And with some justice,” replied Thornhill, drily.
“Allow me to assist you, Sir James,” said Hogarth.
“Many thanks, Sir,” replied Thornhill, with freezing politeness; “but Id not require assistance.”
“I tell you what, Jack,” said Gay, “I've several urgent engagements this morning; but I'll return to-morrow, and hear the rest of your story. And, if I can render you any service, you may command me.”
“To-morrow will be too late,” said Sheppard, moodily.
The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. Just as Hogarth got to the door, the turnkey stopped him.
“You have forgotten your knife, Mr. Hogarth,” he observed, significantly.
“So I have,” replied Hogarth, glancing at Sheppard.
“I can do without it,” muttered Jack.
The door was then locked, and he was left alone.
At three o'clock, on the same day, Austin brought up Jack's provisions, and, after carefully examining his fetters, and finding all secure, told him if he wanted anything further he must mention it, as he should not be able to return in the evening, his presence being required elsewhere. Jack replied in the negative, and it required all his mastery over himself to prevent the satisfaction which this announcement afforded him from being noticed by the jailer.
With the usual precautions, Austin then departed.
“And now,” cried Jack, leaping up, “for an achievement, compared with which all I have yet done shall be as nothing!”
Jack Sheppard's first object was to free himself from his handcuffs. This he accomplished by holding the chain that connected them firmly between his teeth, and squeezing his fingers as closely together as possible, succeeded in drawing his wrists through the manacles. He next twisted the heavy gyves round and round, and partly by main strength, partly by a dexterous and well-applied jerk, sapped asunder the central link by which they were attached to the padlock. Taking off his stockings, he then drew up the basils as far as he was able, and tied the fragments of the broken chain to his legs, to prevent them from clanking, and impeding his future exertions.
Jack's former attempt to pass up the chimney, it may be remembered, was obstructed by an iron bar. To remove this obstacle it was necessary make an extensive breach in the wall. With the broken links of the chain, which served him in lieu of more efficient implements, he commenced operations just above the chimney-piece, and soon contrived to pick a hole in the plaster.
He found the wall, as he suspected, solidly constructed of brick and stone; and with the slight and inadequate tools which he possessed, it was a work of infinite labour and skill to get out a single brick. That done, however, he was well aware the rest would be comparatively easy, and as he threw the brick to the ground, he exclaimed triumphantly, “The first step is taken—the main difficulty is overcome.”
Animated by this trifling success, he proceeded with fresh ardour, and the rapidity of his progress was proclaimed by the heap of bricks, stones, and mortar which before long covered the floor. At the expiration of an hour, by dint of unremitting exertion, he had made so large a breach in the chimney, that he could stand upright in it. He was now within a foot of the bar, and introducing himself into the hole, speedily worked his way to it.
Regardless of the risk he incurred from some heavy stone dropping on his head or feet,—regardless also of the noise made by the falling rubbish, and of the imminent danger which he consequently ran of being interrupted by some of the jailers, should the sound reach their ears, he continued to pull down large masses of the wall, which he flung upon the floor of the cell.
Having worked thus for another quarter of an hour without being sensible of fatigue, though he was half stifled by the clouds of dust which his exertions raised, he had made a hole about three feet wide, and six high, and uncovered the iron bar. Grasping it firmly with both hands, he quickly wrenched if from the stones in which it was mortised, and leapt to the ground. On examination it proved to be a flat bar of iron, nearly a yard in length, and more than an inch square. “A capital instrument for my purpose,” thought Jack, shouldering it, “and worth all the trouble I have had in procuring it.”
While he was thus musing, he fancied he heard the lock tried. A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell. After listening attentively for a short time without drawing breath, he became convinced that his apprehensions were groundless, and, greatly relieved, sat down upon the chair to rest himself and prepare for further efforts.
Acquainted with every part of the jail, Jack well knew that his only chance of effecting an escape must be by the roof. To reach it would be a most difficult undertaking. Still it was possible, and the difficulty was only a fresh incitement.
The mere enumeration of the obstacles that existed would have deterred any spirit less daring than Sheppard's from even hazarding the attempt. Independently of other risks, and of the chance of breaking his neck in the descent, he was aware that to reach the leads he should have to break open six of the strongest doors of the prison. Armed, however, with the implement he had so fortunately obtained, he did not despair of success.
“My name will only be remembered as that of a robber,” he mused; “but it shall be remembered as that of a bold one: and this night's achievement, if it does nothing else, shall prevent me from being classed with the common herd of depredators.”
Roused by this reflection, filled with the deepest anxiety for his mother, and burning to be avenged upon Jonathan Wild, he grasped the iron bar, which, when he sat down, he had laid upon his knees, and stepped quickly across the room. In doing so, he had to clamber up the immense heap of bricks and rubbish which now littered the floor, amounting almost to a car-load, and reaching up nearly to the top of the chimney-piece.
“Austin will stare,” thought Jack, “when he comes here in the morning. It will cost them something to repair their stronghold, and take them more time to build it up again than I have taken to pull it down.”
Before proceeding with his task, he considered whether it would be possible to barricade the door; but, reflecting that the bar would be an indispensable assistant in his further efforts, he abandoned the idea, and determined to rely implicitly on that good fortune which had hitherto attended him on similar occasions.
Having once more got into the chimney, he climbed to a level with the ward above, and recommenced operations as vigorously as before. He was now aided with a powerful implement, with which he soon contrived to make a hole in the wall.
“Every brick I take out,” cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, “brings me nearer my mother.”
The ward into which Jack was endeavouring to break was called the Red Room, from the circumstance of its walls having once been painted in that colour; all traces of which had, however, long since disappeared. Like the Castle, which it resembled in all respects except that it was destitute even of a barrack-bedstead, the Red Room was reserved for state-prisoners, and had not been occupied since the year 1716, when the jail, as has before been mentioned, was crowded by the Preston rebels.
Having made a hole in the wall sufficiently large to pass through, Jack first tossed the bar into the room and then crept after it. As soon as he had gained his feet, he glanced round the bare blank walls of the cell, and, oppressed by the musty, close atmosphere, exclaimed, “I'll let a little fresh air into this dungeon. They say it hasn't been opened for eight years—but I won't be eight years in getting out of it.”
In stepping across the room, some sharp point in the floor pierced his foot, and stooping to examine it, he found that the wound had been inflicted by a long rusty nail, which projected from the boards. Totally disregarding the pain, he picked up the nail, and reserved it for future use. Nor was he long in making it available.
On examining the door, he found it secured by a large rusty lock, which he endeavoured to pick with the nail he had just acquired; but all his efforts proving ineffectual, he removed the plate that covered it with the bar, and with his fingers contrived to draw back the bolt.
Opening the door he then stepped into a dark narrow passage leading, as he was well aware, to the chapel. On the left there were doors communicating with the King's Bench Ward and the Stone Ward, two large holds on the Master Debtors' side. But Jack was too well versed in the geography of the place to attempt either of them. Indeed, if he had been ignorant of it, the sound of voices which he could faintly distinguish, would have served as a caution to him.
Hurrying on, his progress was soon checked by a strong door, several inches in thickness, and nearly as wide as the passage. Running his hand carefully over it in search of the lock, he perceived to his dismay that it was fastened on the other side. After several vain attempts to burst it open, he resolved, as a last alternative, to break through the wall in the part nearest to the lock. This was a much more serious task than he anticipated. The wall was of considerable thickness, and built altogether of stone; and the noise he was compelled to make in using the heavy bar, which brought sparks with every splinter he struck off, was so great, that he feared it must be heard by the prisoners on the Debtors' side. Heedless, however, of the consequences, he pursued his task.
Half an hour's labour, during which he was obliged more than once to pause to regain breath, sufficed to make a hole wide enough to allow a passage for his arm up to the elbow. In this way he was able to force back a ponderous bolt from its socket; and to his unspeakable joy, found that the door instantly yielded.
Once more cheered by daylight, he hastened forward, and entered the chapel.
Situated at the upper part of the south-east angle of the jail, the chapel of Old Newgate was divided on the north side into three grated compartments, or pens as they were termed, allotted to the common debtors and felons. In the north-west angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers. Immediately beneath the pulpit stood a large circular pew where malefactors under sentence of death sat to hear the condemned sermon delivered to them, and where they formed a public spectacle to the crowds, which curiosity generally attracted on those occasions.
To return. Jack had got into one of the pens at the north side of the chapel. The enclosure by which it was surrounded was about twelve feet high; the under part being composed of taken planks, the upper of a strong iron grating, surmounted by sharp iron spikes. In the middle there was a gate. It was locked. But Jack speedily burst it open with the iron bar.
Clearing the few impediments in his way, he soon reached the condemned pew, where it had once been his fate to sit; and extending himself on the seat endeavoured to snatch a moment's repose. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. There he sat as before, with the heavy fetters on his limbs, and beside him sat his three companions, who had since expiated their offences on the gibbet. The chapel was again crowded with visitors, and every eye—even that of Jonathan Wild who had come thither to deride him,—was fixed upon him. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up.
On one side of the chapel there was a large grated window, but, as it looked upon the interior of the jail, Jack preferred following the course he had originally decided upon to making any attempt in this quarter.
Accordingly, he proceeded to a gate which stood upon the south, and guarded the passage communicating with the leads. It was grated and crested with spikes, like that he had just burst open, and thinking it a needless waste of time to force it, he broke off one of the spikes, which he carried with him for further purposes, and then climbed over it.
A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged. Here he found another strong door, making the fifth he had encountered. Well aware that the doors in this passage were much stronger than those in the entry he had just quitted he was neither surprised nor dismayed to find it fastened by a lock of unusual size. After repeatedly trying to remove the plate, which was so firmly screwed down that it resisted all his efforts, and vainly attempting to pick it with the spike and nail; he, at length, after half an hour's ineffectual labour, wrenched off the box by means of the iron bar, and the door, as he laughingly expressed it, “became his humble servant.”
But this difficulty was only overcome to be succeeded by one still greater. Hastening along the passage he came to the sixth door. For this he was prepared; but he was not prepared for the almost insurmountable obstacles which it presented. Running his hand hastily over it, he was startled to find it one complicated mass of bolts and bars. It seemed as if all the precautions previously taken were here accumulated. Any one less courageous than himself would have abandoned the attempt from a conviction of its utter hopelessness; but, though it might for a moment damp his ardour, it could not deter him.
Once again, he passed his hand over the surface and carefully noted all the obstacles. There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. Below it a prodigiously large bolt was shot into the socket, and, in order to keep it there, was fastened by a hasp, and further protected by an immense padlock. Besides this, the door was crossed and recrossed by iron bars, clenched by broad-headed nails. An iron fillet secured the socket of the bolt and the box of the lock to the main post of the doorway.
Nothing disheartened by this survey, Jack set to work upon the lock, which he attacked with all his implements;—now attempting to pick it with the nail;—now to wrench it off with the bar: but all without effect. He not only failed in making any impression, but seemed to increase the difficulties, for after an hour's toil he had broken the nail and slightly bent the iron bar.
Completely overcome by fatigue, with strained muscles, and bruised hands; streaming with perspiration, and with lips so parched that he would gladly have parted with a treasure if he had possessed it for a draught of water; he sank against the wall, and while in this state was seized with, a sudden and strange alarm. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,—tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. He even thought he could detect the voice of Jonathan, urging and directing them.
So strongly was he impressed with this idea, that grasping the iron bar with both hands, he dashed it furiously against the door, making the passage echo with the blows.
By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer. His spirits revived, and encouraging himself with the idea that the present impediment, though the greatest, was the last, he set himself seriously to consider how it might best be overcome.
On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed. With incredible labour, and by the aid of both spike and nail, he succeeded in getting the point of the bar beneath the fillet. Exerting all his energies, and using the bar as a lever, he forced off the iron band, which was full seven feet high, seven inches wide, and two thick, and which brought with it in its fall the box of the lock and the socket of the bolt, leaving no further hinderance.
Overjoyed beyond measure at having vanquished this apparently-insurmountable obstacle, Jack darted through the door.
Ascending a short flight of steps, Jack found at the summit a door, which being bolted in the inside he speedily opened.
The fresh air, which blew in his face, greatly revived him. He had now reached what was called the Lower Leads,—a flat, covering a part of the prison contiguous to the gateway, and surrounded on all sides by walls about fourteen feet high. On the north stood the battlements of one of the towers of the gate. On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. This door was crested with spikes, and guarded on the right by a bristling semicircle of spikes. Hastily ascending these steps, Jack found the door, as he anticipated, locked. He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him. Mounting the door he had last opened, he placed his hands on the wall above, and quickly drew himself up.
Just as he got on the roof of the prison, St. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. It was instantly answered by the deep note of St. Paul's; and the concert was prolonged by other neighbouring churches. Jack had thus been six hours in accomplishing his arduous task.
Though nearly dark, there was still light enough left to enable him to discern surrounding objects. Through the gloom he distinctly perceived the dome of St. Paul's, hanging like a black cloud in the air; and nearer to him he remarked the golden ball on the summit of the College of Physicians, compared by Garth to a “gilded pill.” Other towers and spires—St. Martin's on Ludgate-hill, and Christchurch in Newgate Street, were also distinguishable. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below.
To prevent the recurrence of any such escape as that just described, it was deemed expedient, in more recent times, to keep a watchman at the top of Newgate. Not many years ago, two men, employed on this duty, quarrelled during the night, and in the morning their bodies were found stretched upon the pavement of the yard beneath.
Proceeding along the wall, Jack reached the southern tower, over the battlements of which he clambered, and crossing it, dropped upon the roof of the gate. He then scaled the northern tower, and made his way to the summit of that part of the prison which fronted Giltspur Street. Arrived at the extremity of the building, he found that it overlooked the flat-roof of a house which, as far as he could judge in the darkness, lay at a depth of about twenty feet below.
Not choosing to hazard so great a fall, Jack turned to examine the building, to see whether any more favourable point of descent presented itself, but could discover nothing but steep walls, without a single available projection. As he looked around, he beheld an incessant stream of passengers hurrying on below. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill.
Finding it impossible to descend on any side, without incurring serious risk, Jack resolved to return for his blanket, by the help of which he felt certain of accomplishing a safe landing on the roof of the house in Giltspur Street.
Accordingly, he began to retrace his steps, and pursuing the course he had recently taken, scaling the two towers, and passing along the wall of the prison, he descended by means of the door upon the Lower Leads. Before he re-entered the prison, he hesitated from a doubt whether he was not fearfully increasing his risk of capture; but, convinced that he had no other alternative, he went on.
During all this time, he had never quitted the iron bar, and he now grasped it with the firm determination of selling his life dearly, if he met with any opposition. A few seconds sufficed to clear the passage, through which it had previously cost him more than two hours to force his way. The floor was strewn with screws, nails, fragments of wood and stone, and across the passage lay the heavy iron fillet. He did not disturb any of this litter, but left it as a mark of his prowess.
He was now at the entrance of the chapel, and striking the door over which he had previously climbed a violent blow with the bar, it flew open. To vault over the pews was the work of a moment; and having gained the entry leading to the Red Room he passed through the first door; his progress being only impeded by the pile of broken stones, which he himself had raised.
Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. Entering the Red Room, he crept through the hole in the wall, descended the chimney, and arrived once more in his old place of captivity.
How different were his present feelings compared with those he had experienced on quitting it. Then, though full of confidence, he half doubted his power of accomplishing his designs. Now, he had achieved them, and felt assured of success. The vast heap of rubbish on the floor had been so materially increased by the bricks and plaster thrown down in his attack upon the wall of the Red Room, that it was with some difficulty he could find the blanket which was almost buried beneath the pile. He next searched for his stockings and shoes, and when found, put them on.
While he was thus employed, his nerves underwent a severe shock. A few bricks, dislodged probably by his last descent, came clattering down the chimney, and as it was perfectly dark, gave him the notion that some one was endeavouring to force an entrance into the room.
But these fears, like those he had recently experienced, speedily vanished, and he prepared to return to the roof, congratulating himself that owing to the opportune falling of the bricks, he had in all probability escaped serious injury.
Throwing the blanket over his left arm and shouldering the iron bar, he again clambered up the chimney; regained the Red Room; hurried along the first passage; crossed the Chapel; threaded the entry to the Lower Leads; and, in less than ten minutes after quitting the Castle, had reached the northern extremity of the prison.
Previously to his descent he had left the nail and spike on the wall, and with these he fastened the blanket to the stone coping. This done, he let himself carefully down by it, and having only a few feet to drop, alighted in safety.
Having now fairly got out of Newgate for the second time, with a heart throbbing with exultation, he hastened to make good his escape. To his great joy he found a small garret-door in the roof of the opposite house open. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. As he was about to descend his chains slightly rattled. “Oh, lud! what's that?” exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. “Only the dog,” replied the rough tones of a man.
Securing the chain in the best way he could, Jack then hurried down two pair of stairs, and had nearly reached the lobby, when a door suddenly opened, and two persons appeared, one of whom held a light. Retreating as quickly as he could, Jack opened the first door he came to, entered a room, and searching in the dark for some place of concealment, fortunately discovered a skreen, behind which he crept.
Jack was scarcely concealed when the door opened, and the two persons of whom he had caught a glimpse below entered the room. What was his astonishment to recognise in the few words they uttered the voices of Kneebone and Winifred! The latter was apparently in great distress, and the former seemed to be using his best efforts to relieve her anxiety.
“How very fortunate it is,” he observed, “that I happened to call upon Mr. Bird, the turner, to give him an order this evening. It was quite an unexpected pleasure to meet you and your worthy father.”
“Pray cease these compliments,” returned Winifred, “and, if you have any communication to make, do not delay it. You told me just now that you wished to speak a few words to me in private, concerning Thames Darrell, and for that purpose I have left my father below with Mr. Bird and have come hither. What have you got to say?”
“Too much,” replied Kneebone, shaking his head; “sadly too much.”
“Do not needlessly alarm me, I beseech you,” replied Winifred. “Whatever your intelligence may be I will strive to bear it. But do not awaken my apprehension, unless you have good cause for so doing.—What do you know of Thames?—Where is he?”
“Don't agitate yourself, dearest girl,” rejoined the woollen-draper; “or I shall never be able to commence my relation.”
“I am calm—perfectly calm,” replied Winifred. “Pray, make no further mystery; but tell me all without reserve.”
“Since you require it, I must obey,” replied Kneebone; “but prepare yourself for a terrible shock.”
“For mercy's sake, go on!” cried Winifred.
“At all hazards then then you shall know the truth,” replied the woollen-draper, in a tone of affected solicitude,—“but are you really prepared?”
“Quite—quite!” replied Winifred. “This suspense is worse than torture.”
“I am almost afraid to utter it,” said Kneebone; “but Thames Darrell is murdered.”
“Murdered!” ejaculated Winifred.
“Basely and inhumanly murdered, by Jack Sheppard and Blueskin,” continued Kneebone.
“Oh! no—no—no,” cried Winifred, “I cannot believe it. You must be misinformed, Mr. Kneebone. Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured.”
“Generous girl!” cried Jack from behind the skreen.
“I have proofs to the contrary,” replied Kneebone. “The murder was committed after the robbery of my house by Sheppard and his accomplices. I did not choose to mention my knowledge of this fact to your worthy father; but you may rely on its correctness.”
“You were right not to mention it to him,” rejoined Winifred, “for he is in such a state of distress at the mysterious disappearance of Mrs. Sheppard, that I fear any further anxiety might prove fatal to him. And yet I know not—for the object of his visit here to-night was to serve Jack, who, if your statement is correct, which I cannot however for a moment believe, does not deserve his assistance.”
“You may rest assured he does not,” rejoined Kneebone, emphatically, “but I am at a loss to understand in what way your father proposes to assist him.”
“Mr. Bird, the turner, who is an old friend of our's, has some acquaintance with the turnkeys of Newgate,” replied Winifred, “and by his means my father hoped to convey some implements to Jack, by which he might effect another escape.”
“I see,” remarked Kneebone. “This must be prevented,” he added to himself.
“Heaven grant you may have been wrongly informed with respect to Thames!” exclaimed Winifred; “but, I beseech you, on no account to mention what you have told me to my poor father. He is not in a state of mind to bear it.”
“Rely on me,” rejoined Kneebone. “One word before we part, adorable girl—only one,” he continued, detaining her. “I would not venture to renew my suit while Thames lived, because I well knew your affections were fixed upon him. But now that this bar is removed, I trust I may, without impropriety, urge it.”
“No more of this,” said Winifred, angrily. “Is this a season to speak on such a subject?”
“Perhaps not,” rejoined the woollen-draper; “but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. My whole life shall be devoted to you, beloved girl. And when you reflect how much at heart your poor mother, whose loss we must ever deplore, had our union, you will, I am persuaded, no longer refuse me.”
“Sir!” exclaimed Winifred.
“You will make me the happiest of mankind,” cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses.
“Let me go,” cried Winifred. “I disbelieve the whole story you have told me.”
“By Heaven!” cried Kneebone, with increasing fervour, “it is true—as true as my affection for you.”
“I do not doubt it,” retorted Winifred, scornfully; “because I attach credit neither to one nor the other. If Thames is murdered, you are his assassin. Let me go, Sir.”
The woollen-draper made no answer, but hastily starting up, bolted the door.
“What do you mean?” cried Winifred in alarm.
“Nothing more than to obtain a favourable answer to my suit,” replied Kneebone.
“This is not the way to obtain it,” said Winifred, endeavouring to reach the door.
“You shall not go, adorable girl,” cried Kneebone, catching her in his arms, “till you have answered me. You must—you shall be mine.”
“Never,” replied Winifred. “Release me instantly, or I will call my father.”
“Do so,” replied Kneebone; “but remember the door is locked.”
“Monster!” cried Winifred. “Help! help!”
“You call in vain,” returned Kneebone.
“Not so,” replied Jack, throwing down the skreen. “Release her instantly, villain!”
Both Winifred and her suitor started at this sudden apparition. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person.
“In the devil's name, is that you, Jack!” ejaculated Kneebone.
“It is,” replied Sheppard. “You have uttered a wilful and deliberate falsehood in asserting that I have murdered Thames, for whom you well know I would lay down my life. Retract your words instantly, or take the consequences.”
“What should I retract, villain?” cried the woollen-draper, who at the sound of Jack's voice had regained his confidence. “To the best of my belief, Thames Darrell has been murdered by you.”
“A lie!” exclaimed Jack in a terrible tone. And before Kneebone could draw his sword, he felled him to the ground with the iron bar.
“You have killed him,” cried Winifred in alarm.
“No,” answered Jack, approaching her, “though, if I had done so, he would have merited his fate. You do not believe his statement?”
“I do not,” replied Winifred. “I could not believe you capable of so foul a deed. But oh! by what wonderful chance have you come hither so seasonably?”
“I have just escaped from Newgate,” replied Jack; “and am more than repaid for the severe toil I have undergone, in being able to save you. But tell me,” he added with much anxiety, “has nothing been heard of Thames since the night of my former escape?”
“Nothing whatever,” answered Winifred. “He left Dollis Hill at ten o'clock on that night, and has not since returned. My father has made every possible inquiry, and offered large rewards; but has not been able to discover the slightest trace of him. His suspicions at first fell upon you. But he has since acquitted you of any share in it.”
“Oh, Heaven!” exclaimed Jack.
“He has been indefatigable in his search,” continued Winifred, “and has even journeyed to Manchester. But though he visited Sir Rowland Trenchard's seat, Ashton Hall, he could gain no tidings of him, or of his uncle, Sir Rowland, who, it seems, has left the country.”
“Never to return,” remarked Jack, gloomily. “Before to-morrow morning I will ascertain what has become of Thames, or perish in the attempt. And now tell me what has happened to my poor mother?”
“Ever since your last capture, and Thames's mysterious disappearance, she has been dreadfully ill,” replied Winifred; “so ill, that each day was expected to be her last. She has also been afflicted with occasional returns of her terrible malady. On Tuesday night, she was rather better, and I had left her for a short time, as I thought, asleep on the sofa in the little parlour of which she is so fond—”
“Well,” exclaimed Jack.
“On my return, I found the window open, and the room vacant. She was gone.”
“Did you discover any trace of footsteps?” inquired Jack eagerly.
“There were some marks near the window; but whether recently made or not could not be ascertained,” replied Winifred.
“Oh God!” exclaimed Jack, in a tone of the bitterest anguish. “My worst fears are realized. She is in Wild's power.”
“I ought to add,” continued Winifred, “that one of her shoes was picked up in the garden, and that prints of her feet were discovered along the soft mould; whether made in flying from any one, or from rushing forth in distracted terror, it is impossible to say. My father thought the latter. He has had the whole country searched; but hitherto without success.”
“I know where she will be found, and how,” rejoined Jack with a shudder.
“I have something further to tell you,” pursued Winifred. “Shortly after your last visit to Dollis Hill, my father was one evening waylaid by a man, who informed him that he had something to communicate respecting Thames, and had a large sum of money, and some important documents to deliver to him, which would be given up, provided he would undertake to procure your liberation.”
“It was Blueskin,” observed Jack.
“So my father thought,” replied Winifred; “and he therefore instantly fired upon him. But though the shot took effect, as was evident from the stains on the ground, the villain escaped.”
“Your father did right,” replied Jack, with some bitterness. “But if he had not fired that shot, he might have saved Thames, and possessed himself of papers which would have established his birth, and his right to the estates of the Trenchard family.”
“Would you have had him spare my mother's murderer?” cried Winifred.
“Ho, no,” replied Jack. “And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. Listen to me, Winifred.”
And he hastily related the occurrences in Jonathan Wild's house.
The account of the discovery of Sir Rowland's murder filled Winifred with alarm; but when she learnt what had befallen Thames—how he had been stricken down by the thief-taker's bludgeon, and left for dead, she uttered a piercing scream, fainted, and would have fallen, if Jack had not caught her in his arms.
Jack had well-nigh fallen too. The idea that he held in his arms the girl whom he had once so passionately loved, and for whom he still retained an ardent but hopeless attachment, almost overcame him. Gazing at her with eyes blinded with tears, he imprinted one brotherly kiss upon her lips. It was the first—and the last!
At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance.
“What's the matter?” he cried. “I thought I heard a scream. Why is the door fastened? Open it directly!”
“Are you alone?” asked Jack, mimicking the voice of Kneebone.
“What for?” demanded Wood. “Open the door, I say, or I'll burst it open.”
Carefully depositing Winifred on a sofa, Jack then extinguished the light, and, as he unfastened the door, crept behind it. In rushed Mr. Wood, with a candle in his hand, which Jack instantly blew out, and darted down stairs. He upset some one—probably Mr. Bird,—who was rushing up stairs, alarmed by Mr. Wood's cries: but, regardless of this, he darted along a passage, gained the shop, and passed through an open door into the street.
And thus he was once more free, having effected one of the most wonderful escapes ever planned or accomplished.