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English Library
_VOL. XII_
JACK SHEPPARD A Romance
BY W. Harrison Ainsworth
Internationale Bibliothek G M B H Berlin
1922
"Upon my word, friend," said I, "you have almost made me long to try
what a robber I should make." "There is a great art in it, if you did,"
quoth he. "Ah! but," said I, "there's a great deal in being hanged."
_Life and Actions of Guzman d'Alfarache._
Printed In Germany
CONTENTS.
EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703.
JONATHAN WILD.
CHAPTER I. The Widow and her Child 1
II. The Old Mint 13
III. The Master of the Mint 28
IV. The Roof and the Window 34
V. The Denunciation 42
VI. The Storm 51
VII. Old London Bridge 63
EPOCH THE SECOND, 1715.
THAMES DARRELL.
CHAPTER I. The Idle Apprentice 75
II. Thames Darrell 88
III. The Jacobite 95
IV. Mr. Kneebone and his Friends 99
V. Hawk and Buzzard 103
VI. The first Step towards the Ladder 119
VII. Brother and Sister 131
VIII. Miching Mallecho 135
IX. Consequences of the Theft 147
X. Mother and Son 154
XI. The Mohocks 160
XII. Saint Giles's Round-house 167
XIII. The Magdalene 177
XIV. The Flash Ken 191
XV. The Robbery in Willesden Church 198
XVI. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old 201
Bailey
XVII. The Night-Cellar 211
XVIII. How Jack Sheppard broke out of 218
the Cage at Willesden
XIX. Good and Evil 224
EPOCH THE THIRD, 1724.
THE PRISON-BREAKER.
CHAPTER I. The Return 231
II. The Burglary at Dollis Hill 249
III. Jack Sheppard's Quarrel with 254
Jonathan Wild
IV. Jack Sheppard's Escape from the 258
New Prison
V. The Disguise 261
VI. Winifred receives two Proposals 278
VII. Jack Sheppard warns Thames 284
Darrell
VIII. Old Bedlam 291
IX. Old Newgate 302
X. How Jack Sheppard got out of the 310
Condemned Hold
XI. Dollis Hill revisited 324
XII. The Well Hole 336
XIII. The Supper at Mr. Kneebone's 346
XIV. How Jack Sheppard was again 367
captured
XV. How Blueskin underwent the Peine 377
Forte et Dure
XVI. How Jack Sheppard's Portrait was 385
painted
XVII. The Iron Bar 397
XVIII. The Bed Room 400
XIX. The Chapel 401
XX. The Leads 405
XXI. What befell Jack Sheppard in the 408
Turner's House
XXII. Fast and Loose 415
XXIII. The last Meeting between Jack 419
Sheppard and his Mother
XXIV. The Pursuit 425
XXV. How Jack Sheppard got rid of his 429
Irons
XXVI. How Jack Sheppard attended his 435
Mother's Funeral
XXVII. How Jack Sheppard was brought 441
back to Newgate
XXVIII. What happened at Dollis Hill 449
XXIX. How Jack Sheppard was taken to 454
Westminster Hall
XXX. How Jonathan Wild's House was 458
burnt down
XXXI. The Procession to Tyburn 462
XXXII. The Closing Scene 472
EPOCH THE FIRST.
1703.
JONATHAN WILD.
JACK SHEPPARD.
CHAPTER I.
The Widow and her Child.
On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of
eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure
quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened;
and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. This
person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown
double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow
collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees;
black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes,
wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. He
wore a three-cornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick
woollen wrapper folded round his throat. His clothes had evidently seen
some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the
workshop. Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one
well-to-do in the world. In stature, he was short and stumpy; in person,
corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed, and demure.
Immediately behind this individual, came a pale, poverty-stricken woman,
whose forlorn aspect contrasted strongly with his plump and comfortable
physiognomy. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured
by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of
rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent
the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed
in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl.
Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something
of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it
not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual
dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from
the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. She could not be
more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work
of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and
roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned
her raven hair. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon,
convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her
companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his
mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate.
"Well, good night, Mr. Wood," said she, in the deep, hoarse accents of
consumption; "and may God Almighty bless and reward you for your
kindness! You were always the best of masters to my poor husband; and
now you've proved the best of friends to his widow and orphan boy."
"Poh! poh! say no more about it," rejoined the man hastily. "I've done
no more than my duty, Mrs. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your
thanks. 'Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;' that's my
comfort. And such slight relief as I can afford should have been offered
earlier, if I'd known where you'd taken refuge after your unfortunate
husband's--"
"Execution, you would say, Sir," added Mrs. Sheppard, with a deep sigh,
perceiving that her benefactor hesitated to pronounce the word. "You
show more consideration to the feelings of a hempen widow, than there is
any need to show. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown
callous to both; but I'm _not_ used to compassion, and know not how to
take it. My heart would speak if it could, for it is very full. There
was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes
unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. Wood; but
they never come now. I have never wept since that day."
"And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul,"
replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from
his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. Pshaw!" added he, making an effort
to subdue his emotion, "I can't leave you in this way. I must stay a
minute longer, if only to see you smile."
So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by
the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips,
apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate.
The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable
look. Rotten, and covered with a thick coat of dirt, the boards of the
floor presented a very insecure footing; the bare walls were scored all
over with grotesque designs, the chief of which represented the
punishment of Nebuchadnezzar. The rest were hieroglyphic characters,
executed in red chalk and charcoal. The ceiling had, in many places,
given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained,
it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty
cobwebs. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork
counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair
of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last
century, and some other articles of female attire. On a small shelf near
the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and
basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a
spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask,
labelled "_Rosa Solis_." Broken pipes littered the floor, if that can be
said to be littered, which, in the first instance, was a mass of squalor
and filth.
Over the chimney-piece was pasted a handbill, purporting to be "_The
last Dying Speech and Confession of_ TOM SHEPPARD, _the Notorious
Housebreaker, who suffered at Tyburn on the 25th of February, 1703._"
This placard was adorned with a rude wood-cut, representing the unhappy
malefactor at the place of execution. On one side of the handbill a
print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait
of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig,
were just visible above the diadem of the queen. On the other a wretched
engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the
label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that
the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of
Jacobitism.
Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall,
formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the
words, "_Paul Groves, cobler;_" and under the name, traced in charcoal,
appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "_Hung himsel
in this rum for luv off licker;_" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the
unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. A farthing candle, stuck in a
bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the
provident kindness of Mr. Wood, was much better furnished with eatables
than might have been expected, and boasted a loaf, a knuckle of ham, a
meat-pie, and a flask of wine.
"You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. Sheppard," said Wood, glancing round
the chamber, as he expanded his palms before the scanty flame.
"It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as
it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets."
"Of course--of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than
that. But take a drop of wine," urged he, filling a drinking-horn and
presenting it to her; "it's choice canary, and'll do you good. And now,
come and sit by me, my dear, and let's have a little quiet chat
together. When things are at the worst, they'll mend. Take my word for
it, your troubles are over."
"I hope they are, Sir," answered Mrs. Sheppard, with a faint smile and a
doubtful shake of the head, as Wood drew her to a seat beside him, "for
I've had my full share of misery. But I don't look for peace on this
side the grave."
"Nonsense!" cried Wood; "while there's life there's hope. Never be
down-hearted. Besides," added he, opening the shawl in which the infant
was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly,
but placid features, "it's sinful to repine while you've a child like
this to comfort you. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father.
Like carpenter, like chips."
"That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow,
shuddering. "Were it not for that, he would indeed be a blessing and a
comfort to me. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but
lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him
now. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how like he is to
his father,--when I think of that father's shameful ending, and
recollect how free from guilt _he_ once was,--at such times, Mr. Wood,
despair will come over me; and, dear as this babe is to me, far dearer
than my own wretched life, which I would lay down for him any minute, I
have prayed to Heaven to remove him, rather than he should grow up to be
a man, and be exposed to his father's temptations--rather than he should
live as wickedly and die as disgracefully as his father. And, when I
have seen him pining away before my eyes, getting thinner and thinner
every day, I have sometimes thought my prayers were heard."
"Marriage and hanging go by destiny," observed Wood, after a pause; "but
I trust your child is reserved for a better fate than either, Mrs.
Sheppard."
The latter part of this speech was delivered with so much significance
of manner, that a bystander might have inferred that Mr. Wood was not
particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial connections.
"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a
desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at
the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his
bed."
"Save us!" exclaimed Wood. "And who is this Van Gal--Gal--what's his
outlandish name?"
"Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. "He's the famous Dutch conjuror who
foretold King William's accident and death, last February but one, a
month before either event happened, and gave out that another prince
over the water would soon enjoy his own again; for which he was
committed to Newgate, and whipped at the cart's tail. He went by another
name then,--Rykhart Scherprechter I think he called himself. His
fellow-prisoners nicknamed him the gallows-provider, from a habit he had
of picking out all those who were destined to the gibbet. He was never
known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jail-fever in consequence.
He singled out my poor husband from a crowd of other felons; and you
know how right he was in that case, Sir."
"Ay, marry," replied Wood, with a look that seemed to say that he did
not think it required any surprising skill in the art of divination to
predict the doom of the individual in question; but whatever opinion he
might entertain, he contented himself with inquiring into the grounds of
the conjuror's evil augury respecting the infant. "What did the old
fellow judge from, eh, Joan?" asked he.
"From a black mole under the child's right ear, shaped like a coffin,
which is a bad sign; and a deep line just above the middle of the left
thumb, meeting round about in the form of a noose, which is a worse,"
replied Mrs. Sheppard. "To be sure, it's not surprising the poor little
thing should be so marked; for, when I lay in the women-felons' ward in
Newgate, where he first saw the light, or at least such light as ever
finds entrance into that gloomy place, I had nothing, whether sleeping
or waking, but halters, and gibbets, and coffins, and such like horrible
visions, for ever dancing round me! And then, you know, Sir--but,
perhaps, you don't know that little Jack was born, a month before his
time, on the very day his poor father suffered."
"Lord bless us!" ejaculated Wood, "how shocking! No, I did _not_ know
that."
"You may see the marks on the child yourself, if you choose, Sir,"
urged the widow.
"See the devil!--not I," cried Wood impatiently. "I didn't think you'd
been so easily fooled, Joan."
"Fooled or not," returned Mrs. Sheppard mysteriously, "old Van told me
_one_ thing which has come true already."
"What's that?" asked Wood with some curiosity.
"He said, by way of comfort, I suppose, after the fright he gave me at
first, that the child would find a friend within twenty-four hours, who
would stand by him through life."
"A friend is not so soon gained as lost," replied Wood; "but how has the
prediction been fulfilled, Joan, eh?"
"I thought you would have guessed, Sir," replied the widow, timidly.
"I'm sure little Jack has but one friend beside myself, in the world,
and that's more than I would have ventured to say for him yesterday.
However, I've not told you all; for old Van _did_ say something about
the child saving his new-found friend's life at the time of meeting; but
how that's to happen, I'm sure I can't guess."
"Nor any one else in his senses," rejoined Wood, with a laugh. "It's not
very likely that a babby of nine months old will save _my_ life, if I'm
to be his friend, as you seem to say, Mrs. Sheppard. But I've not
promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest
lad,--mind that. Of all crafts,--and it was the only craft his poor
father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever
handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,--of all crafts, I
say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. As long as your son
observes that precept I'll befriend him, but no longer."
"I don't desire it, Sir," replied Mrs. Sheppard, meekly.
"There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the
fire, "which says,--'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll
creep out at your elbow.' But I don't value that, because I think it
applies to one who marries a widow with encumbrances; and that's not my
case, you know."
"Well, Sir," gasped Mrs. Sheppard.
"Well, my dear, I've a proposal to make in regard to this babby of
yours, which may, or may not, be agreeable. All I can say is, it's well
meant; and I may add, I'd have made it five minutes ago, if you'd given
me the opportunity."
"Pray come to the point, Sir," said Mrs. Sheppard, somewhat alarmed by
this preamble.
"I _am_ coming to the point, Joan. The more haste, the worse
speed--better the feet slip than the tongue. However, to cut a long
matter short, my proposal's this:--I've taken a fancy to your bantling,
and, as I've no son of my own, if it meets with your concurrence and
that of Mrs. Wood, (for I never do anything without consulting my better
half,) I'll take the boy, educate him, and bring him up to my own
business of a carpenter."
The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her
breast.
"Well, Joan," said the benevolent mechanic, after he had looked at her
steadfastly for a few moments, "what say you?--silence gives consent,
eh?"
Mrs. Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by
emotion.
"Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between
jest and earnest.
"I cannot part with him," replied the widow, bursting into tears;
"indeed, indeed, I cannot."
"So I've found out the way to move her," thought the carpenter; "those
tears will do her some good, at all events. Not part with him!" added he
aloud. "Why you wouldn't stand in the way of his good fortune sure_ly_?
I'll be a second father to him, I tell you. Remember what the conjuror
said."
"I _do_ remember it, Sir," replied Mrs. Sheppard, "and am most grateful
for your offer. But I dare not accept it."
"Dare not!" echoed the carpenter; "I don't understand you, Joan."
"I mean to say, Sir," answered Mrs. Sheppard in a troubled voice, "that
if I lost my child, I should lose all I have left in the world. I have
neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband--I have only
_him_."
"If I ask you to part with him, my good woman, it's to better his
condition, I suppose, ain't it?" rejoined Wood angrily; for, though he
had no serious intention of carrying his proposal into effect, he was
rather offended at having it declined. "It's not an offer," continued
he, "that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in
the year."
And muttering some remarks, which we do not care to repeat, reflecting
upon the consistency of the sex, he was preparing once more to depart,
when Mrs. Sheppard stopped him.
"Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I _can_ bring myself to
part with him, you shall have him without another word."
"Take time to consider of it," replied Wood sulkily, "there's no hurry."
"Don't be angry with me, Sir," cried the widow, sobbing bitterly, "pray
don't. I know I am undeserving of your bounty; but if I were to tell you
what hardships I have undergone--to what frightful extremities I have
been reduced--and to what infamy I have submitted, to earn a scanty
subsistence for this child's sake,--if you could feel what it is to
stand alone in the world as I do, bereft of all who have ever loved me,
and shunned by all who have ever known me, except the worthless and the
wretched,--if you knew (and Heaven grant you may be spared the
knowledge!) how much affliction sharpens love, and how much more dear to
me my child has become for every sacrifice I have made for him,--if you
were told all this, you would, I am sure, pity rather than reproach me,
because I cannot at once consent to a separation, which I feel would
break my heart. But give me till to-morrow--only till to-morrow--I may
be able to part with him then."
The worthy carpenter was now far more angry with himself than he had
previously been with Mrs. Sheppard; and, as soon as he could command his
feelings, which were considerably excited by the mention of her
distresses, he squeezed her hand warmly, bestowed a hearty execration
upon his own inhumanity, and swore he would neither separate her from
her child, nor suffer any one else to separate them.
"Plague on't!" added he: "I never meant to take your babby from you. But
I'd a mind to try whether you really loved him as much as you pretended.
I was to blame to carry the matter so far. However, confession of a
fault makes half amends for it. A time _may_ come when this little chap
will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in
Owen Wood."
As he said this, the carpenter patted the cheek of the little object of
his benevolent professions, and, in so doing, unintentionally aroused
him from his slumbers. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child
fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light,
uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled
by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms,
as if imploring protection.
"I don't think he would leave me, even if I could part with him,"
observed Mrs. Sheppard, smiling through her tears.
"I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter. "No friend like the
mother, for the babby knows no other."
"And that's true," rejoined Mrs. Sheppard; "for if I had _not_ been a
mother, I would not have survived the day on which I became a widow."
"You mustn't think of that, Mrs. Sheppard," said Wood in a soothing
tone.
"I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. "I can never get
poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at
Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to
stupify myself somehow. The dismal tolling of St. Sepulchre's bell is
for ever ringing in my ears--oh!"
"If that's the case," observed Wood, "I'm surprised you should like to
have such a frightful picture constantly in view as that over the
chimney-piece."
"I'd good reasons for placing it there, Sir; but don't question me
about them now, or you'll drive me mad," returned Mrs. Sheppard wildly.
"Well, well, we'll say no more about it," replied Wood; "and, by way of
changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong
waters for consolation, Joan. One nail drives out another, it's true;
but the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail. Gin Lane's the
nearest road to the churchyard."
"It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I
care not," retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused
into sudden eloquence. "To those who, like me, have never been able to
get out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is indeed a
refuge, and the sooner they reach it the better. The spirit I drink may
be poison,--it may kill me,--perhaps it _is_ killing me:--but so would
hunger, cold, misery,--so would my own thoughts. I should have gone mad
without it. Gin is the poor man's friend,--his sole set-off against the
rich man's luxury. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. It may be
treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present
happiness, and that is sufficient. When I have traversed the streets a
houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have
solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought
shelter,--when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched
my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,--or, worse
than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible
temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,--when I
have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of
this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt.
Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to
me, and I have fancied myself happy,--as happy as I am now." And she
burst into a wild hysterical laugh.
"Poor creature!" ejaculated Wood. "Do you call this frantic glee
happiness?"
"It's all the happiness I have known for years," returned the widow,
becoming suddenly calm, "and it's short-lived enough, as you perceive. I
tell you what, Mr. Wood," added she in a hollow voice, and with a
ghastly look, "gin may bring ruin; but as long as poverty, vice, and
ill-usage exist, it will be drunk."
"God forbid!" exclaimed Wood, fervently; and, as if afraid of prolonging
the interview, he added, with some precipitation, "But I must be going:
I've stayed here too long already. You shall hear from me to-morrow."
"Stay!" said Mrs. Sheppard, again arresting his departure. "I've just
recollected that my husband left a key with me, which he charged me to
give you when I could find an opportunity."
"A key!" exclaimed Wood eagerly. "I lost a very valuable one some time
ago. What's it like, Joan?"
"It's a small key, with curiously-fashioned wards."
"It's mine, I'll be sworn," rejoined Wood. "Well, who'd have thought of
finding it in this unexpected way!"
"Don't be too sure till you see it," said the widow. "Shall I fetch it
for you, Sir?"
"By all means."
"I must trouble you to hold the child, then, for a minute, while I run
up to the garret, where I've hidden it for safety," said Mrs. Sheppard.
"I think I _may_ trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the
candle.
"Don't leave him, if you're at all fearful, my dear," replied Wood,
receiving the little burthen with a laugh. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as
the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better
circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. Strange, I could
never learn her history. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would
never tell whom he married. Of this I'm certain, however, she was much
too good for him, and was never meant to be a journeyman carpenter's
wife, still less what is she now. Her heart's in the right place, at all
events; and, since that's the case, the rest may perhaps come
round,--that is, if she gets through her present illness. A dry cough's
the trumpeter of death. If that's true, she's not long for this world.
As to this little fellow, in spite of the Dutchman, who, in my opinion,
is more of a Jacobite than a conjurer, and more of a knave than either,
he shall never mount a horse foaled by an acorn, if I can help it."
The course of the carpenter's meditations was here interrupted by a loud
note of lamentation from the child, who, disturbed by the transfer, and
not receiving the gentle solace to which he was ordinarily accustomed,
raised his voice to the utmost, and exerted his feeble strength to
escape. For a few moments Mr. Wood dandled his little charge to and fro,
after the most approved nursery fashion, essaying at the same time the
soothing influence of an infantine melody proper to the occasion; but,
failing in his design, he soon lost all patience, and being, as we have
before hinted, rather irritable, though extremely well-meaning, he
lifted the unhappy bantling in the air, and shook him with so much good
will, that he had well-nigh silenced him most effectually. A brief calm
succeeded. But with returning breath came returning vociferations; and
the carpenter, with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of
scene, took up his lantern, opened the door, and walked out.
CHAPTER II.
The Old Mint.
Mrs. Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings,
called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part
lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along
the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected
gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. The neighbouring
houses were tenanted by the lowest order of insolvent traders, thieves,
mendicants, and other worthless and nefarious characters, who fled
thither to escape from their creditors, or to avoid the punishment due
to their different offenses; for we may observe that the Old Mint,
although it had been divested of some of its privileges as a sanctuary
by a recent statute passed in the reign of William the Third, still
presented a safe asylum to the debtor, and even continued to do so until
the middle of the reign of George the First, when the crying nature of
the evil called loudly for a remedy, and another and more sweeping
enactment entirely took away its immunities. In consequence of the
encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to
crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the
period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous
villainy of the metropolis. Infested by every description of vagabond
and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery
near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in
our own time. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and
squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his
dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to
scorn--on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence
of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart
was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour.
Suffolk House, as Brandon's palace was denominated, was subsequently
converted into a mint by his royal brother-in-law, Henry the Eighth;
and, after its demolition, and the removal of the place of coinage to
the Tower, the name was still continued to the district in which it had
been situated.
Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of
desolation and misery. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. The roof
was partially untiled; the chimneys were tottering; the side-walls
bulged, and were supported by a piece of timber propped against the
opposite house; the glass in most of the windows was broken, and its
place supplied with paper; while, in some cases, the very frames of the
windows had been destroyed, and the apertures were left free to the airs
of heaven. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak
more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular
appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty
hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former
occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have
before alluded.
It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs. Sheppard
was enabled to take possession of the premises. In a fit of despondency,
superinduced by drunkenness, he made away with himself; and when the
body was discovered, after a lapse of some months, such was the
impression produced by the spectacle--such the alarm occasioned by the
crazy state of the building, and, above all, by the terror inspired by
strange and unearthly noises heard during the night, which were, of
course, attributed to the spirit of the suicide, that the place speedily
enjoyed the reputation of being haunted, and was, consequently, entirely
abandoned. In this state Mrs. Sheppard found it; and, as no one opposed
her, she at once took up her abode there; nor was she long in
discovering that the dreaded sounds proceeded from the nocturnal gambols
of a legion of rats.
A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main
thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood
Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return.
As Mrs. Sheppard did not make her appearance quite so soon as he
expected, the carpenter became a little fidgetty, and, having succeeded
in tranquillizing the child, he thought proper to walk so far down the
entry as would enable him to reconnoitre the upper windows of the house.
A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp
atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. This light did not
remain stationary, but could be seen at one moment glimmering through
the rents in the roof, and at another shining through the cracks in the
wall, or the broken panes of the casement. Wood was unable to discover
the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and
was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he
imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a
chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor.
Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his
attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the
swiftness of desperation. This individual apparently met with some
impediment to his further progress; for he had not proceeded many steps
when he turned suddenly about, and darted up the passage in which Wood
stood.
Uttering a few inarticulate ejaculations,--for he was completely out of
breath,--the fugitive placed a bundle in the arms of the carpenter, and,
regardless of the consternation he excited in the breast of that
personage, who was almost stupified with astonishment, he began to
divest himself of a heavy horseman's cloak, which he threw over Wood's
shoulder, and, drawing his sword, seemed to listen intently for the
approach of his pursuers.
The appearance of the new-comer was extremely prepossessing; and, after
his trepidation had a little subsided, Wood began to regard him with
some degree of interest. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was
scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of
feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such
as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society.
His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his
countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was
resolute and stern.
At this juncture, a cry burst from the child, who, nearly smothered by
the weight imposed upon him, only recovered the use of his lungs as Wood
altered the position of the bundle. The stranger turned his head at the
sound.
"By Heaven!" cried he in a tone of surprise, "you have an infant there?"
"To be sure I have," replied Wood, angrily; for, finding that the
intentions of the stranger were pacific, so far as he was concerned, he
thought he might safely venture on a slight display of spirit. "It's
very well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to death with this
confounded clothes'-bag. But some people have no consideration."
"That child may be the means of saving me," muttered the stranger, as if
struck by a new idea: "I shall gain time by the expedient. Do you live
here?"
"Not exactly," answered the carpenter.
"No matter. The door is open, so it is needless to ask leave to enter.
Ha!" exclaimed the stranger, as shouts and other vociferations resounded
at no great distance along the thoroughfare, "not a moment is to be
lost. Give me that precious charge," he added, snatching the bundle from
Wood. "If I escape, I will reward you. Your name?"
"Owen Wood," replied the carpenter; "I've no reason to be ashamed of it.
And now, a fair exchange, Sir. Yours?"
The stranger hesitated. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen
flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring
houses.
"My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. "But, if you are
discovered, answer no questions, as you value your life. Wrap yourself
in my cloak, and keep it. Remember! not a word!"
So saying, he huddled the mantle over Wood's shoulders, dashed the
lantern to the ground, and extinguished the light. A moment afterwards,
the door was closed and bolted, and the carpenter found himself alone.
"Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his
frame. "The Dutchman was right, after all."
This exclamation had scarcely escaped him, when the discharge of a
pistol was heard, and a bullet whizzed past his ears.
"I have him!" cried a voice in triumph.
A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by
the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat. This person was
speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried
flambeaux.
"Mur--der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant,
by whom he was half strangled.
"Damnation!" exclaimed one of the leaders of the party in a furious
tone, snatching a torch from an attendant, and throwing its light full
upon the face of the carpenter; "this is not the villain, Sir Cecil."
"So I find, Rowland," replied the other, in accents of deep
disappointment, and at the same time relinquishing his grasp. "I could
have sworn I saw him enter this passage. And how comes his cloak on this
knave's shoulders?"
"It is his cloak, of a surety," returned Rowland "Harkye, sirrah,"
continued he, haughtily interrogating Wood; "where is the person from
whom you received this mantle?"
"Throttling a man isn't the way to make him answer questions," replied
the carpenter, doggedly. "You'll get nothing out of me, I can promise
you, unless you show a little more civility."
"We waste time with this fellow," interposed Sir Cecil, "and may lose
the object of our quest, who, beyond doubt, has taken refuge in this
building. Let us search it."
Just then, the infant began to sob piteously.
"Hist!" cried Rowland, arresting his comrade. "Do you hear that! We are
not wholly at fault. The dog-fox cannot be far off, since the cub is
found."
With these words, he tore the mantle from Wood's back, and, perceiving
the child, endeavoured to seize it. In this attempt he was, however,
foiled by the agility of the carpenter, who managed to retreat to the
door, against which he placed his back, kicking the boards vigorously
with his heel.
"Joan! Joan!" vociferated he, "open the door, for God's sake, or I shall
be murdered, and so will your babby! Open the door quickly, I say."
"Knock him on the head," thundered Sir Cecil, "or we shall have the
watch upon us."
"No fear of that," rejoined Rowland: "such vermin never dare to show
themselves in this privileged district. All we have to apprehend is a
rescue."
The hint was not lost upon Wood. He tried to raise an outcry, but his
throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland.
"Another such attempt," said the latter, "and you are a dead man. Yield
up the babe, and I pledge my word you shall remain unmolested."
"I will yield it to no one but its mother," answered Wood.
"'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. "Give
me the child, or--"
As he spoke the door was thrown open, and Mrs. Sheppard staggered
forward. She looked paler than ever; but her countenance, though
bewildered, did not exhibit the alarm which might naturally have been
anticipated from the strange and perplexing scene presented to her view.
"Take it," cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; "take it, and
fly."
Mrs. Sheppard put out her arms mechanically. But before the child could
be committed to her care, it was wrested from the carpenter by Rowland.
"These people are all in league with him," cried the latter. "But don't
wait for me, Sir Cecil. Enter the house with your men. I'll dispose of
the brat."
This injunction was instantly obeyed. The knight and his followers
crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them.
"Davies," said Rowland, delivering the babe, with a meaning look, to his
attendant.
"I understand, Sir," replied Davies, drawing a little aside. And,
setting down the link, he proceeded deliberately to untie his cravat.
"My God! will you see your child strangled before your eyes, and not so
much as scream for help?" said Wood, staring at the widow with a look of
surprise and horror. "Woman, your wits are fled!"
And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur
distractedly, "I can't find the key."
"Devil take the key!" ejaculated Wood. "They're about to murder your
child--_your_ child, I tell you! Do you comprehend what I say, Joan?"
"I've hurt my head," replied Mrs. Sheppard, pressing her hand to her
temples.
And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood
coursing slowly down her cheek.
At this moment, Davies, who had completed his preparations, extinguished
the torch.
"It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are
gone. However, I'll make a last effort to save the poor little creature,
if it costs me my life."
And, with this generous resolve, he shouted at the top of his voice,
"Arrest! arrest! help! help!" seconding the words with a shrill and
peculiar cry, well known at the time to the inhabitants of the quarter
in which it was uttered.
In reply to this summons a horn was instantly blown at the corner of the
street.
"Arrest!" vociferated Wood. "Mint! Mint!"
"Death and hell!" cried Rowland, making a furious pass at the carpenter,
who fortunately avoided the thrust in the darkness; "will nothing
silence you?"
"Help!" ejaculated Wood, renewing his cries. "Arrest!"
"Jigger closed!" shouted a hoarse voice in reply. "All's bowman, my
covey. Fear nothing. We'll be upon the ban-dogs before they can shake
their trotters!"
And the alarm was sounded more loudly than ever.
Another horn now resounded from the further extremity of the
thoroughfare; this was answered by a third; and presently a fourth, and
more remote blast, took up the note of alarm. The whole neighbourhood
was disturbed. A garrison called to arms at dead of night on the sudden
approach of the enemy, could not have been more expeditiously, or
effectually aroused. Rattles were sprung; lanterns lighted, and hoisted
at the end of poles; windows thrown open; doors unbarred; and, as if by
magic, the street was instantaneously filled with a crowd of persons of
both sexes, armed with such weapons as came most readily to hand, and
dressed in such garments as could be most easily slipped on. Hurrying in
the direction of the supposed arrest, they encouraged each other with
shouts, and threatened the offending parties with their vengeance.
Regardless as the gentry of the Mint usually were (for, indeed, they had
become habituated from their frequent occurrence to such scenes,) of any
outrages committed in their streets; deaf, as they had been, to the
recent scuffle before Mrs. Sheppard's door, they were always
sufficiently on the alert to maintain their privileges, and to assist
each other against the attacks of their common enemy--the sheriff's
officer. It was only by the adoption of such a course (especially since
the late act of suppression, to which we have alluded,) that the
inviolability of the asylum could be preserved. Incursions were often
made upon its territories by the functionaries of the law; sometimes
attended with success, but more frequently with discomfiture; and it
rarely happened, unless by stratagem or bribery, that (in the language
of the gentlemen of the short staff) an important caption could be
effected. In order to guard against accidents or surprises, watchmen, or
scouts, (as they were styled,) were stationed at the three main outlets
of the sanctuary ready to give the signal in the manner just described:
bars were erected, which, in case of emergency; could be immediately
stretched across the streets: doors were attached to the alleys; and
were never opened without due precautions; gates were affixed to the
courts, wickets to the gates, and bolts to the wickets. The back windows
of the houses (where any such existed) were strongly barricaded, and
kept constantly shut; and the fortress was, furthermore, defended by
high walls and deep ditches in those quarters where it appeared most
exposed. There was also a Maze, (the name is still retained in the
district,) into which the debtor could run, and through the intricacies
of which it was impossible for an officer to follow him, without a
clue. Whoever chose to incur the risk of so doing might enter the Mint
at any hour; but no one was suffered to depart without giving a
satisfactory account of himself, or producing a pass from the Master. In
short, every contrivance that ingenuity could devise was resorted to by
this horde of reprobates to secure themselves from danger or
molestation. Whitefriars had lost its privileges; Salisbury Court and
the Savoy no longer offered places of refuge to the debtor; and it was,
therefore, doubly requisite that the Island of Bermuda (as the Mint was
termed by its occupants) should uphold its rights, as long as it was
able to do so.
Mr. Wood, meantime, had not remained idle. Aware that not a moment was
to be lost, if he meant to render any effectual assistance to the child,
he ceased shouting, and defending himself in the best way he could from
the attacks of Rowland, by whom he was closely pressed, forced his way,
in spite of all opposition, to Davies, and dealt him a blow on the head
with such good will that, had it not been for the intervention of the
wall, the ruffian must have been prostrated. Before he could recover
from the stunning effects of the blow, Wood possessed himself of the
child: and, untying the noose which had been slipped round its throat,
had the satisfaction of hearing it cry lustily.
At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold.
"He has escaped!" exclaimed the knight; "we have searched every corner
of the house without finding a trace of him."
"Back!" cried Rowland. "Don't you hear those shouts? Yon fellow's
clamour has brought the whole horde of jail-birds and cut-throats that
infest this place about our ears. We shall be torn in pieces if we are
discovered. Davies!" he added, calling to the attendant, who was
menacing Wood with a severe retaliation, "don't heed him; but, if you
value a whole skin, come into the house, and bring that woman with you.
She may afford us some necessary information."
Davies reluctantly complied. And, dragging Mrs. Sheppard, who made no
resistance, along with him, entered the house, the door of which was
instantly shut and barricaded.
A moment afterwards, the street was illumined by a blaze of torchlight,
and a tumultuous uproar, mixed with the clashing of weapons, and the
braying of horns, announced the arrival of the first detachment of
Minters.
Mr. Wood rushed instantly to meet them.
"Hurrah!" shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head.
"Saved!"
"Ay, ay, it's all bob, my covey! You're safe enough, that's certain!"
responded the Minters, baying, yelping, leaping, and howling around him
like a pack of hounds when the huntsman is beating cover; "but, where
are the lurchers?"
"Who?" asked Wood.
"The traps!" responded a bystander.
"The shoulder-clappers!" added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join the
party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether habiliments
for her own petticoats.
"The ban-dogs!" thundered a tall man, whose stature and former
avocations had procured him the nickname of "The long drover of the
Borough market." "Where are they?"
"Ay, where are they?" chorussed the mob, flourishing their various
weapons, and flashing their torches in the air; "we'll starve 'em out."
Mr. Wood trembled. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be very
difficult, if not impossible, to allay. He knew not what to say, or what
to do; and his confusion was increased by the threatening gestures and
furious looks of the ruffians in his immediate vicinity.
"I don't understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length.
"What does he say?" roared the long drover.
"He says he don't understand flash," replied the lady in gentleman's
attire.
"Cease your confounded clutter!" said a young man, whose swarthy visage,
seen in the torchlight, struck Wood as being that of a Mulatto. "You
frighten the cull out of his senses. It's plain he don't understand our
lingo; as, how should he? Take pattern by me;" and as he said this he
strode up to the carpenter, and, slapping him on the shoulder,
propounded the following questions, accompanying each interrogation with
a formidable contortion of countenance. "Curse you! Where are the
bailiffs? Rot you! have you lost your tongue? Devil seize you! you could
bawl loud enough a moment ago!"
"Silence, Blueskin!" interposed an authoritative voice, immediately
behind the ruffian. "Let me have a word with the cull!"
"Ay! ay!" cried several of the bystanders, "let Jonathan kimbaw the
cove. He's got the gift of the gab."
The crowd accordingly drew aside, and the individual, in whose behalf
the movement had been made immediately stepped forward. He was a young
man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable
either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for
the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. His
eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a
fox. A physiognomist, indeed, would have likened him to that crafty
animal, and it must be owned the general formation of his features
favoured such a comparison. The nose was long and sharp, the chin
pointed, the forehead broad and flat, and connected, without any
intervening hollow, with the eyelid; the teeth when displayed, seemed to
reach from ear to ear. Then his beard was of a reddish hue, and his
complexion warm and sanguine. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred
that he slept with his eyes open. But this might be merely a figurative
mode of describing his customary vigilance. Certain it was, that the
slightest sound aroused him. This astute personage was somewhat under
the middle size, but fairly proportioned, inclining rather to strength
than symmetry, and abounding more in muscle than in flesh.
It would seem, from the attention which he evidently bestowed upon the
hidden and complex machinery of the grand system of villany at work
around him, that his chief object in taking up his quarters in the Mint,
must have been to obtain some private information respecting the habits
and practices of its inhabitants, to be turned to account hereafter.
Advancing towards Wood, Jonathan fixed his keen gray eyes upon him, and
demanded, in a stern tone whether the persons who had taken refuge in
the adjoining house, were bailiffs.
"Not that I know of," replied the carpenter, who had in some degree
recovered his confidence.
"Then I presume you've not been arrested?"
"I have not," answered Wood firmly.
"I guessed as much. Perhaps you'll next inform us why you have
occasioned this disturbance."
"Because this child's life was threatened by the persons you have
mentioned," rejoined Wood.
"An excellent reason, i' faith!" exclaimed Blueskin, with a roar of
surprise and indignation, which was echoed by the whole assemblage. "And
so we're to be summoned from our beds and snug firesides, because a kid
happens to squall, eh? By the soul of my grandmother, but this is too
good!"
"Do you intend to claim the privileges of the Mint?" said Jonathan,
calmly pursuing his interrogations amid the uproar. "Is your person in
danger?"
"Not from my creditors," replied Wood, significantly.
"Will he post the cole? Will he come down with the dues? Ask him that?"
cried Blueskin.
"You hear," pursued Jonathan; "my friend desires to know if you are
willing to pay your footing as a member of the ancient and respectable
fraternity of debtors?"
"I owe no man a farthing, and my name shall never appear in any such
rascally list," replied Wood angrily. "I don't see why I should be
obliged to pay for doing my duty. I tell you this child would have been
strangled. The noose was at its throat when I called for help. I knew
it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to
stratagem."
"Well, Sir, I must say you deserve some credit for your ingenuity, at
all events," replied Jonathan, repressing a smile; "but, before you put
out your foot so far, it would have been quite as prudent to consider
how you were to draw it back again. For my own part, I don't see in what
way it is to be accomplished, except by the payment of our customary
fees. Do not imagine you can at one moment avail yourself of our
excellent regulations (with which you seem sufficiently well
acquainted), and the next break them with impunity. If you assume the
character of a debtor for your own convenience, you must be content to
maintain it for ours. If you have not been arrested, we have been
disturbed; and it is but just and reasonable you should pay for
occasioning such disturbance. By your own showing you are in easy
circumstances,--for it is only natural to presume that a man who owes
nothing must be in a condition to pay liberally,--and you cannot
therefore feel the loss of such a trifle as ten guineas."
However illogical and inconclusive these arguments might appear to Mr.
Wood, and however he might dissent from the latter proposition, he did
not deem it expedient to make any reply; and the orator proceeded with
his harangue amid the general applause of the assemblage.
"I am perhaps exceeding my authority in demanding so slight a sum,"
continued Jonathan, modestly, "and the Master of the Mint may not be
disposed to let you off so lightly. He will be here in a moment or so,
and you will then learn his determination. In the mean time, let me
advise you as a friend not to irritate him by a refusal, which would be
as useless as vexatious. He has a very summary mode of dealing with
refractory persons, I assure you. My best endeavours shall be used to
bring you off, on the easy terms I have mentioned."
"Do you call ten guineas easy terms?" cried Wood, with a look of dismay.
"Why, I should expect to purchase the entire freehold of the Mint for
less money."
"Many a man has been glad to pay double the amount to get his head from
under the Mint pump," observed Blueskin, gruffly.
"Let the gentleman take his own course," said Jonathan, mildly. "I
should be sorry to persuade him to do anything his calmer judgment might
disapprove."
"Exactly my sentiments," rejoined Blueskin. "I wouldn't force him for
the world: but if he don't tip the stivers, may I be cursed if he don't
get a taste of the _aqua pompaginis_. Let's have a look at the kinchen
that _ought_ to have been throttled," added he, snatching the child from
Wood. "My stars! here's a pretty lullaby-cheat to make a fuss about--ho!
ho!"
"Deal with me as you think proper, gentlemen," exclaimed Wood; "but, for
mercy's sake don't harm the child! Let it be taken to its mother."
"And who is its mother?" asked Jonathan, in an eager whisper. "Tell me
frankly, and speak under your breath. Your own safety--the child's
safety--depends upon your candour."
While Mr. Wood underwent this examination, Blueskin felt a small and
trembling hand placed upon his own, and, turning at the summons, beheld
a young female, whose features were partially concealed by a loo, or
half mask, standing beside him. Coarse as were the ruffian's notions of
feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the surpassing loveliness
of the fair creature, who had thus solicited his attention. Her figure
was, in some measure, hidden by a large scarf, and a deep hood drawn
over the head contributed to her disguise; still it was evident, from
her lofty bearing, that she had nothing in common, except an interest in
their proceedings, with the crew by whom she was surrounded.
Whence she came,--who she was,--and what she wanted,--were questions
which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to
seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture
of silence from the lady.
"Hush!" said she, in a low, but agitated voice; "would you earn this
purse?"
"I've no objection," replied Blueskin, in a tone intended to be gentle,
but which sounded like the murmuring whine of a playful bear. "How much
is there in it!"
"It contains gold," replied the lady; "but I will add this ring."
"What am I to do to earn it?" asked Blueskin, with a disgusting
leer,--"cut a throat--or throw myself at your feet--eh, my dear?"
"Give me that child," returned the lady, with difficulty overcoming the
loathing inspired by the ruffian's familiarity.
"Oh! I see!" replied Blueskin, winking significantly, "Come nearer, or
they'll observe us. Don't be afraid--I won't hurt you. I'm always
agreeable to the women, bless their kind hearts! Now! slip the purse
into my hand. Bravo!--the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done
it better. And now for the fawney--the ring I mean. I'm no great judge
of these articles, Ma'am; but I trust to your honour not to palm off
paste upon me."
"It is a diamond," said the lady, in an agony of distress,--"the child!"
"A diamond! Here, take the kid," cried Blueskin, slipping the infant
adroitly under her scarf. "And so this is a diamond," added he,
contemplating the brilliant from the hollow of his hand: "it does
sparkle almost as brightly as your ogles. By the by, my dear, I forgot
to ask your name--perhaps you'll oblige me with it now? Hell and the
devil!--gone!"
He looked around in vain. The lady had disappeared.
CHAPTER III.
The Master of the Mint.
Jonathan, meanwhile, having ascertained the parentage of the child from
Wood, proceeded to question him in an under tone, as to the probable
motives of the attempt upon its life; and, though he failed in obtaining
any information on this point, he had little difficulty in eliciting
such particulars of the mysterious transaction as have already been
recounted. When the carpenter concluded his recital, Jonathan was for a
moment lost in reflection.
"Devilish strange!" thought he, chuckling to himself; "queer business!
Capital trick of the cull in the cloak to make another person's brat
stand the brunt for his own--capital! ha! ha! Won't do, though. He must
be a sly fox to get out of the Mint without my knowledge. I've a shrewd
guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. These bloods
will pay well for his capture; if not, _he'll_ pay well to get out of
their hands; so I'm safe either way--ha! ha! Blueskin," he added aloud,
and motioning that worthy, "follow me."
Upon which, he set off in the direction of the entry. His progress,
however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of the
Master of the Mint and his train.
Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man,
and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he
entertained for good liquor and good living. He had a quick, shrewd,
merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good
humour. It was easy to discover that he was a knave, but equally easy to
perceive that he was a pleasant fellow; a combination of qualities by no
means of rare occurrence. So far as regards his attire, Baptist was not
seen to advantage. No great lover of state or state costume at any time,
he was generally, towards the close of an evening, completely in
dishabille, and in this condition he now presented himself to his
subjects. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose
ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into
a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into
a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. A white apron was tied
round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon,
which looked very much like a rolling-pin.
The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as
portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. The costume
of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a
masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour
forbidden any such supposition. It consisted of a close jerkin of brown
frieze, ornamented with a triple row of brass buttons; loose Dutch
slops, made very wide in the seat and very tight at the knees; red
stockings with black clocks, and a fur cap. The owner of this dress had
a broad weather-beaten face, small twinkling eyes, and a bushy, grizzled
beard. Though he walked by the side of the governor, he seldom exchanged
a word with him, but appeared wholly absorbed in the contemplations
inspired by a broadbowled Dutch pipe.
Behind the illustrious personages just described marched a troop of
stalwart fellows, with white badges in their hats, quarterstaves, oaken
cudgels, and links in their hands. These were the Master's body-guard.
Advancing towards the Master, and claiming an audience, which was
instantly granted, Jonathan, without much circumlocution, related the
sum of the strange story he had just learnt from Wood, omitting nothing
except a few trifling particulars, which he thought it politic to keep
back; and, with this view, he said not a word of there being any
probability of capturing the fugitive, but, on the contrary, roundly
asserted that his informant had witnessed that person's escape.
The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at
its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of
his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his
phlegmatic companion. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply,
coughed as only a Dutchman _can_ cough, and raising his hand from the
bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial
as the Master.
Putting his own construction upon this mute interchange of opinions,
Jonathan ventured to observe, that it certainly was a very perplexing
case, but that he thought something _might_ be made of it, and, if left
to him, he would undertake to manage the matter to the Master's entire
satisfaction.
"Ja, ja, Muntmeester," said the Dutchman, removing the pipe from his
mouth, and speaking in a deep and guttural voice, "leave the affair to
Johannes. He'll settle it bravely. And let ush go back to our brandewyn,
and hollandsche genever. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers
on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb,
dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant
complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened,
and of which its poor vader died. Myn Got! haanging runs in some
families, Muntmeester. It's hereditary, like de jigt, vat you call
it--gout--haw! haw!"
"If the child _is_ destined to the gibbet, Van Galgebrok," replied the
Master, joining in the laugh, "it'll never be choked by a footman's
cravat, that's certain; but, in regard to going back empty-handed,"
continued he, altering his tone, and assuming a dignified air, "it's
quite out of the question. With Baptist Kettleby, to engage in a matter
is to go through with it. Besides, this is an affair which no one but
myself can settle. Common offences may be decided upon by deputy; but
outrages perpetrated by men of rank, as these appear to be, must be
judged by the Master of the Mint in person. These are the decrees of the
Island of Bermuda, and I will never suffer its excellent laws to be
violated. Gentlemen of the Mint," added he, pointing with his truncheon
towards Mrs. Sheppard's house, "forward!"
"Hurrah!" shouted the mob, and the whole phalanx was put in motion in
that direction. At the same moment a martial flourish, proceeding from
cow's horns, tin canisters filled with stones, bladders and cat-gut,
with other sprightly, instruments, was struck up, and, enlivened by this
harmonious accompaniment, the troop reached its destination in the best
possible spirits for an encounter.
"Let us in," said the Master, rapping his truncheon authoritatively
against the boards, "or we'll force an entrance."
But as no answer was returned to the summons, though it was again, and
more peremptorily, repeated, Baptist seized a mallet from a bystander
and burst open the door. Followed by Van Galgebrok and others of his
retinue, he then rushed into the room, where Rowland, Sir Cecil, and
their attendants, stood with drawn swords prepared to receive them.
"Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed."
"Beat out their brains, you mean," rejoined Blueskin with a tremendous
imprecation; "no half measures now, Master."
"Hadn't you better hold a moment's parley with the gentlemen before
proceeding to extremities?" suggested Jonathan.
"Agreed," responded the Master. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland,
"either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is--"
"You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of
silence; "it is your old friend. I'm glad to recognise you."
"And I'm glad your worship's recognition doesn't come too late,"
observed the Master. "But why didn't you make yourself known at once?"
"I'd forgotten the office you hold in the Mint, Baptist," replied
Rowland. "But clear the room of this rabble, if you have sufficient
authority over them. I would speak with you."
"There's but one way of clearing it, your worship," said the Master,
archly.
"I understand," replied Rowland. "Give them what you please. I'll repay
you."
"It's all right, pals," cried Baptist, in a loud tone; "the gentlemen
and I have settled matters. No more scuffling."
"What's the meaning of all this?" demanded Sir Cecil. "How have you
contrived to still these troubled waters?"
"I've chanced upon an old ally in the Master of the Mint," answered
Rowland. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch
friend of the good cause."
"Blueskin, clear the room," cried the Master; "these gentlemen would be
private. They've _paid_ for their lodging. Where's Jonathan?"
Inquiries were instantly made after that individual, but he was nowhere
to be found.
"Strange!" observed the Master; "I thought he'd been at my elbow all
this time. But it don't much matter--though he's a devilish shrewd
fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred.
Hark ye, Blueskin," continued he, addressing that personage, who, in
obedience to his commands, had, with great promptitude, driven out the
rabble, and again secured the door, "a word in your ear. What female
entered the house with us?"
"Blood and thunder!" exclaimed Blueskin, afraid, if he admitted having
seen the lady, of being compelled to divide the plunder he had obtained
from her among his companions, "how should I know? D'ye suppose I'm
always thinking of the petticoats? I observed no female; but if any one
_did_ join the assault, it must have been either Amazonian Kate, or
Fighting Moll."
"The woman I mean did not join the assault," rejoined the Master, "but
rather seemed to shun observation; and, from the hasty glimpse I caught
of her, she appeared to have a child in her arms."
"Then, most probably, it was the widow Sheppard," answered Blueskin,
sulkily.
"Right," said the Master, "I didn't think of her. And now I've another
job for you."
"Propose it," returned Blueskin, inclining his head.
"Square accounts with the rascal who got up the sham arrest; and, if he
don't tip the cole without more ado, give him a taste of the pump,
that's all."
"He shall go through the whole course," replied Blueskin, with a
ferocious grin, "unless he comes down to the last grig. We'll lather him
with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with _aqua
pompaginis_. Master, your humble servant.--Gentlemen, your most
obsequious trout."
Having effected his object, which was to get rid of Blueskin, Baptist
turned to Rowland and Sir Cecil, who had watched his proceedings with
much impatience, and remarked, "Now, gentlemen, the coast's clear; we've
nothing to interrupt us. I'm entirely at your service."
CHAPTER IV.
The Roof and the Window.
Leaving them to pursue their conference, we shall follow the footsteps
of Jonathan, who, as the Master surmised, and, as we have intimated, had
unquestionably entered the house. But at the beginning of the affray,
when he thought every one was too much occupied with his own concerns to
remark his absence, he slipped out of the room, not for the purpose of
avoiding the engagement (for cowardice was not one of his failings), but
because he had another object in view. Creeping stealthily up stairs,
unmasking a dark lantern, and glancing into each room as he passed, he
was startled in one of them by the appearance of Mrs. Sheppard, who
seemed to be crouching upon the floor. Satisfied, however, that she did
not notice him, Jonathan glided away as noiselessly as he came, and
ascended another short flight of stairs leading to the garret. As he
crossed this chamber, his foot struck against something on the floor,
which nearly threw him down, and stooping to examine the object, he
found it was a key. "Never throw away a chance," thought Jonathan. "Who
knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And,
picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket.
Arrived beneath an aperture in the broken roof, he was preparing to pass
through it, when he observed a little heap of tiles upon the floor,
which appeared to have been recently dislodged. "He _has_ passed this
way," cried Jonathan, exultingly; "I have him safe enough." He then
closed the lantern, mounted without much difficulty upon the roof, and
proceeded cautiously along the tiles.
The night was now profoundly dark. Jonathan had to feel his way. A
single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he
had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen
through it. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were
blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the
building. The venturous climber gazed for a moment at the assemblage
beneath, to ascertain that he was not discovered; and, having satisfied
himself in this particular, he stepped out more boldly. On gaining a
stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and
again unmasked his lantern. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except
the crumbling brickwork. "Confusion!" ejaculated Jonathan: "can he have
escaped? No. The walls are too high, and the windows too stoutly
barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a supposition. He can't be far
off. I shall find him yet. Ah! I have it," he added, after a moment's
deliberation; "he's there, I'll be sworn." And, once more enveloping
himself in darkness, he pursued his course.
He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof,
approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story
loftier than its neighbours. Apparently, Jonathan was well acquainted
with the premises; for, feeling about in the dark, he speedily
discovered a ladder, up the steps of which he hurried. Drawing a pistol,
and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst
through an open trap-door into a small loft.
The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of
defence, with the child in his arms.
"Aha!" exclaimed Jonathan, acting upon the information he had obtained
from Wood; "I have found you at last. Your servant, Mr. Darrell."
"Who are you!" demanded the fugitive, sternly.
"A friend," replied Jonathan, uncocking the pistol, and placing it in
his pocket.
"How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell.
"What should I do here alone if I were an enemy? But, come, don't let us
waste time in bandying words, when we might employ it so much more
profitably. Your life, and that of your child, are in my power. What
will you give me to save you from your pursuers?"
"_Can_ you do so?" asked the other, doubtfully.
"I can, and will. Now, the reward?"
"I have but an ill-furnished purse. But if I escape, my gratitude--"
"Pshaw!" interrupted Jonathan, scornfully. "Your gratitude will vanish
with your danger. Pay fools with promises. I must have something in
hand."
"You shall have all I have about me," replied Darrell.
"Well--well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. An
ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. However,
come along. I needn't tell you to tread carefully. You know the danger
of this breakneck road as well as I do. The light would betray us." So
saying, he closed the lantern.
"Harkye, Sir," rejoined Darrell; "one word before I move. I know not who
you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an
injustice. But there is something in your voice that makes me distrust
you. If you attempt to play the traitor, you will do so at the hazard of
your life."
"I have already hazarded my life in this attempt to save you," returned
Jonathan boldly, and with apparent frankness; "this ought to be
sufficient answer to your doubts. Your pursuers are below. What was to
hinder me, if I had been so inclined, from directing them to your
retreat?"
"Enough," replied Darrell. "Lead on!"
Followed by Darrell, Jonathan retraced his dangerous path. As he
approached the gable of Mrs. Sheppard's house, loud yells and
vociferations reached his ears; and, looking downwards, he perceived a
great stir amid the mob. The cause of this uproar was soon manifest.
Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. The unfortunate
carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually. His hat was placed
upon one pole, his wig on another. His shouts for help were answered by
roars of mockery and laughter. He continued alternately to be tossed in
the air, or rolled in the kennel until he was borne out of sight. The
spectacle seemed to afford as much amusement to Jonathan as to the
actors engaged in it. He could not contain his satisfaction, but
chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight.
"By Heaven!" cried Darrell, "it is the poor fellow whom I placed in such
jeopardy a short time ago. I am the cause of his ill-usage."
"To be sure you are," replied Jonathan, laughing. "But, what of that?
It'll be a lesson to him in future, and will show him the folly of doing
a good-natured action!"
But perceiving that his companion did not relish his pleasantry and
fearing that his sympathy for the carpenter's situation might betray him
into some act of imprudence, Jonathan, without further remark, and by
way of putting an end to the discussion, let himself drop through the
roof. His example was followed by Darrell. But, though the latter was
somewhat embarrassed by his burthen, he peremptorily declined Jonathan's
offer of assistance. Both, however, having safely landed, they
cautiously crossed the room, and passed down the first flight of steps
in silence. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on
the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished
at the foot of the stairs.
Darrell stopped, and drew his sword.
"You have betrayed me," said he, in a deep whisper, to his companion;
"but you shall reap the reward of your treachery."
"Be still!" returned Jonathan, in the same under tone, and with great
self-possession: "I can yet save you. And see!" he added, as the figures
drew back, and the lights disappeared; "it's a false alarm. They have
retired. However, not a moment is to be lost. Give me your hand."
He then hurried Darrell down another short flight of steps, and entered
a small chamber at the back of the house. Closing the door, Jonathan
next produced his lantern, and, hastening towards the window, undrew a
bolt by which it was fastened. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly,
being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. This obstacle, which
appeared to preclude the possibility of egress in that quarter, was
speedily got rid of. Withdrawing another bolt, and unhooking a chain
suspended from the top of the casement, Jonathan pushed the iron
framework outwards. The bars dropped noiselessly and slowly down, till
the chain tightened at the staple.
"You are free," said he, "that grating forms a ladder, by which you may
descend in safety. I learned the trick of the place from one Paul
Groves, who used to live here, and who contrived the machine. He used to
call it his fire-escape--ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for my own
convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account. And
now, Sir, have I kept faith with you?"
"You have," replied Darrell. "Here is my purse; and I trust you will let
me know to whom I am indebted for this important service."
"It matters not who I am," replied Jonathan, taking the money. "As I
said before, I have little reliance upon _professions_ of gratitude."
"I know not how it is," sighed Darrell, "but I feel an unaccountable
misgiving at quitting this place. Something tells me I am rushing on
greater danger."
"You know best," replied Jonathan, sneeringly; "but if I were in your
place I would take the chance of a future and uncertain risk to avoid a
present and certain peril."
"You are right," replied Darrell; "the weakness is past. Which is the
nearest way to the river?"
"Why, it's an awkward road to direct you," returned Jonathan. "But if
you turn to the right when you reach the ground, and keep close to the
Mint wall, you'll speedily arrive at White Cross Street; White Cross
Street, if you turn again to the right, will bring you into Queen
Street; Queen Street, bearing to the left, will conduct you to Deadman's
Place; and Deadman's Place to the water-side, not fifty yards from Saint
Saviour's stairs, where you're sure to get a boat."
"The very point I aim at," said Darrell as he passed through the outlet.
"Stay!" said Jonathan, aiding his descent; "you had better take my
lantern. It may be useful to you. Perhaps you'll give me in return some
token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet
again. Your glove will suffice."
"There it is;" replied the other, tossing him the glove. "Are you sure
these bars touch the ground?"
"They come within a yard of it," answered Jonathan.
"Safe!" shouted Darrell, as he effected a secure landing. "Good night!"
"So," muttered Jonathan, "having started the hare, I'll now unleash the
hounds."
With this praiseworthy determination, he was hastening down stairs, with
the utmost rapidity, when he encountered a female, whom he took, in the
darkness, to be Mrs. Sheppard. The person caught hold of his arm, and,
in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him.
"Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. "I heard his voice;
but I saw them on the stairs, and durst not approach him, for fear of
giving the alarm."
"If you mean the fugitive, Darrell, he has escaped through the back
window," replied Jonathan.
"Thank Heaven!" she gasped.
"Well, you women are forgiving creatures, I must say," observed
Jonathan, sarcastically. "You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who
did his best to get your child's neck twisted."
"What do you mean?" asked the female, in astonishment.
"I mean what I say," replied Jonathan. "Perhaps you don't know that
this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken
for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat,
I can assure you. However, the scheme answered well enough, for Darrell
has got off with his own brat."
"Then this is not my child?" exclaimed she, with increased astonishment.
"If you have a child there, it certainly is not," answered Jonathan, a
little surprised; "for I left your brat in the charge of Blueskin, who
is still among the crowd in the street, unless, as is not unlikely, he's
gone to see your other friend disciplined at the pump."
"Merciful providence!" exclaimed the female. "Whose child can this be?"
"How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. "I suppose it
didn't drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it's flesh
and blood?" asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with
pain.
"My child! my child!" exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, rushing from the
adjoining room. "Where is it?"
"Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first
spoken, addressing Mrs. Sheppard.
"I am--I am!" cried the widow, snatching the babe, and pressing it to
her breast with rapturous delight "God be thanked, I have found it!"
"We have both good reason to be grateful," added the lady, with great
emotion.
"'Sblood!" cried Jonathan, who had listened to the foregoing
conversation with angry wonder, "I've been nicely done here. Fool that I
was to part with my lantern! But I'll soon set myself straight. What ho!
lights! lights!"
And, shouting as he went, he flung himself down stairs.
"Where shall I fly?" exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror. "They
will kill me, if they find me, as they would have killed my husband and
child. Oh God! my limbs fail me."
"Make an effort, Madam," cried Mrs. Sheppard, as a storm of furious
voices resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the stairs;
"they are coming!--they are coming!--fly!--to the roof! to the roof."
"No," cried the lady, "this room--I recollect--it has a back window."
"It is shut," said Mrs. Sheppard.
"It is open," replied the lady, rushing towards it, and springing
through the outlet.
"Where is she?" thundered Jonathan, who at this moment reached Mrs.
Sheppard.
"She has flown up stairs," replied the widow.
"You lie, hussy!" replied Jonathan, rudely pushing her aside, as she
vainly endeavoured to oppose his entrance into the room; "she is here.
Hist!" cried he, as a scream was heard from without. "By G--! she has
missed her footing."
There was a momentary and terrible silence, broken only by a few feeble
groans.
Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed
to the window with a torch.
He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a
blanched cheek, to Rowland.
"Your sister is dead," said he, in a deep whisper.
"Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. "Why
came she here?"
"She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied
Sir Cecil, mournfully.
"Descend and take charge of the body," said Rowland, conquering his
emotion by a great effort, "I will join you in a moment. This accident
rather confirms than checks my purpose. The stain upon our family is
only half effaced: I have sworn the death of the villain and his
bastard, and I will keep my oath. Now, Sir," he added, turning to
Jonathan, as Sir Cecil and his followers obeyed his injunctions, "you
say you know the road which the person whom we seek has taken?"
"I do," replied Jonathan. "But I give no information gratis!"
"Speak, then," said Rowland, placing money in his hand.
"You'll find him at St. Saviours's stairs," answered Jonathan. "He's
about to cross the river. You'd better lose no time. He has got five
minutes' start of you. But I sent him the longest way about."
The words were scarcely pronounced, when Rowland disappeared.
"And now to see the end of it," said Jonathan, shortly afterwards
passing through the window. "Good night, Master."
Three persons only were left in the room. These were the Master of the
Mint, Van Galgebrok, and Mrs. Sheppard.
"A bad business this, Van," observed Baptist, with a prolonged shake of
the head.
"Ja, ja, Muntmeester," said the Hollander, shaking his head in
reply;--"very bad--very."
"But then they're staunch supporters of our friend over the water,"
continued Baptist, winking significantly; "so we must e'en hush it up in
the best way we can."
"Ja," answered Van Galgebrok. "But--sapperment!--I wish they hadn't
broken my pipe."
"JONATHAN WILD promises well," observed the Master, after a pause:
"he'll become a great man. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so."
"He'll be hanged nevertheless," replied the Hollander, giving his collar
an ugly jerk. "Mind, I, Rykhart Van Galgebrok predict it. And now let's
go back to the Shovels, and finish our brandewyn and bier, Muntmeester."
"Alas!" cried Mrs. Sheppard, relieved by their departure, and giving way
to a passionate flood of tears; "were it not for my child, I should wish
to be in the place of that unfortunate lady."
CHAPTER V.
The Denunciation.
For a short space, Mrs. Sheppard remained dissolved in tears. She then
dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor, knelt down
beside him. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble
tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my
ways. I have sinned deeply; but I have been sorely tried. Spare me yet a
little while, Father! not for my own sake, but for the sake of this poor
babe." Her utterance was here choked by sobs. "But if it is thy will to
take me from him," she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted
her,--"if he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech
thee, a mother's feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend,
who shall be to him what I would have been. Let him not bear the weight
of my punishment. Spare him!--pity me!"
With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed
down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and
the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house.
"Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are
you?"
Mrs. Sheppard returned no answer.
"I've got something to say to you," continued the speaker, rather less
harshly; "something to your advantage; so come out o' your hiding-place,
and let's have some supper, for I'm infernally hungry.--D'ye hear?"
Still the widow remained silent.
"Well, if you won't come, I shall help myself, and that's unsociable,"
pursued the speaker, evidently, from the noise he made, suiting the
action to the word. "Devilish nice ham you've got here!--capital
pie!--and, as I live, a flask of excellent canary. You're in luck
to-night, widow. Here's your health in a bumper, and wishing you a
better husband than your first. It'll be your own fault if you don't
soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain. Here's his
health likewise. What! mum still. You're the first widow I ever heard of
who could withstand that lure. I'll try the effect of a jolly stave."
And he struck up the following ballad:--
SAINT GILES'S BOWL.[A]
[Music: Transcribers note See HTML version for music]
I.
Where Saint-Giles' church stands, once a la-zar-house
stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a ves-sel of wood; A
broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who
pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might
tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown, in a
sea of good li-quor, all fear! For nothing the
tran-sit to Ty-burn beguiles, So well as a
draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
II.
By many a highwayman many a draught
Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft,
Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down,
And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown.
_Where the robber may cheer_
_His spirit with beer,_
_And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear!_
_For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles_
_So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!_
III.
There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth,
OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth:
There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up,
And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup!
_For a can of ale calms,_
_A highwayman's qualms,_
_And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms_
_And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles_
_So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!_
"Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at
the bottle. "And now, widow," he continued, "attend to the next verse,
for it consarns a friend o' yours."
IV.
When gallant TOM SHEPPARD to Tyburn was led,--
"Stop the cart at the Crown--stop a moment," he said.
He was offered the Bowl, but he left it and smiled,
Crying, "Keep it till call'd for by JONATHAN WILD!
"_The rascal one day,_
"_Will pass by this way,_
"_And drink a full measure to moisten his clay!_
"_And never will Bowl of Saint Giles have beguiled_
"_Such a thorough-paced scoundrel as_ JONATHAN WILD!"
V.
Should it e'er be _my_ lot to ride backwards that way,
At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay;
I'll summon the landlord--I'll call for the Bowl,
And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul!
_Whatever may hap,_
_I'll taste of the tap,_
_To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap!_
_For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles_
_So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Giles!_
"Devil seize the woman!" growled the singer, as he brought his ditty to
a close; "will nothing tempt her out? Widow Sheppard, I say," he added,
rising, "don't be afraid. It's only a gentleman come to offer you his
hand. 'He that woos a maid',--fol-de-rol--(hiccupping).--I'll soon find
you out."
Mrs. Sheppard, whose distress at the consumption of the provisions had
been somewhat allayed by the anticipation of the intruder's departure
after he had satisfied his appetite, was now terrified in the extreme by
seeing a light approach, and hearing footsteps on the stairs. Her first
impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it,
at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm
was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without.
Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if
it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment,
staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the
other.
"Oh, you're here, are you?" said the ruffian, with an exulting laugh:
"I've been looking for you everywhere."
"Let me go," implored Mrs. Sheppard,--"pray let me go. You hurt the
child. Don't you hear how you've made it cry?"
"Throttle the kid!" rejoined Blueskin, fiercely. "If you don't stop its
squalling, I will. I hate children. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown
'em all like a litter o' puppies."
Well knowing the savage temper of the person she had to deal with, and
how likely he was to put his threat into execution, Mrs. Sheppard did
not dare to return any answer; but, disengaging herself from his
embrace, endeavoured meekly to comply with his request.
"And now, widow," continued the ruffian, setting down the candle, and
applying his lips to the bottle neck as he flung his heavy frame upon a
bench, "I've a piece o' good news for you."
"Good news will be news to me. What is it?"
"Guess," rejoined Blueskin, attempting to throw a gallant expression
into his forbidding countenance.
Mrs. Sheppard trembled violently; and though she understood his meaning
too well, she answered,--"I can't guess."
"Well, then," returned the ruffian, "to put you out o' suspense, as the
topsman remarked to poor Tom Sheppard, afore he turned him off, I'm come
to make you an honourable proposal o' marriage. You won't refuse me, I'm
sure; so no more need be said about the matter. To-morrow, we'll go to
the Fleet and get spliced. Don't shake so. What I said about your brat
was all stuff. I didn't mean it. It's my way when I'm ruffled. I shall
take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore
long.--I'll give him the edication of a prig,--teach him the use of his
forks betimes,--and make him, in the end, as clever a cracksman as his
father."
"Never!" shrieked Mrs. Sheppard; "never! never!"
"Halloa! what's this?" demanded Blueskin, springing to his feet. "Do you
mean to say that if I support your kid, I shan't bring him up how I
please--eh?"
"Don't question me, but leave me," replied the widow wildly; "you had
better."
"Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "--not just
yet."
"I am not unprotected," rejoined the poor woman; "there's some one at
the window. Help! help!"
But her cries were unheeded. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked
round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than
ever.
"It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from
his approach, "so you may spare your breath. Come, come, be reasonable,
and listen to me. Your kid has already brought me good luck, and may
bring me still more if his edication's attended to. This purse," he
added, chinking it in the air, "and this ring, were given me for him
just now by the lady, who made a false step on leaving your house. If
I'd been in the way, instead of Jonathan Wild, that accident wouldn't
have happened."
As he said this, a slight noise was heard without.
"What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the
window. "Who's there?--Pshaw! it's only the wind."
"It's Jonathan Wild," returned the widow, endeavouring to alarm him. "I
told you I was not unprotected."
"_He_ protect _you_," retorted Blueskin, maliciously; "you haven't a
worse enemy on the face of the earth than Jonathan Wild. If you'd read
your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at
Jonathan's door,--and with reason too, as I can testify."
"Man!" screamed Mrs. Sheppard, with a vehemence that shook even the
hardened wretch beside her, "begone, and tempt me not."
"What should I tempt you to?" asked Blueskin, in surprise.
"To--to--no matter what," returned the widow distractedly. "Go--go!"
"I see what you mean," rejoined Blueskin, tossing a large case-knife,
which he took from his pocket, in the air, and catching it dexterously
by the haft as it fell; "you owe Jonathan a grudge;--so do I. He hanged
your first husband. Just speak the word," he added, drawing the knife
significantly across his throat, "and I'll put it out of his power to do
the same by your second. But d--n him! let's talk o' something more
agreeable. Look at this ring;--it's a diamond, and worth a mint o'
money. It shall be your wedding ring. Look at it, I say. The lady's
name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it.
A-L-I-V-A--Aliva--T-R-E-N--Trencher that's it. Aliva Trencher."
"Aliva Trenchard!" exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, hastily; "is that the
name?"
"Ay, ay, now I look again it _is_ Trenchard. How came you to know it?
Have you heard the name before?"
"I think I have--long, long ago, when I was a child," replied Mrs.
Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is
gone--quite gone. Where _can_ I have heard it!"
"Devil knows," rejoined Blueskin. "Let it pass. The ring's yours, and
you're mine. Here, put it on your finger."
Mrs. Sheppard snatched back her hand from his grasp, and exerted all her
force to repel his advances.
"Set down the kid," roared Blueskin, savagely.
"Mercy!" screamed Mrs. Sheppard, struggling to escape, and holding the
infant at arm's length; "have mercy on this helpless innocent!"
And the child, alarmed by the strife, added its feeble cries to its
mother's shrieks.
"Set it down, I tell you," thundered Blueskin, "or I shall do it a
mischief."
"Never!" cried Mrs. Sheppard.
Uttering a terrible imprecation, Blueskin placed the knife between his
teeth, and endeavoured to seize the poor woman by the throat. In the
struggle her cap fell off. The ruffian caught hold of her hair, and held
her fast. The chamber rang with her shrieks. But her cries, instead of
moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. Planting his
knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while
with the other he sought his knife. The child was now within reach; and,
in another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm
from behind had not felled him to the ground.
When Mrs. Sheppard, who had been stricken down by the blow that
prostrated her assailant, looked up, she perceived Jonathan Wild
kneeling beside the body of Blueskin. He was holding the ring to the
light, and narrowly examining the inscription.
"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard--they were right, then, as
to the name. Well, if she survives the accident--as the blood, who
styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do--this ring will make my
fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in
this strange affair."
"Is the poor lady alive?" asked Mrs. Sheppard, eagerly.
"'Sblood!" exclaimed Jonathan, hastily thrusting the ring into his vest,
and taking up a heavy horseman's pistol with which he had felled
Blueskin,--"I thought you'd been senseless."
"Is she alive?" repeated the widow.
"What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly.
"Oh, nothing--nothing," returned Mrs. Sheppard. "But pray tell me if her
husband has escaped?"
"Her husband!" echoed Jonathan scornfully. "A _husband_ has little to
fear from his wife's kinsfolk. Her _lover_, Darrell, has embarked upon
the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing
like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by
his pursuers--ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and
should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to
take me. However, as things have turned up, it's fortunate that I came
back."
"It is, indeed," replied Mrs. Sheppard; "most fortunate for me."
"For _you_!" exclaimed Jonathan; "don't flatter yourself that I'm
thinking of you. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before
I'd have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn't suited my purposes
to do so, and _he_ hadn't incurred my displeasure. I never forgive an
injury. Your husband could have told you that."
"How had he offended you?" inquired the widow.
"I'll tell you," answered Jonathan, sternly. "He thwarted my schemes
twice. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time,
when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who
visited you to-night,--Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,--he betrayed
me. I told him I would bring him to the gallows, and I was as good as my
word."
"You were so," replied Mrs Sheppard; "and for that wicked deed you will
one day be brought to the gallows yourself."
"Not before I have conducted your child thither," retorted Jonathan,
with a withering look.
"Ah!" ejaculated Mrs. Sheppard, paralysed by the threat.
"If that sickly brat lives to be a man," continued Jonathan, rising,
"I'll hang him upon the same tree as his father."
"Pity!" shrieked the widow.
"I'll be his evil genius!" vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy her
torture.
"Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his
taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses."
"Curse on, and welcome," jeered Wild.
Mrs. Sheppard raised her hand, and the malediction trembled upon her
tongue. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness
overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her
arms over her child.
"A mother's prayers--a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour
almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice."
"We shall see," rejoined Jonathan, turning carelessly upon his heel.
And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the
floor.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners
conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be executed
for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were presented with a Bowl
of Ale, thereof to drink, as their last refreshing in this
life.--_Strype's Stow._ Book. IX. ch. III.]
CHAPTER VI.
The Storm.
As soon as he was liberated by his persecutors, Mr. Wood set off at full
speed from the Mint, and, hurrying he scarce knew whither (for there was
such a continual buzzing in his ears and dancing in his eyes, as almost
to take away the power of reflection), he held on at a brisk pace till
his strength completely failed him.
On regaining his breath, he began to consider whither chance had led
him; and, rubbing his eyes to clear his sight, he perceived a sombre
pile, with a lofty tower and broad roof, immediately in front of him.
This structure at once satisfied him as to where he stood. He knew it to
be St. Saviour's Church. As he looked up at the massive tower, the clock
tolled forth the hour of midnight. The solemn strokes were immediately
answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst
which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. A
feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died
away. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an
undefined sense of approaching danger. The peculiar appearance of the
sky was not without some influence in awakening these terrors. Over one
of the pinnacles of the tower a speck of pallid light marked the
position of the moon, then newly born and newly risen. It was still
profoundly dark; but the wind, which had begun to blow with some
violence, chased the clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed
the vapours hanging nearer the earth. Sometimes the moon was totally
eclipsed; at others, it shed a wan and ghastly glimmer over the masses
rolling in the firmament. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their
stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to
determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the
ominous and threatening appearance of the night.
Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much
exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot,
Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise
refresh himself. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on
the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung
the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter."
"Let me have a glass of brandy," said he, addressing the host.
"Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly
tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just
shut up shop."
"Zounds! David Pugh, don't you know your old friend and countryman?"
exclaimed the carpenter.
"Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. "What the devil
makes you out so late? And what has happened to you, man, eh?--you seem
in a queer plight."
"Give me the brandy, and I'll tell you," replied Wood.
"Here, wife--hostess--fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the
corner cupboard.--There, Mr. Wood," cried David, pouring out a glass of
the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, "that'll warm the cockles
of your heart. Don't be afraid, man,--off with it. It's right Nantz. I
keep it for my own drinking," he added in a lower tone.
Mr. Wood having disposed of the brandy, and pronounced himself much
better, hurried close to the fire-side, and informed his friend in a few
words of the inhospitable treatment he had experienced from the
gentlemen of the Mint; whereupon Mr. Pugh, who, as well as the
carpenter, was a descendant of Cadwallader, waxed extremely wrath; gave
utterance to a number of fierce-sounding imprecations in the Welsh
tongue; and was just beginning to express the greatest anxiety to catch
some of the rascals at the Trumpeter, when Mr. Wood cut him short by
stating his intention of crossing the river as soon as possible in order
to avoid the storm.
"A storm!" exclaimed the landlord. "Gadzooks! I thought something was
coming on; for when I looked at the weather-glass an hour ago, it had
sunk lower than I ever remember it."
"We shall have a durty night on it, to a sartinty, landlord," observed
an old one-eyed sailor, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire-side. "The
glass never sinks in that way, d'ye see, without a hurricane follerin',
I've knowed it often do so in the West Injees. Moreover, a souple o'
porpusses came up with the tide this mornin', and ha' bin flounderin'
about i' the Thames abuv Lunnun Bridge all day long; and them
say-monsters, you know, always proves sure fore runners of a gale."
"Then the sooner I'm off the better," cried Wood; "what's to pay,
David?"
"Don't affront me, Owen, by asking such a question," returned the
landlord; "hadn't you better stop and finish the bottle?"
"Not a drop more," replied Wood. "Enough's as good as a feast. Good
night!"
"Well, if you won't be persuaded, and must have a boat, Owen," observed
the landlord, "there's a waterman asleep on that bench will help you to
as tidy a craft as any on the Thames. Halloa, Ben!" cried he, shaking a
broad-backed fellow, equipped in a short-skirted doublet, and having a
badge upon his arm,--"scullers wanted."
"Holloa! my hearty!" cried Ben, starting to his feet.
"This gentleman wants a pair of oars," said the landlord.
"Where to, master?" asked Ben, touching his woollen cap.
"Arundel Stairs," replied Wood, "the nearest point to Wych Street."
"Come along, master," said the waterman.
"Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe
upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the
Thames to-night."
"And why not, old saltwater?" inquired Ben, turning a quid in his mouth.
"'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater,"
replied the tar.
"It must look sharp then, or I shall give it the slip," laughed Ben:
"the gale never yet blowed as could perwent my crossing the Thames. The
weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned
my back upon it."
"May be not," replied the old sailor, drily; "but you'll find it too
stiff for you to-night, anyhow. Howsomdever, if you _should_ reach
t'other side, take an old feller's advice, and don't be foolhardy enough
to venter back again."
"I tell 'ee what, saltwater," said Ben, "I'll lay you my fare--and
that'll be two shillin'--I'm back in an hour."
"Done!" cried the old sailor. "But vere'll be the use o' vinnin'? you
von't live to pay me."
"Never fear," replied Ben, gravely; "dead or alive I'll pay you, if I
lose. There's my thumb upon it. Come along, master."
"I tell 'ee what, landlord," observed the old sailor, quietly
replenishing his pipe from a huge pewter tobacco-box, as the waterman
and Wood quitted the house, "you've said good-b'ye to your friend."
"Odd's me! do you think so?" cried the host of the Trumpeter. "I'll run
and bring him back. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that
any accident befel him."
"Never mind," said the old sailor, taking up a piece of blazing coal
with the tongs, and applying it to his pipe; "let 'em try. They'll be
back soon enough--or not at all."
Mr. Wood and the waterman, meanwhile, proceeded in the direction of St.
Saviour's Stairs. Casting a hasty glance at the old and ruinous prison
belonging to the liberty of the Bishop of Winchester (whose palace
formerly adjoined the river), called the Clink, which gave its name to
the street, along which he walked: and noticing, with some uneasiness,
the melancholy manner in which the wind whistled through its barred
casements, the carpenter followed his companion down an opening to the
right, and presently arrived at the water-side.
Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing
current, as if impatient of restraint. Into one of these the waterman
jumped, and, having assisted Mr. Wood to a seat within it, immediately
pushed from land. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of
a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. A shout was heard at a
little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless
haste to the stair-head.
"Boat there!" cried a voice, which Mr. Wood fancied he recognised.
"You'll find a waterman asleep under his tilt in one of them ere craft,
if you look about, Sir," replied Ben, backing water as he spoke.
"Can't you take me with you?" urged the voice; "I'll make it well worth
your while. I've a child here whom I wish to convey across the water
without loss of time."
"A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. "Hold hard,"
cried he, addressing the waterman; "I'll give the gentleman a lift."
"Unpossible, master," rejoined Ben; "the tide's running down like a
mill-sluice, and the wind's right in our teeth. Old saltwater was right.
We shall have a reg'lar squall afore we gets across. D'ye hear how the
wanes creaks on old Winchester House? We shall have a touch on it
ourselves presently. But I shall lose my wager if I stay a moment
longer--so here goes." Upon which, he plunged his oars deeply into the
stream, and the bark shot from the strand.
Mr. Wood's anxiety respecting the fugitive was speedily relieved by
hearing another waterman busy himself in preparation for starting; and,
shortly after, the dip of a second pair of oars sounded upon the river.
"Curse me, if I don't think all the world means to cross the Thames this
fine night," observed Ben. "One'd think it rained fares, as well as
blowed great guns. Why, there's another party on the stair-head
inquiring arter scullers; and, by the mass! they appear in a greater
hurry than any on us."
His attention being thus drawn to the bank, the carpenter beheld three
figures, one of whom bore a torch, leap into a wherry of a larger size
than the others, which immediately put off from shore. Manned by a
couple of watermen, who rowed with great swiftness, this wherry dashed
through the current in the track of the fugitive, of whom it was
evidently in pursuit, and upon whom it perceptibly gained. Mr. Wood
strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. But he could
only discern a black and shapeless mass, floating upon the water at a
little distance, which, to his bewildered fancy, appeared absolutely
standing still. To the practised eye of the waterman matters wore a very
different air. He perceived clearly enough, that the chase was moving
quickly; and he was also aware, from the increased rapidity with which
the oars were urged, that every exertion was made on board to get out of
the reach of her pursuers. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying
bark was about to put to shore. But this plan (probably from its danger)
was instantly abandoned; not, however, before her momentary hesitation
had been taken advantage of by her pursuers, who, redoubling their
efforts at this juncture, materially lessened the distance between them.
Ben watched these manoeuvres with great interest, and strained every
sinew in his frame to keep ahead of the other boats.
"Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he
observed.
"Something worse, I fear," Wood replied.
"Why, you don't think as how they're crimps, do you?" Ben inquired.
"I don't know what I think," Wood answered sulkily; and he bent his eyes
upon the water, as if he wished to avert his attention forcibly from the
scene.
There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy
in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. The sounds that reach the
ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a
train of sad and serious contemplation. The ripple of the water against
the boat, as its keel cleaves through the stream--the darkling current
hurrying by--the indistinctly-seen craft, of all forms and all sizes,
hovering around, and making their way in ghost-like silence, or warning
each other of their approach by cries, that, heard from afar, have
something doleful in their note--the solemn shadows cast by the
bridges--the deeper gloom of the echoing arches--the lights glimmering
from the banks--the red reflection thrown upon the waves by a fire
kindled on some stationary barge--the tall and fantastic shapes of the
houses, as discerned through the obscurity;--these, and other sights and
sounds of the same character, give a sombre colour to the thoughts of
one who may choose to indulge in meditation at such a time and in such a
place.
But it was otherwise with the carpenter. This was no night for the
indulgence of dreamy musing. It was a night of storm and terror, which
promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. Not a bark
could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. The
darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been
blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. It was a dead calm. But this calm
was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast.
Amid this portentous hush, the report of a pistol reached the
carpenter's ears; and, raising his head at the sound, he beheld a sight
which filled him with fresh apprehensions.
By the light of a torch borne at the stern of the hostile wherry, he saw
that the pursuers had approached within a short distance of the object
of their quest. The shot had taken effect upon the waterman who rowed
the chase. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the
stream towards the enemy. Escape was now impossible. Darrell stood erect
in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack
of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience
the moment which should deliver him into their power.
They had not to tarry long. In another instant, the collision took
place. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped
their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. Wood,
then, beheld two persons, one of whom he recognised as Rowland, spring
on board the chase. A fierce struggle ensued. There was a shrill cry,
instantly succeeded by a deep splash.
"Put about, waterman, for God's sake!" cried Wood, whose humanity got
the better of every personal consideration; "some one is overboard. Give
way, and let us render what assistance we can to the poor wretch."
"It's all over with him by this time, master," replied Ben, turning the
head of his boat, and rowing swiftly towards the scene of strife; "but
d--n him, he was the chap as hit poor Bill Thomson just now, and I don't
much care if he should be food for fishes."
As Ben spoke, they drew near the opposing parties. The contest was now
carried on between Rowland and Darrell. The latter had delivered himself
from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. Hurled over the sides
of the skiff, the ruffian speedily found a watery grave. It was a
spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and
furiously, bore him instantly away. While the strife raged between the
principals, the watermen in the larger wherry were occupied in stemming
the force of the torrent, and endeavouring to keep the boats, they had
lashed together, stationary. Owing to this circumstance, Mr. Wood's
boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it
aimed; and before it could be again brought about, the struggle had
terminated. For a few minutes, Darrell seemed to have the advantage in
the conflict. Neither combatant could use his sword; and in strength the
fugitive was evidently superior to his antagonist. The boat rocked
violently with the struggle. Had it not been lashed to the adjoining
wherry, it must have been upset, and have precipitated the opponents
into the water. Rowland felt himself sinking beneath the powerful grasp
of his enemy. He called to the other attendant, who held the torch.
Understanding the appeal, the man snatched his master's sword from his
grasp, and passed it through Darrell's body. The next moment, a heavy
plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves.
Darrell, however, rose again instantly; and though mortally wounded,
made a desperate effort to regain the boat.
"My child!" he groaned faintly.
"Well reminded," answered Rowland, who had witnessed his struggles with
a smile of gratified vengeance; "I had forgotten the accursed imp in
this confusion. Take it," he cried, lifting the babe from the bottom of
the boat, and flinging it towards its unfortunate father.
The child fell within a short distance of Darrell, who, hearing the
splash, struck out in that direction, and caught it before it sank. At
this juncture, the sound of oars reached his ears, and he perceived Mr.
Wood's boat bearing up towards him.
"Here he is, waterman," exclaimed the benevolent carpenter. "I see
him!--row for your life!"
"That's the way to miss him, master," replied Ben coolly. "We must keep
still. The tide'll bring him to us fast enough."
Ben judged correctly. Borne along by the current, Darrell was instantly
at the boat's side.
"Seize this oar," vociferated the waterman.
"First take the child," cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and
clinging to the oar with a dying effort.
"Give it me," returned the carpenter; "all's safe. Now lend me your own
hand."
"My strength fails me," gasped the fugitive. "I cannot climb the boat.
Take my child to--it is--oh God!--I am sinking--take it--take it!"
"Where?" shouted Wood.
Darrell attempted to reply. But he could only utter an inarticulate
exclamation. The next moment his grasp relaxed, and he sank to rise no
more.
Rowland, meantime, alarmed by the voices, snatched a torch from his
attendant, and holding it over the side of the wherry, witnessed the
incident just described.
"Confusion!" cried he; "there is another boat in our wake. They have
rescued the child. Loose the wherry, and stand to your oars--quick--quick!"
These commands were promptly obeyed. The boat was set free, and the men
resumed their seats. Rowland's purposes were, however, defeated in a
manner as unexpected as appalling.
During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. But as Rowland
sprang to the helm, and gave the signal for pursuit, a roar like a
volley of ordnance was heard aloft, and the wind again burst its
bondage. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. It
was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. The
blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of
foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging
torrent blacker than before. The gale had become a hurricane: that
hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city.
Destruction everywhere marked its course. Steeples toppled, and towers
reeled beneath its fury. Trees were torn up by the roots; many houses
were levelled to the ground; others were unroofed; the leads on the
churches were ripped off, and "shrivelled up like scrolls of parchment."
Nothing on land or water was spared by the remorseless gale. Most of the
vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed
tumultuously against each other, or blown ashore. All was darkness,
horror, confusion, ruin. Men fled from their tottering habitations, and
returned to them scared by greater dangers. The end of the world seemed
at hand.
At this time of universal havoc and despair,--when all London quaked at
the voice of the storm,--the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost
fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. The boat in which
he rode was not overset. Fortunately, her course had been shifted
immediately after the rescue of the child; and, in consequence of this
movement, she received the first shock of the hurricane, which blew from
the southwest, upon her stern. Her head dipped deeply into the current,
and she narrowly escaped being swamped. Righting, however, instantly
afterwards, she scudded with the greatest rapidity over the boiling
waves, to whose mercy she was now entirely abandoned. On this fresh
outburst of the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom
of the boat, and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured
to prepare himself to meet his fate.
While he was thus occupied, he felt a rough grasp upon his arm, and
presently afterwards Ben's lips approached close to his ear. The
waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice
would have been carried away by the violence of the blast.
"It's all up, master," groaned Ben, "nothin' short of a merracle can
save us. The boat's sure to run foul o' the bridge; and if she 'scapes
stavin' above, she'll be swamped to a sartainty below. There'll be a
fall of above twelve foot o' water, and think o' that on a night as 'ud
blow a whole fleet to the devil."
Mr. Wood _did_ think of it, and groaned aloud.
"Heaven help us!" he exclaimed; "we were mad to neglect the old sailor's
advice."
"That's what troubles me," rejoined Ben. "I tell 'ee what, master, if
you're more fortinate nor I am, and get ashore, give old saltwater your
fare. I pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I'd pay the wager if I
lost; and I should like to be as good as my word."
"I will--I will," replied Wood hastily. "Was that thunder?" he faltered,
as a terrible clap was heard overhead.
"No; it's only a fresh gale," Ben returned: "hark! now it comes."
"Lord have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!" ejaculated Wood, as a
fearful gust dashed the water over the side of the boat, deluging him
with spray.
The hurricane had now reached its climax. The blast shrieked, as if
exulting in its wrathful mission. Stunning and continuous, the din
seemed almost to take away the power of hearing. He, who had faced the
gale, would have been instantly stifled. Piercing through every crevice
in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or
from his grasp. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed
the faculties. The intense darkness added to the terror of the storm.
The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. None
saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice.
Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms.
Ten thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the
work of devastation. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings
of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. The actual danger was
lost sight of in these wild apprehensions; and many timorous beings were
scared beyond reason's verge by the excess of their fears.
This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter. He was roused from
the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who
roared in his ear, "The bridge!--the bridge!"
CHAPTER VII.
Old London Bridge.
London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. But
that bridge was more remarkable than any the metropolis now possesses.
Covered with houses, from one end to the other, this reverend and
picturesque structure presented the appearance of a street across the
Thames. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its
magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the
Middlesex to the Surrey shore. The houses were older, the shops
gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the
crowd, the street-like air was the same. Then the bridge had arched
gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways
ought to be) with the heads of traitors. In olden days it boasted a
chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt
curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the
Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it
still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition)
which had once vied with a palace,--we mean Nonesuch House. The other
buildings stood close together in rows; and so valuable was every inch
of room accounted, that, in many cases, cellars, and even habitable
apartments, were constructed in the solid masonry of the piers.
Old London Bridge (the grandsire of the present erection) was supported
on nineteen arches, each of which
Would a Rialto make for depth and height!
The arches stood upon enormous piers; the piers on starlings, or
jetties, built far out into the river to break the force of the tide.
Roused by Ben's warning, the carpenter looked up and could just perceive
the dusky outline of the bridge looming through the darkness, and
rendered indistinctly visible by the many lights that twinkled from the
windows of the lofty houses. As he gazed at these lights, they suddenly
seemed to disappear, and a tremendous shock was felt throughout the
frame of the boat. Wood started to his feet. He found that the skiff had
been dashed against one of the buttresses of the bridge.
"Jump!" cried Ben, in a voice of thunder.
Wood obeyed. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. Though the
starling was more than two feet above the level of the water, he
alighted with his little charge--which he had never for an instant
quitted--in safety upon it. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. Just as he
was preparing to follow, the wherry containing Rowland and his men,
which had drifted in their wake, was dashed against his boat. The
violence of the collision nearly threw him backwards, and caused him to
swerve as he sprang. His foot touched the rounded edge of the starling,
and glanced off, precipitating him into the water. As he fell, he caught
at the projecting masonry. But the stone was slippery; and the tide,
which here began to feel the influence of the fall, was running with
frightful velocity. He could not make good his hold. But, uttering a
loud cry, he was swept away by the headlong torrent.
Mr. Wood heard the cry. But his own situation was too perilous to admit
of his rendering any assistance to the ill-fated waterman. He fancied,
indeed, that he beheld a figure spring upon the starling at the moment
when the boats came in contact; but, as he could perceive no one near
him, he concluded he must have been mistaken.
In order to make Mr. Wood's present position, and subsequent proceedings
fully intelligible, it may be necessary to give some notion of the shape
and structure of the platform on which he had taken refuge. It has been
said, that the pier of each arch, or lock of Old London Bridge, was
defended from the force of the tide by a huge projecting spur called a
starling. These starlings varied in width, according to the bulk of the
pier they surrounded. But they were all pretty nearly of the same
length, and built somewhat after the model of a boat, having extremities
as sharp and pointed as the keel of a canoe. Cased and ribbed with
stone, and braced with horizontal beams of timber, the piles, which
formed the foundation of these jetties, had resisted the strong
encroachments of the current for centuries. Some of them are now buried
at the bottom of the Thames. The starling, on which the carpenter stood,
was the fourth from the Surrey shore. It might be three yards in width,
and a few more in length; but it was covered with ooze and slime, and
the waves continually broke over it. The transverse spars before
mentioned were as slippery as ice; and the hollows between them were
filled ankle-deep with water.
The carpenter threw himself flat upon the starling to avoid the fury of
the wind. But in this posture he fared worse than ever. If he ran less
risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance of being washed
off, or stifled. As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually
slipping off the platform. Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of
terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions.
He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the
pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures
with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the
bridge were pierced. But this wild scheme was speedily abandoned; and,
nerved by despair, the carpenter resolved to hazard an attempt, from the
execution, almost from the contemplation, of which he had hitherto
shrunk. This was to pass under the arch, along the narrow ledge of the
starling, and, if possible, attain the eastern platform, where,
protected by the bridge, he would suffer less from the excessive
violence of the gale.
Assured, if he remained much longer where he was, he would inevitably
perish, Wood recommended himself to the protection of Heaven, and began
his perilous course. Carefully sustaining the child which, even in that
terrible extremity, he had not the heart to abandon, he fell upon his
knees, and, guiding himself with his right hand, crept slowly on. He had
scarcely entered the arch, when the indraught was so violent, and the
noise of the wind so dreadful and astounding, that he almost determined
to relinquish the undertaking. But the love of life prevailed over his
fears. He went on.
The ledge, along which he crawled, was about a foot wide. In length the
arch exceeded seventy feet. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless
distance. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived midway,
something obstructed his further progress. It was a huge stone placed
there by some workmen occupied in repairing the structure. Cold drops
stood upon Wood's brow, as he encountered this obstacle. To return was
impossible,--to raise himself certain destruction. He glanced downwards
at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with
lightning swiftness in the gloom. He listened to the thunder of the fall
now mingling with the roar of the blast; and, driven almost frantic by
what he heard and saw, he pushed with all his force against the stone.
To his astonishment and delight it yielded to the pressure, toppled over
the ledge, and sank. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that
the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood. His course,
however, was no longer interrupted, and he crept on.
After encountering other dangers, and being twice, compelled to fling
himself flat upon his face to avoid slipping from the wet and slimy
pathway, he was at length about to emerge from the lock, when, to his
inexpressible horror, he found he had lost the child!
All the blood in his veins rushed to his heart, and he shook in every
limb as he made this discovery. A species of vertigo seized him. His
brain reeled. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was
cracking over head,--that the arch was tumbling upon him,--that the
torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him
in the deafening abyss. He shrieked with agony, and clung with desperate
tenacity to the roughened stones. But calmer thoughts quickly succeeded.
On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with
painful distinctness. He remembered that, before he attempted to
dislodge the stone, he had placed the child in a cavity of the pier,
which the granite mass had been intended to fill. This obstacle being
removed, in his eagerness to proceed, he had forgotten to take his
little charge with him. It was still possible the child might be in
safety. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his
neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it.
Acting upon this humane determination, he impelled himself slowly
backwards,--for he did not dare to face the blast,--and with incredible
labour and fatigue reached the crevice. His perseverance was amply
rewarded. The child was still safe. It lay undisturbed in the remotest
corner of the recess.
So overjoyed was the carpenter with the successful issue of his
undertaking, that he scarcely paused a moment to recruit himself; but,
securing the child, set out upon his return. Retracing his steps, he
arrived, without further accident, at the eastern platform of the
starling. As he anticipated, he was here comparatively screened from the
fury of the wind; and when he gazed upon the roaring fall beneath him,
visible through the darkness in a glistening sheet of foam, his heart
overflowed with gratitude for his providential deliverance.
As he moved about upon the starling, Mr. Wood became sensible that he
was not alone. Some one was standing beside him. This, then, must be the
person whom he had seen spring upon the western platform at the time of
the collision between the boats. The carpenter well knew from the
obstacle which had interfered with his own progress, that the unknown
could not have passed through the same lock as himself. But he might
have crept along the left side of the pier, and beneath the further
arch; whereas, Wood, as we have seen, took his course upon the right.
The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or
figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility
of holding any communication by words with him. Wood, however, made
known his presence to the individual by laying his hand upon his
shoulder. The stranger started at the touch, and spoke. But his words
were borne away by the driving wind.
Finding all attempts at conversation with his companion in misfortune in
vain, Wood, in order to distract his thoughts, looked up at the gigantic
structure standing, like a wall of solid darkness, before him. What was
his transport on perceiving that a few yards above him a light was
burning. The carpenter did not hesitate a moment. He took a handful of
the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the
small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. A pane of glass was
shivered by each stone. The signal of distress was evidently understood.
The light disappeared. The window was shortly after opened, and a rope
ladder, with a lighted horn lantern attached to it, let down.
Wood grasped his companion's arm to attract his attention to this
unexpected means of escape. The ladder was now within reach. Both
advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in
the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features
of Rowland.
The carpenter trembled; for he perceived Rowland's gaze fixed first
upon the infant, and then on himself.
"It _is_ her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the
howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me.
Its parents have perished. And shall their wretched offspring live to
blight my hopes, and blast my fame? Never!" And, with these words, he
grasped Wood by the throat, and, despite his resistance, dragged him to
the very verge of the platform.
All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of the
bridge. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the
storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones.
When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand, scarcely
knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself alone. The fatal
shower, from which he and his little charge escaped uninjured, had
stricken his assailant and precipitated him into the boiling gulf.
"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter,
turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries
proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships
it had undergone. "Poor little creature!" he muttered, pressing it
tenderly to his breast, as he grasped the rope and clambered up to the
window: "if thou hast, indeed, lost both thy parents, as that terrible
man said just now, thou art not wholly friendless and deserted, for I
myself will be a father to thee! And in memory of this dreadful night,
and the death from which I have, been the means of preserving thee, thou
shalt bear the name of THAMES DARRELL."
No sooner had Wood crept through the window, than nature gave way, and
he fainted. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a
blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. His
first inquiries were concerning the child, and he was delighted to find
that it still lived and was doing well. Every care had been taken of it,
as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he
had sought shelter.
About noon, next day, he was able to move; and the gale having abated,
he set out homewards with his little charge.
The city presented a terrible picture of devastation. London Bridge had
suffered a degree less than most places. But it was almost choked up
with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered
tiles. The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the
next gust would precipitate them into the river. With great difficulty,
Wood forced a path through the ruins. It was a work of no slight danger,
for every instant a wall, or fragment of a building, came crashing to
the ground. Thames Street was wholly impassable. Men were going hither
and thither with barrows, and ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish,
and trying to support the tottering habitations. Grace-church Street was
entirely deserted, except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the
better of their fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to
proceed along it. The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. In some cases
they were ground almost to powder; in others, driven deeply into the
earth, as if discharged from a piece of ordnance. The roofs and gables
of many of the houses had been torn off. The signs of the shops were
carried to incredible distances. Here and there, a building might be
seen with the doors and windows driven in, and all access to it
prevented by the heaps of bricks and tilesherds.
Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;--now ascending, now
descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at
the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet
Street. The hurricane appeared to have raged in this quarter with
tenfold fury. Mr. Wood scarcely knew where he was. The old aspect of the
place was gone. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had
gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such
they seemed.
It was a dismal and depressing sight to see a great city thus suddenly
overthrown; and the carpenter was deeply moved by the spectacle. As
usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was
scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder. While involved in
this crowd, near Temple Bar,--where the thoroughfare was most dangerous
from the masses of ruin that impeded it,--an individual, whose swarthy
features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous
night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of
stealing his child. In vain Wood protested his innocence. The ruffian's
companions took his part. And the infant, in all probability, would have
been snatched from its preserver, if a posse of the watch (sent out to
maintain order and protect property) had not opportunely arrived, and by
a vigorous application of their halberts dispersed his persecutors, and
set him at liberty.
Mr. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till
he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. His wife met him at the
door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge.
END OF THE FIRST EPOCH.
EPOCH THE SECOND.
1715.
THAMES DARRELL.
CHAPTER I.
The Idle Apprentice.
Twelve years! How many events have occurred during that long interval!
how many changes have taken place! The whole aspect of things is
altered. The child has sprung into a youth; the youth has become a man;
the man has already begun to feel the advances of age. Beauty has
bloomed and faded. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded,
died. The fashions of the day have become antiquated. New customs have
prevailed over the old. Parties, politics, and popular opinions have
changed. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of
another. Habits and tastes are no longer the same. We, ourselves, are
scarcely the same we were twelve years ago.
Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. Dare we look back upon the
darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With
how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never
fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which,
twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired
us--the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been
commensurate with our own desires--with the anticipations formed of us
by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the
loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand
of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than
ever--the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?--Enough of
this. Let us proceed with our tale.
Twelve years, then, have elapsed since the date of the occurrences
detailed in the preceding division of this history. At that time, we
were beneath the sway of Anne: we are now at the commencement of the
reign of George the First. Passing at a glance over the whole of the
intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet,
--The growth untried
Of that wide gap--
we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715.
One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. Wood,
who had been absent on business during the greater part of the day,
returned (perhaps not altogether undesignedly) at an earlier hour than
was expected, to his dwelling in Wych Street, Drury Lane; and was about
to enter his workshop, when, not hearing any sound of labour issue from
within, he began to suspect that an apprentice, of whose habits of
industry he entertained some doubt, was neglecting his employment.
Impressed with this idea, he paused for a moment to listen. But finding
all continue silent, he cautiously lifted the latch, and crept into the
room, resolved to punish the offender in case his suspicions should
prove correct.
The chamber, into which he stole, like all carpenters' workshops, was
crowded with the implements and materials of that ancient and honourable
art. Saws, hammers, planes, axes, augers, adzes, chisels, gimblets, and
an endless variety of tools were ranged, like a stand of martial weapons
at an armoury, in racks against the walls. Over these hung levels,
bevels, squares, and other instruments of measurement. Amid a litter of
nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay
a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to
term "his right hand and his left." On a shelf was placed a row of
paint-jars; the contents of which had been daubed in rainbow streaks
upon the adjacent closet and window sill. Divers plans and figures were
chalked upon the walls; and the spaces between them were filled up with
an almanack for the year; a godly ballad, adorned with a rude wood-cut,
purporting to be "_The History of Chaste Susannah_;" an old print of the
Seven Golden Candlesticks; an abstract of the various Acts of Parliament
against drinking, swearing, and all manner of profaneness; and a view of
the interior of Doctor Daniel Burgess's Presbyterian meeting-house in
Russell Court, with portraits of the reverend gentleman and the
principal members of his flock. The floor was thickly strewn with
sawdust and shavings; and across the room ran a long and wide bench,
furnished at one end with a powerful vice; next to which three nails
driven into the boards served, it would appear from the lump of
unconsumed tallow left in their custody, as a substitute for a
candlestick. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of
bread, and a slice of cheese. Attracted by the odour of the latter
dainty, a hungry cat had contrived to scratch open the paper in which it
was wrapped, displaying the following words in large characters:--"THE
HISTORY OF THE FOUR KINGS, OR CHILD'S BEST GUIDE TO THE GALLOWS." And,
as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was
scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust. Near the door stood a pile of
deal planks, behind which the carpenter ensconced himself in order to
reconnoitre, unobserved, the proceedings of his idle apprentice.
Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his
back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead
of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a
beam, overhead. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like
men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the
stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray
drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were
evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior.
Coat, on the present occasion, he had none, it being more convenient, as
well as agreeable to him, to pursue his avocations in his shirtsleeves;
but, when fully equipped, he wore a large-cuffed, long-skirted garment,
which had once been the property of his master.
In concealing himself behind the timber, Mr. Wood could not avoid making
a slight shuffling sound. The noise startled the apprentice, who
instantly suspended his labour, and gazed anxiously in the direction
whence he supposed it proceeded. His face was that of a quick,
intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive
complexion. His figure was uncommonly slim even for his age, which could
not be more than thirteen; and the looseness of his garb made him appear
thinner than he was in reality. But if his frame was immature, his looks
were not so. He seemed to possess a penetration and cunning beyond his
years--to hide a man's judgment under a boy's mask. The glance, which he
threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a
mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. In the end, resolution
triumphed, as it was sure to do, over the weaker emotions, and he
laughed at his fears. The only part of his otherwise-interesting
countenance, to which one could decidedly object, was the mouth; a
feature that, more than any other, is conceived to betray the animal
propensities of the possessor. If this is true, it must be owned that
the boy's mouth showed a strong tendency on his part to coarse
indulgence. The eyes, too, though large and bright, and shaded by long
lashes, seemed to betoken, as hazel eyes generally do in men, a
faithless and uncertain disposition. The cheek-bones were prominent: the
nose slightly depressed, with rather wide nostrils; the chin narrow, but
well-formed; the forehead broad and lofty; and he possessed such an
extraordinary flexibility of muscle in this region, that he could
elevate his eye-brows at pleasure up to the very verge of his sleek and
shining black hair, which, being closely cropped, to admit of his
occasionally wearing a wig, gave a singular bullet-shape to his head.
Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads
which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache,
Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:--faces that
almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and
enjoyment. There was all the knavery, and more than all the drollery of
a Spanish picaroon in the laughing eyes of the English apprentice; and,
with a little more warmth and sunniness of skin on the side of the
latter, the resemblance between them would have been complete.
Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy
resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled
assiduity, the following--not inappropriate strains:--
THE NEWGATE STONE.
When Claude Du Val was in Newgate thrown,
He carved his name on the dungeon stone;
Quoth a dubsman, who gazed on the shattered wall,
"You have carved your epitaph, Claude Du Val,
_With your chisel so fine, tra la_!"
"This S wants a little deepening," mused the apprentice, retouching the
letter in question; "ay, that's better."
Du Val was hang'd, and the next who came
On the selfsame stone inscribed his name:
"Aha!" quoth the dubsman, with devilish glee,
"Tom Waters _your_ doom is the triple tree!
_With your chisel so fine, tra la_!"
"Tut, tut, tut," he cried, "what a fool I am to be sure! I ought to have
cut John, not Jack. However, it don't signify. Nobody ever called me
John, that I recollect. So I dare say I was christened Jack. Deuce take
it! I was very near spelling my name with one P.
Within that dungeon lay Captain Bew,
Rumbold and Whitney--a jolly crew!
All carved their names on the stone, and all
Share the fate of the brave Du Val!
_With their chisels so fine, tra la_!
"Save us!" continued the apprentice, "I hope this beam doesn't resemble
the Newgate stone; or I may chance, like the great men the song speaks
of, to swing on the Tyburn tree for my pains. No fear o' that.--Though
if my name should become as famous as theirs, it wouldn't much matter.
The prospect of the gallows would never deter me from taking to the
road, if I were so inclined.
Full twenty highwaymen blithe and bold,
Rattled their chains in that dungeon old;
Of all that number there 'scaped not one
Who carved his name on the Newgate Stone.
_With his chisel so fine, tra la_!
"There!" cried the boy, leaping from the stool, and drawing back a few
paces on the bench to examine his performance,--"that'll do. Claude du
Val himself couldn't have carved it better--ha! ha!"
The name inscribed upon the beam (of which, as it has been carefully
preserved by the subsequent owners of Mr. Wood's habitation in Wych
Street, we are luckily enabled to furnish a facsimile) was
[Illustration: Jack Sheppard (signature)]
"I've half a mind to give old Wood the slip, and turn highwayman," cried
Jack, as he closed the knife, and put it in his pocket.
"The devil you have!" thundered a voice from behind, that filled the
apprentice with dismay. "Come down, sirrah, and I'll teach you how to
deface my walls in future. Come down, I say, instantly, or I'll make
you." Upon which, Mr. Wood caught hold of Jack's leg, and dragged him
off the bench.
"And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the
carpenter, cuffing him soundly,--"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I
suppose."
"Yes, I will," replied Jack sullenly, "if you beat me in that way."
Amazed at the boy's assurance, Wood left off boxing his ears for a
moment, and, looking at him steadfastly, said in a grave tone, "Jack,
Jack, you'll come to be hanged!"
"Better be hanged than hen-pecked," retorted the lad with a malicious
grin.
"What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger.
"Do you dare to insinuate that Mrs. Wood governs me?"
"It's plain you can't govern yourself, at all events," replied Jack
coolly; "but, be that as it may, I won't be struck for nothing."
"Nothing," echoed Wood furiously. "Do you call neglecting your work, and
singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a
master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your
solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. But
I'll be more lenient, and content myself with merely chastising you, on
condition--"
"You may do as you please, master," interrupted Jack, thrusting his hand
into his pocket, as if in search of the knife; "but I wouldn't advise
you to lay hands on me again."
Mr. Wood glanced at the hardy offender, and not liking the expression of
his countenance, thought it advisable to postpone the execution of his
threats to a more favourable opportunity. So, by way of gaining time, he
resolved to question him further.
"Where did you learn the song I heard just now?" he demanded, in an
authoritative tone.
"At the Black Lion in our street," replied Jack, without hesitation.
"The worst house in the neighbourhood--the constant haunt of reprobates
and thieves," groaned Wood. "And who taught it you--the landlord, Joe
Hind?"
"No; one Blueskin, a fellow who frequents the Lion," answered Jack, with
a degree of candour that astonished his master nearly as much as his
confidence. "It was that song that put it into my head to cut my name on
the beam."
"A white wall is a fool's paper, Jack,--remember that," rejoined Wood.
"Pretty company for an apprentice to keep!--pretty houses for an
apprentice to frequent! Why, the rascal you mention is a notorious
house-breaker. He was tried at the last Old Bailey sessions; and only
escaped the gallows by impeaching his accomplices. Jonathan Wild brought
him off."
"Do you happen to know Jonathan Wild, master?" inquired Jack, altering
his tone, and assuming a more respectful demeanour.
"I've seen him some years ago, I believe," answered Wood; "and, though
he must be much changed by this time, I dare say I should know him
again."
"A short man, isn't he, about your height, Sir,--with a yellow beard,
and a face as sly as a fox's?"
"Hem!" replied Wood, coughing slightly to conceal a smile; "the
description's not amiss. But why do you ask?"
"Because--" stammered the boy.
"Speak out--don't be alarmed," said Wood, in a kind and encouraging
tone. "If you've done wrong, confess it, and I'll forgive you!"
"I don't deserve to be forgiven!" returned Jack, bursting into tears;
"for I'm afraid I've done very wrong. Do you know this, Sir?" he added,
taking a key from his pocket.
"Where did you find it!" asked Wood.
"It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin
at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and
muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild."
"Where did _he_ get it?" inquired Wood, in surprise.
"That I can't say. But he promised to give me a couple of guineas if I'd
ascertain whether it fitted your locks."
"Zounds!" exclaimed Wood; "it's my old master-key. This key," he added,
taking it from the boy, "was purloined from me by your father, Jack.
What he intended to do with it is of little consequence now. But before
he suffered at Tyburn, he charged your mother to restore it. She lost it
in the Mint. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her."
"He must," exclaimed Jack, hastily; "but only let me have it till
to-morrow, and if I don't entrap him in a snare from which, with all
his cunning, he shall find it difficult to escape, my name's not Jack
Sheppard."
"I see through your design, Jack," returned the carpenter, gravely; "but
I don't like under-hand work. Even when you've a knave to deal with, let
your actions be plain, and above-board. That's my maxim; and it's the
maxim of every honest man. It would be a great matter, I must own, to
bring Jonathan Wild to justice. But I can't consent to the course you
would pursue--at least, not till I've given it due consideration. In
regard to yourself, you've had a very narrow escape. Wild's intention,
doubtless, was to use you as far as he found necessary, and then to sell
you. Let this be a caution to you in future--with whom, and about what
you deal. We're told, that 'Whoso is partner with a thief hateth his own
soul.' Avoid taverns and bad company, and you may yet do well. You
promise to become a first-rate workman. But you want one quality,
without which all others are valueless. You want industry--you want
steadiness. Idleness is the key of beggary, Jack. If you don't conquer
this disgraceful propensity in time, you'll soon come to want; and then
nothing can save you. Be warned by your father's fate. As you brew so
must you drink. I've engaged to watch over you as a son, and I _will_ do
so as far as I'm able; but if you neglect my advice, what chance have I
of benefitting you? On one point I've made up my mind--you shall either
obey me, or leave me. Please yourself. Here are your indentures, if you
choose to seek another master."
"I _will_ obey you, master,--indeed I will!" implored Jack, seriously
alarmed at the carpenter's calm displeasure.
"We shall see. Good words, without deeds, are rushes and reeds. And now
take away those cards, and never let me see them again. Drive away the
cat; throw that measure of gin through the window; and tell me why
you've not so much as touched the packing-case for Lady Trafford, which
I particularly desired you to complete against my return. It must be
sent home this evening. She leaves town to-morrow."
"It shall be ready in two hours," answered Jack, seizing a piece of wood
and a plane; "it isn't more than four o'clock. I'll engage to get the
job done by six. I didn't expect you home before that hour, Sir."
"Ah, Jack," said Wood, shaking his head, "where there's a will there's a
way. You can do anything you please. I wish I could get you to imitate
Thames Darrell."
"I'm sure I understand the business of a carpenter much better than he
does," replied Jack, adroitly adjusting the board, and using the plane
with the greatest rapidity.
"Perhaps," replied Wood, doubtfully.
"Thames was always your favourite," observed Jack, as he fastened
another piece of wood on the teeth of the iron stopper.
"I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor
shall I do so, unless I'm compelled."
"I've had the hard work to do, at all events," rejoined Jack, "But I
won't complain. I'd do anything for Thames Darrell."
"And Thames Darrell would do anything for you, Jack," replied a blithe
voice. "What's the matter, father!" continued the new-comer, addressing
Wood. "Has Jack displeased you? If so, overlook his fault this once. I'm
sure he'll do his best to content you. Won't you, Jack?"
"That I will," answered Sheppard, eagerly.
"When it thunders, the thief becomes honest," muttered Wood.
"Can I help you, Jack?" asked Thames, taking up a plane.
"No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood. "He has undertaken to finish
this job by six o'clock, and I wish to see whether he'll be as good as
his word."
"He'll have hard work to do it by that time, father," remonstrated
Thames; "you'd better let me help him."
"On no account," rejoined Wood peremptorily. "A little extra exertion
will teach him the advantage of diligence at the proper season. Lost
ground must be regained. I need scarcely ask whether you've executed
your appointed task, my dear? You're never behindhand."
Thames turned away at the question, which he felt might be construed
into a reproach. But Sheppard answered for him.
"Darrell's job was done early this morning," he said; "and if I'd
attended to his advice, the packing-case would have been finished at the
same time."
"You trusted too much to your own skill, Jack," rejoined Thames. "If I
could work as fast as you, I might afford to be as idle. See how he gets
on, father," he added, appealing to Wood: "the box seems to grow under
his hands."
"You're a noble-hearted little fellow, Thames," rejoined Wood, casting a
look of pride and affection at his adopted son, whose head he gently
patted; "and give promise of a glorious manhood."
Thames Darrell was, indeed, a youth of whom a person of far greater
worldly consequence than the worthy carpenter might have been justly
proud. Though a few months younger than his companion Jack Sheppard, he
was half a head taller, and much more robustly formed. The two friends
contrasted strikingly with each other. In Darrell's open features,
frankness and honour were written in legible characters; while, in
Jack's physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly imprinted. In
all other respects they differed as materially. Jack could hardly be
accounted good-looking: Thames, on the contrary, was one of the
handsomest boys possible. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy;
Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. Jack's mouth was coarse and
large; Darrell's small and exquisitely carved, with the short, proud
upper lip, which belongs to the highest order of beauty. Jack's nose was
broad and flat; Darrell's straight and fine as that of Antinous. The
expression pervading the countenance of the one was vulgarity; of the
other, that which is rarely found, except in persons of high birth.
Darrell's eyes were of that clear gray which it is difficult to
distinguish from blue by day and black at night; and his rich brown
hair, which he could not consent to part with, even on the promise of a
new and modish peruke from his adoptive father, fell in thick glossy
ringlets upon his shoulders; whereas Jack's close black crop imparted
the peculiar bullet-shape we have noticed, to his head.
While Thames modestly expressed a hope that he might not belie the
carpenter's favourable prediction, Jack Sheppard thought fit to mount a
small ladder placed against the wall, and, springing with the agility of
an ape upon a sort of frame, contrived to sustain short spars and blocks
of timber, began to search about for a piece of wood required in the
work on which he was engaged. Being in a great hurry, he took little
heed where he set his feet; and a board giving way, he must have fallen,
if he had not grasped a large plank laid upon the transverse beam
immediately over his head.
"Take care, Jack," shouted Thames, who witnessed the occurrence; "that
plank isn't properly balanced. You'll have it down."
But the caution came too late. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the
equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended. Losing his
presence of mind, Jack quitted his hold, and dropped upon the frame. The
plank hung over his head. A moment more and he would have been crushed
beneath the ponderous board, when a slight but strong arm arrested its
descent.
"Get from under it, Jack!" vociferated Thames. "I can't hold it much
longer--it'll break my wrist. Down we come!" he exclaimed, letting go
the plank, which fell with a crash, and leaping after Sheppard, who had
rolled off the frame.
All this was the work of a minute.
"No bones broken, I hope," said Thames, laughing at Jack, who limped
towards the bench, rubbing his shins as he went.
"All right," replied Sheppard, with affected indifference.
"It's a mercy you both escaped!" ejaculated Wood, only just finding his
tongue. "I declare I'm all in a cold sweat. How came you, Sir," he
continued, addressing Sheppard, "to venture upon that frame. I always
told you some accident would happen."
"Don't scold him, father," interposed Thames; "he's been frightened
enough already."
"Well, well, since you desire it, I'll say no more," returned Wood. "You
hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously.
"Only sprained it a little, that's all," answered Thames; "the pain will
go off presently."
"Then you _are_ hurt," cried the carpenter in alarm. "Come down stairs
directly, and let your mother look at your wrist. She has an excellent
remedy for a sprain. And do you, Jack, attend to your work, and mind you
don't get into further mischief."
"Hadn't Jack better go with us?" said Thames. "His shin may need
rubbing."
"By no means," rejoined Wood, hastily. "A little suffering will do him
good. I meant to give him a drubbing. That bruise will answer the same
purpose."
"Thames," said Sheppard in a low voice, as he threw a vindictive glance
at the carpenter, "I shan't forget this. You've saved my life."
"Pshaw! you'd do as much for me any day, and think no more about it.
It'll be your turn to save mine next."
"True, and I shan't be easy till my turn arrives."
"I tell you what, Jack," whispered Thames, who had noticed Sheppard's
menacing glance, and dreaded some further indiscretion on his part, "if
you really wish to oblige me, you'll get that packing-case finished by
six o'clock. You _can_ do it, if you will."
"And I _will_, if I can, depend upon it," answered Sheppard, with a
laugh.
So saying, he manfully resumed his work; while Wood and Thames quitted
the room, and went down stairs.
CHAPTER II.
Thames Darrell.
Thames Darrell's arm having been submitted to the scrutiny of Mrs. Wood,
was pronounced by that lady to be very much sprained; and she,
forthwith, proceeded to bathe it with a reddish-coloured lotion. During
this operation, the carpenter underwent a severe catechism as to the
cause of the accident; and, on learning that the mischance originated
with Jack Sheppard, the indignation of his helpmate knew no bounds; and
she was with difficulty prevented from flying to the workshop to inflict
summary punishment on the offender.
"I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a
shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the
house. I told you no good would come of it. And every day's experience
proves that I was right. But, like all your overbearing sex, you must
have your own way. You'll never be guided by me--never!"
"Indeed, my love, you're entirely mistaken," returned the carpenter,
endeavouring to deprecate his wife's rising resentment by the softest
looks, and the meekest deportment.
So far, however, was this submission from producing the desired effect,
that it seemed only to lend additional fuel to her displeasure.
Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's
wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain,
she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes
and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse.
"What!" she exclaimed, almost choked with passion,--"_I_ advised you to
burthen yourself with that idle and good-for-nothing pauper, who'm you
ought rather to send to the workhouse than maintain at your own expense,
did I! _I_ advised you to take him as an apprentice; and, so far from
getting the regular fee with him, to give him a salary? _I_ advised you
to feed him, and clothe him, and treat him like his betters; to put up
with his insolence, and wink at his faults? _I_ counselled all this, I
suppose. You'll tell me next, I dare say, that I recommended you to go
and visit his mother so frequently under the plea of charity; to give
her wine, and provisions, and money; to remove her from the only fit
quarters for such people--the Mint; and to place her in a cottage at
Willesden, of which you must needs pay the rent? Marry, come up! charity
should begin at home. A discreet husband would leave the dispensation of
his bounty, where women are concerned, to his wife. And for my part, if
I were inclined to exercise my benevolence at all, it should be in
favour of some more deserving object than that whining, hypocritical
Magdalene."
"It was the knowledge of this feeling on your part, my love, that made
me act without your express sanction. I did all for the best, I'm sure.
Mrs. Sheppard is--"
"I know what Mrs. Sheppard is, without your information, Sir. I haven't
forgotten her previous history. You've your own reasons, no doubt, for
bringing up her son--perhaps, I ought rather to say _your_ son, Mr.
Wood."
"Really, my love, these accusations are most groundless--this violence
is most unnecessary."
"I can't endure the odious baggage. I hope I may never come near her."
"I hope you never may, my love," humbly acquiesced the carpenter.
"Is my house to be made a receptacle for all your natural children, Sir?
Answer me that."
"Winny," said Thames, whose glowing cheek attested the effect produced
upon him by the insinuation; "Winny," said he, addressing a pretty
little damsel of some twelve years of age, who stood by his side holding
the bottle of embrocation, "help me on with my coat, please. This is no
place for me."
"Sit down, my dear, sit down," interposed Mrs. Wood, softening her
asperity. "What I said about natural children doesn't apply to _you_.
Don't suppose," she added, with a scornful glance at her helpmate,
"that I would pay him the compliment of thinking he could possibly be
the father of such a boy as you."
Mr. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair.
"Owen, Owen," pursued Mrs. Wood, sinking into a chair, and fanning
herself violently,--"what a fluster you have put me into with your
violence, to be sure! And at the very time, too, when you know I'm
expecting a visit from Mr. Kneebone, on his return from Manchester. I
wouldn't have him see me in this state for the world. He'd never forgive
you."
"Poh, poh, my dear! Mr. Kneebone invariably takes part with me, when any
trifling misunderstanding arises between us. I only wish he was not a
Papist and a Jacobite."
"Jacobite!" echoed Mrs. Wood. "Marry, come up! Mightn't he just as
reasonably complain of your being a Hanoverian and a Presbyterian? It's
all matter of opinion. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting
look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel. But you must promise me not
to go near that abandoned hussy at Willesden. One can't help being
jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object."
Glad to make peace on any terms, Mr. Wood gave the required promise,
though he could not help thinking that if either of them had cause to be
jealous he was the party.
And here, we may be permitted to offer an observation upon the peculiar
and unaccountable influence which ladies of a shrewish turn so
frequently exercise over--we can scarcely, in this case, say--their
lords and masters; an influence which seems not merely to extend to the
will of the husband, but even to his inclinations. We do not remember to
have met with a single individual, reported to be under petticoat
government, who was not content with his lot,--nay, who so far from
repining, did not exult in his servitude; and we see no way of
accounting for this apparently inexplicable conduct--for which, among
other phenomena of married life, various reasons have been assigned,
though none entirely satisfactory to us--except upon the ground that
these domineering dames possess some charm sufficiently strong to
counteract the irritating effect of their tempers; some secret and
attractive quality of which the world at large is in ignorance, and with
which their husbands alone can be supposed to be acquainted. An
influence of this description appeared to be exerted on the present
occasion. The worthy carpenter was restored to instant good humour by a
glance from his helpmate; and, notwithstanding the infliction he had
just endured, he would have quarrelled with any one who had endeavoured
to persuade him that he was not the happiest of men, and Mrs. Wood the
best of wives.
"Women must have their wills while they live, since they can make none
when they die," observed Wood, as he imprinted a kiss of reconciliation
on the plump hand of his consort;--a sentiment to the correctness of
which the party chiefly interested graciously vouchsafed her assent.
Lest the carpenter should be taxed with too much uxoriousness, it
behoves us to ascertain whether the personal attractions of his helpmate
would, in any degree, justify the devotion he displayed. In the first
place, Mrs. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years,
being on the sunny side of forty,--a period pronounced by competent
judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical
epoch of woman's existence,--whereas, he was on the shady side of
fifty,--a term of life not generally conceived to have any special
recommendation in female eyes. In the next place, she really had some
pretensions to beauty. Accounted extremely pretty in her youth, her
features and person expanded as she grew older, without much detriment
to their original comeliness. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt;
but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as
bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more
buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty
years ago.
On the present occasion, in anticipation of Mr. Kneebone's visit, Mrs.
Wood was dressed with more than ordinary care, and in more than ordinary
finery. A dove-coloured kincob gown, embroidered with large trees, and
made very low in front, displayed to the greatest possible advantage,
the rounded proportions of her figure; while a high-heeled, red-leather
shoe did not detract from the symmetry of a very neat ankle, and a very
small foot. A stomacher, fastened by imitation-diamond buckles, girded
that part of her person, which should have been a waist; a coral
necklace encircled her throat, and a few black patches, or mouches, as
they were termed, served as a foil to the bloom of her cheek and chin.
Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence
of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with
lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the
metamorphosis and death of Actæon. From her stomacher, to which it was
attached by a multitude of glittering steel chains, depended an immense
turnip-shaped watch, in a pinchbeck case. Her hair was gathered up
behind, in a sort of pad, according to the then prevailing mode; and she
wore a muslin cap, and pinners with crow-foot edging. A black silk
fur-belowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a
yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian.
But, in spite of her attractions, we shall address ourselves to the
younger, and more interesting couple.
"I could almost find in my heart to quarrel with Jack Sheppard for
occasioning you so much pain," observed little Winifred Wood, as, having
completed her ministration to the best of her ability, she helped Thames
on with his coat.
"I don't think you could find in your heart to quarrel with any one,
Winny; much less with a person whom I like so much as Jack Sheppard. My
arm's nearly well again. And I've already told you the accident was not
Jack's fault. So, let's think no more about it."
"It's strange you should like Jack so much dear Thames. He doesn't
resemble you at all."
"The very reason why I like him, Winny. If he _did_ resemble me, I
shouldn't care about him. And, whatever you may think, I assure you,
Jack's a downright good-natured fellow."
Good-natured fellows are always especial favourites with boys. And, in
applying the term to his friend, Thames meant to pay him a high
compliment. And so Winifred understood him.
"Well," she said, in reply, "I may have done Jack an injustice. I'll try
to think better of him in future."
"And, if you want an additional inducement to do so, I can tell you
there's no one--not even his mother--whom he loves so well as you."
"Loves!" echoed Winifred, slightly colouring.
"Yes, loves, Winny. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of
marrying you, when he grows old enough."
"Thames!"
"Have I said anything to offend you?"
"Oh! no. But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard,
you'll never mention such a subject again. Besides," she added, blushing
yet more deeply, "it isn't a proper one to talk upon."
"Well then, to change it," replied Thames, gravely, "suppose I should be
obliged to leave you."
Winifred looked as if she could not indulge such a supposition for a
single moment.
"Surely," she said, after a pause, "you don't attach any importance to
what my mother has just said. _She_ has already forgotten it."
"But _I_ never can forget it, Winny. I will no longer be a burthen to
those upon whom I have no claim, but compassion."
As he said this, in a low and mournful, but firm voice, the tears
gathered thickly in Winifred's dark eyelashes.
"If you are in earnest, Thames," she replied, with a look of gentle
reproach, "you are very foolish; and, if in jest, very cruel. My mother,
I'm sure, didn't intend to hurt your feelings. She loves you too well
for that. And I'll answer for it, she'll never say a syllable to annoy
you again."
Thames tried to answer her, but his voice failed him.
"Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up.
"You're mistaken, Winny. Nothing can alter my determination. I shall
quit this roof to-morrow."
The little girl's countenance fell.
"Do nothing without consulting my father--_your_ father, Thames," she
implored. "Promise me that."
"Willingly. And what's more, I promise to abide by his decision."
"Then, I'm quite easy," cried Winifred, joyfully.
"I'm sure he won't attempt to prevent me," rejoined Thames.
The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that
_she_ was not quite so sure. But she made no answer.
"In case he should consent--"
"He never will," interrupted Winifred.
"In case he _should_, I say," continued Thames, "will _you_ promise to
let Jack Sheppard take my place in your affections, Winny?"
"Never!" replied the little damsel, "I can never love any one so much as
you."
"Excepting your father."
Winifred was going to say "No," but she checked herself; and, with
cheeks mantling with blushes, murmured, "I wish you wouldn't tease me
about Jack Sheppard."
The foregoing conversation, having been conducted throughout in a low
tone, and apart, had not reached the ears of Mr. and Mrs. Wood, who
were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal _tête-à-tête_ of their
own. The last observation, however, caught the attention of the
carpenter's wife.
"What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?" she cried.
"Thames was just observing--"
"Thames!" echoed Mrs. Wood, glancing angrily at her husband. "There's
another instance of your wilfulness and want of taste. Who but _you_
would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of
a river, not a Christian. No gentleman was ever called Thames, and
Darrell _is_ a gentleman, unless the whole story of his being found in
the river is a fabrication!"
"My dear, you forget--"
"No, Mr. Wood, I forget nothing. I've an excellent memory, thank God!
And I perfectly remember that everybody was drowned upon that
occasion--except yourself and the child!"
"My love you're beside yourself--"
"I was beside myself to take charge of your--"
"Mother?" interposed Winifred.
"It's of no use," observed Thames quietly, but with a look that chilled
the little damsel's heart;--"my resolution is taken."
"You at least appear to forget that Mr. Kneebone is coming, my dear,"
ventured Mr. Wood.
"Good gracious! so I do," exclaimed his amiable consort. "But you _do_
agitate me so much. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes
directly, or I'll send you to bed. Mr. Wood, I desire you'll put on your
best things, and join us as soon as possible. Thames, you needn't tidy
yourself, as you've hurt your arm. Mr. Kneebone will excuse you. Dear
me! if there isn't his knock. Oh! I'm in such a fluster!"
Upon which, she snatched up her fan, cast a look into the glass,
smoothed down her scarf, threw a soft expression into her features, and
led the way into the next room, whither she was followed by her daughter
and Thames Darrell.
CHAPTER III.
The Jacobite.
Mr. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose
place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those
days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the
Strand. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a
staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his
life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and
who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to
the house of Stuart.
The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. He had a
handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and
measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders--athletic
proportions derived from his father the dragoon. And, if it had not been
for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into
scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society.
Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous
complexion. The times were such that, with the opinions he entertained,
he could not remain idle. The spirit of disaffection was busy throughout
the kingdom. It was on the eve of that memorable rebellion which broke
forth, two months later, in Scotland. Since the accession of George the
First to the throne in the preceding year, every effort had been made by
the partisans of the Stuarts to shake the credit of the existing
government, and to gain supporters to their cause. Disappointed in their
hopes of the restoration of the fallen dynasty after the death of Anne,
the adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George endeavoured, by sowing
the seeds of dissension far and wide, to produce a general insurrection
in his favour. No means were neglected to accomplish this end. Agents
were dispersed in all directions--offers the most tempting held out to
induce the wavering to join the Chevalier's standard. Plots were hatched
in the provinces, where many of the old and wealthy Catholic families
resided, whose zeal for the martyr of their religion (as the Chevalier
was esteemed), sharpened by the persecutions they themselves endured,
rendered them hearty and efficient allies. Arms, horses, and
accoutrements were secretly purchased and distributed; and it is not
improbable that, if the unfortunate prince, in whose behalf these
exertions were made, and who was not deficient in courage, as he proved
at the battle of Malplaquet, had boldly placed himself at the head of
his party at an earlier period, he might have regained the crown of his
ancestors. But the indecision, which had been fatal to his race, was
fatal to him. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was
past. And when, at length, it _was_ struck, he wanted energy to pursue
his advantages.
But we must not anticipate the course of events. At the precise period
of this history, the Jacobite party was full of hope and confidence.
Louis the Fourteenth yet lived, and expectations were, therefore,
indulged of assistance from France. The disgrace of the leaders of the
late Tory administration had strengthened, rather than injured, their
cause. Mobs were gathered together on the slightest possible pretext;
and these tumultuous assemblages, while committing the most outrageous
excesses, loudly proclaimed their hatred to the house of Hanover, and
their determination to cut off the Protestant succession. The
proceedings of this faction were narrowly watched by a vigilant and
sagacious administration. The government was not deceived (indeed, every
opportunity was sought by the Jacobites of parading their numbers,) as
to the force of its enemies; and precautionary measures were taken to
defeat their designs. On the very day of which we write, namely, the
10th of June 1715, Bolingbroke and Oxford were impeached of high
treason. The Committee of Secrecy--that English Council of Ten--were
sitting, with Walpole at their head; and the most extraordinary
discoveries were reported to be made. On the same day, moreover, which,
by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint
George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of
that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third;
while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held,
as if for a reigning monarch:--the cry of the populace almost
universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!"
The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were
lavish in promises to their proselytes. Posts were offered to all who
chose to accept them. Blank commissions, signed by the prince, to be
filled up by the name of the person, who could raise a troop for his
service, were liberally bestowed. Amongst others, Mr. Kneebone, whose
interest was not inconsiderable with the leaders of his faction,
obtained an appointment as captain in a regiment of infantry, on the
conditions above specified. With a view to raise recruits for his corps,
the warlike woollen-draper started for Lancashire, under the colour of a
journey on business. He was pretty successful in Manchester,--a town
which may be said to have been the head-quarters of the disaffected. On
his return to London, he found that applications had been made from a
somewhat doubtful quarter by two individuals, for the posts of
subordinate officers in his troop. Mr. Kneebone, or, as he would have
preferred being styled, Captain Kneebone, was not perfectly satisfied
with the recommendations forwarded by the applicants. But this was not a
season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. He resolved to judge for
himself. Accordingly, he was introduced to the two military aspirants at
the Cross Shovels in the Mint, by our old acquaintance, Baptist
Kettleby. The Master of the Mint, with whom the Jacobite captain had
often had transactions before, vouched for their being men of honour and
loyalty; and Kneebone was so well satisfied with his representations,
that he at once closed the matter by administering to the applicants the
oath of allegiance and fidelity to King James the Third, and several
other oaths besides, all of which those gentlemen took with as little
hesitation as the sum of money, afterwards tendered, to make the compact
binding. The party, then, sat down to a bowl of punch; and, at its
conclusion, Captain Kneebone regretted that an engagement to spend the
evening with Mrs. Wood, would preclude the possibility of his remaining
with his new friends as long as his inclinations prompted. At this
piece of information, the two subordinate officers were observed to
exchange glances; and, after a little agreeable raillery on their
captain's gallantry, they begged permission to accompany him in his
visit. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the
house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more
frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio
set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour
possible.
CHAPTER IV.
Mr. Kneebone and his Friends.
Mrs. Wood was scarcely seated before Mr. Kneebone made his appearance.
To her great surprise and mortification he was not alone; but brought
with him a couple of friends, whom he begged to introduce as Mr.
Jeremiah Jackson, and Mr. Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern
vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for
the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester. Neither the
manners, the looks, nor the attire of these gentlemen prepossessed Mrs.
Wood in their favour. Accordingly, on their presentation, Mr. Jeremiah
Jackson and Mr. Solomon Smith received something very like a rebuff.
Luckily, they were not easily discomposed. Two persons possessing a more
comfortable stock of assurance could not be readily found. Imitating the
example of Mr. Kneebone, who did not appear in the slightest degree
disconcerted by his cool reception, each sank carelessly into a chair,
and made himself at home in a moment. Both had very singular faces; very
odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats,
very much raised above their chins. Besides this, each had a large black
patch over his right eye, and a very queer twist at the left side of his
mouth, so that if their object had been disguise, they could not have
adopted better precautions. Mrs. Wood thought them both remarkably
plain, but Mr. Smith decidedly the plainest of the two. His complexion
was as blue as a sailor's jacket, and though Mr. Jackson had one of the
ugliest countenances imaginable, he had a very fine set of teeth. That
was something in his favour. One peculiarity she did not fail to notice.
They were both dressed in every respect alike. In fact, Mr. Solomon
Smith seemed to be Mr. Jeremiah Jackson's double. He talked in the same
style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same
manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. If Mr. Jackson took an
accurate survey of the room with his one eye, Mr. Smith's solitary orb
followed in the same direction. When Jeremiah admired the Compasses in
the arms of the Carpenter's Company over the chimney-piece, or the
portraits of the two eminent masters of the rule and plane, William
Portington, and John Scott, Esquires, on either side of it, Solomon was
lost in wonder. When Mr. Jackson noticed a fine service of old blue
china in an open japan closet, Mr. Smith had never seen anything like
it. And finally, when Jeremiah, having bestowed upon Mrs. Wood a very
free-and-easy sort of stare, winked at Mr. Kneebone, his impertinence
was copied to the letter by Solomon. All three, then, burst into an
immoderate fit of laughter. Mrs. Wood's astonishment and displeasure
momentarily increased. Such freedoms from such people were not to be
endured. Her patience was waning fast. Still, in spite of her glances
and gestures, Mr. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable
merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. So Mrs.
Wood went on fuming, and the trio went on laughing for some minutes,
nobody knew why or wherefore, until the party was increased by Mr. Wood,
in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. Without stopping to inquire
into the cause of their mirth, or even to ask the names of his guests,
the worthy carpenter shook hands with the one-eyed chapmen, slapped Mr.
Kneebone cordially on the shoulder, and began to laugh as heartily as
any of them.
Mrs. Wood could stand it no longer.
"I think you're all bewitched," she cried.
"So we are, Ma'am, by your charms," returned Mr. Jackson, gallantly.
"Quite captivated, Ma'am," added Mr. Smith, placing his hand on his
breast.
Mr. Kneebone and Mr. Wood laughed louder than ever.
"Mr. Wood," said the lady bridling up, "my request may, perhaps, have
some weight with _you_. I desire, Sir, you'll recollect yourself. Mr.
Kneebone," she added, with a glance at that gentleman, which was meant
to speak daggers, "will do as he pleases."
Here the chapmen set up another boisterous peal.
"No offence, I hope, my dear Mrs. W," said Mr. Kneebone in a
conciliatory tone. "My friends, Mr. Jackson and Mr. Smith, may have
rather odd ways with them; but--"
"They _have_ very odd ways," interrupted Mrs. Wood, disdainfully.
"Our worthy friend was going to observe, Ma'am, that we never fail in
our devotion to the fair sex," said Mr. Jackson.
"Never, Ma'am!" echoed Mr. Smith, "upon my conscience."
"My dear," said the hospitable carpenter, "I dare say Mr. Kneebone and
his friends would be glad of a little refreshment."
"They shall have it, then," replied his better half, rising. "You base
ingrate," she added, in a whisper, as she flounced past Mr. Kneebone on
her way to the door, "how could you bring such creatures with you,
especially on an occasion like this, when we haven't met for a
fortnight!"
"Couldn't help it, my life," returned the gentleman addressed, in the
same tone; "but you little know who those individuals are."
"Lord bless us! you alarm me. Who are they?"
Mr. Kneebone assumed a mysterious air; and bringing his lips close to
Mrs. Wood's ear, whispered, "secret agents from France--you
understand--friends to the cause--hem!"
"I see,--persons of rank!"
Mr. Kneebone nodded.
"Noblemen."
Mr. Kneebone smiled assent.
"Mercy on us! Well, I thought their manners quite out o' the common. And
so, the invasion really is to take place after all; and the Chevalier de
Saint George is to land at the Tower with fifty thousand Frenchmen; and
the Hanoverian usurper's to be beheaded; and Doctor Sacheverel's to be
made a bishop, and we're all to be--eh?"
"All in good time," returned Kneebone, putting his finger to his lips;
"don't let your imagination run away with you, my charmer. That boy," he
added, looking at Thames, "has his eye upon us."
Mrs. Wood, however, was too much excited to attend to the caution.
"O, lud!" she cried; "French noblemen in disguise! and so rude as I was!
I shall never recover it!"
"A good supper will set all to rights," insinuated Kneebone. "But be
prudent, my angel."
"Never fear," replied the lady. "I'm prudence personified. You might
trust me with the Chevalier himself,--I'd never betray him. But why
didn't you let me know they were coming. I'd have got something nice. As
it is, we've only a couple of ducks--and they were intended for you.
Winny, my love, come with me. I shall want you.--Sorry to quit your
lord--worships, I mean,--I don't know what I mean," she added, a little
confused, and dropping a profound curtsey to the disguised noblemen,
each of whom replied by a bow, worthy, in her opinion, of a prince of
the blood at the least,--"but I've a few necessary orders to give
below."
"Don't mind us, Ma'am," said Mr. Jackson: "ha! ha!"
"Not in the least, Ma'am," echoed Mr. Smith: "ho! ho!"
"How condescending!" thought Mrs. Wood. "Not proud in the least, I
declare. Well, I'd no idea," she continued, pursuing her ruminations as
she left the room, "that people of quality laughed so. But it's French
manners, I suppose."
CHAPTER V.
Hawk and Buzzard.
Mrs. Wood's anxiety to please her distinguished guests speedily
displayed itself in a very plentiful, if not very dainty repast. To the
duckling, peas, and other delicacies, intended for Mr. Kneebone's
special consumption, she added a few impromptu dishes, tossed off in her
best style; such as lamb chops, broiled kidneys, fried ham and eggs, and
toasted cheese. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing
accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard
of swig, and a toast. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart,
and a cold pigeon pie--the latter capacious enough, even allowing for
its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot;
a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of
vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. While the cloth was laid, the
host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden
with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the
same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print--the Modern
Midnight Conversation.
Mrs. Wood now re-appeared with a very red face; and, followed by
Winifred, took her seat at the table. Operations then commenced. Mr.
Wood carved the ducks; Mr. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while
Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. The
woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his
feats with the knife and fork were child's sport compared with those of
Mr. Smith. The leg and wing of a duck were disposed of by this gentleman
in a twinkling; a brace of pigeons and a pound of steak followed with
equal celerity; and he had just begun to make a fierce assault upon the
eggs and ham. His appetite was perfectly Gargantuan. Nor must it be
imagined, that while he thus exercised his teeth, he neglected the
flagon. On the contrary, his glass was never idle, and finding it not
filled quite so frequently as he desired, he applied himself,
notwithstanding the expressive looks and muttered remonstrances of Mr.
Jackson, to the swig. The latter gentleman did full justice to the good
things before him; but he drank sparingly, and was visibly annoyed by
his companion's intemperance. As to Mr. Kneebone, what with flirting
with Mrs. Wood, carving for his friends, and pledging the carpenter, he
had his hands full. At this juncture, and just as a cuckoo-clock in the
corner struck sis, Jack Sheppard walked into the room, with the
packing-case under his arm.
"I was in the right, you see, father," observed Thames, smiling; "Jack
_has_ done his task."
"So I perceive," replied Wood.
"Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard.
"I told you that before," rejoined Wood, testily. "You must take it to
Sir Rowland Trenchard's in Southampton Fields. And, mind, it's for his
sister, Lady Trafford."
"Very well, Sir," replied Sheppard.
"Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a
glass of ale. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?"
"Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass.
"It's an odd-shaped one," rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively.
"But I can guess what it's for. Sir Rowland is one of _us_," he added,
winking at his companions, "and so was his brother-in-law, Sir Cecil
Trafford. Old Lancashire families both. Strict Catholics, and loyal to
the backbone. Fine woman, Lady Trafford--a little on the wane though."
"Ah! you're so very particular," sighed Mrs. Wood.
"Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least. Another
glass, Jack."
"Thank'ee, Sir," grinned Sheppard.
"Off with it to the health of King James the Third, and confusion to his
enemies!"
"Hold!" interposed Wood; "that is treason. I'll have no such toast drunk
at my table!"
"It's the king's birthday," urged the woollen draper.
"Not _my_ king's," returned Wood. "I quarrel with no man's political
opinions, but I will have my own respected!"
"Eh day!" exclaimed Mrs. Wood; "here's a pretty to-do about nothing.
Marry, come up! I'll see who's to be obeyed. Drink the toast, Jack."
"At your peril, sirrah!" cried Wood.
"He was hanged that left his drink behind, you know, master," rejoined
Sheppard. "Here's King James the Third, and confusion to his enemies!"
"Very well," said the carpenter, sitting down amid the laughter of the
company.
"Jack!" cried Thames, in a loud voice, "you deserve to be hanged for a
rebel as you are to your lawful king and your lawful master. But since
we must have toasts," he added, snatching up a glass, "listen to mine:
Here's King George the First! a long reign to him! and confusion to the
Popish Pretender and his adherents!"
"Bravely done!" said Wood, with tears in his eyes.
"That's the kinchin as was to try the dub for us, ain't it?" muttered
Smith to his companion as he stole a glance at Jack Sheppard.
"Silence!" returned Jackson, in a deep whisper; "and don't muddle your
brains with any more of that Pharaoh. You'll need all your strength to
grab him."
"What's the matter?" remarked Kneebone, addressing Sheppard, who, as he
caught the single but piercing eye of Jackson fixed upon him, started
and trembled.
"What's the matter?" repeated Mrs. Wood in a sharp tone.
"Ay, what's the matter, boy!" reiterated Jackson sternly. "Did you never
see two gentlemen with only a couple of peepers between them before!"
"Never, I'll be sworn!" said Smith, taking the opportunity of filling
his glass while his comrade's back was turned; "we're a nat'ral
cur'osity."
"Can I have a word with you, master?" said Sheppard, approaching Wood.
"Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily. "Get about your
business!"
"Thames!" cried Jack, beckoning to his friend.
But Darrell averted his head.
"Mistress!" said the apprentice, making a final appeal to Mrs. Wood.
"Leave the room instantly, sirrah!" rejoined the lady, bouncing up, and
giving him a slap on the cheek that made his eyes flash fire.
"May I be cursed," muttered Sheppard, as he slunk away with (as the
woollen-draper pleasantly observed) 'a couple of boxes in charge,' "if
ever I try to be honest again!"
"Take a little toasted cheese with the swig, Mr. Smith," observed Wood.
"That's an incorrigible rascal," he added, as Sheppard closed the door;
"it's only to-day that I discovered--"
"What?" asked Jackson, pricking up his ears.
"Don't speak ill of him behind his back, father," interposed Thames.
"If _I_ were your father, young gentleman," returned Jackson, enraged at
the interruption, "I'd teach _you_ not to speak till you were spoken
to."
Thames was about to reply, but a glance from Wood checked him.
"The rebuke is just," said the carpenter; "at the same time, I'm not
sorry to find you're a friend to fair play, which, as you seem to know,
is a jewel. Open that bottle with a blue seal, my dear. Gentlemen! a
glass of brandy will be no bad finish to our meal."
This proposal giving general satisfaction, the bottle circulated
swiftly; and Smith found the liquor so much to his taste, that he made
it pay double toll on its passage.
"Your son is a lad of spirit, Mr. Wood," observed Jackson, in a
slightly-sarcastic tone.
"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter.
"How, Sir?"
"Except by adoption. Thames Darrell is--"
"My husband nicknames him Thames," interrupted Mrs. Wood, "because he
found him in the river!--ha! ha!"
"Ha! ha!" echoed Smith, taking another bumper of brandy; "he'll set the
Thames on fire one of these days, I'll warrant him!"
"That's more than you'll ever do, you drunken fool!" growled Jackson, in
an under tone: "be cautious, or you'll spoil all!"
"Suppose we send for a bowl of punch," said Kneebone.
"With all my heart!" replied Wood. And, turning to his daughter, he gave
the necessary directions in a low tone.
Winifred, accordingly, left the room, and a servant being despatched to
the nearest tavern, soon afterwards returned with a crown bowl of the
ambrosian fluid. The tables were then cleared. Bottles and glasses
usurped the place of dishes and plates. Pipes were lighted; and Mr.
Kneebone began to dispense the fragrant fluid; begging Mrs. Wood, in a
whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of
the Chevalier de Saint George--a proposition to which the lady
immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud.
"The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper.
"You don't say so!" replied Mrs. Wood, delighted at the idea.
Mr. Kneebone assured her that he _did_ say so; and, as a further proof
of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table.
Mr. Smith, now, being more than half-seas over, became very uproarious,
and, claiming the attention of the table, volunteered the following
DRINKING SONG.
I.
Jolly nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip
Are dug from the mines of canary;
And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip
With hogsheads of claret and sherry.
II.
Jolly nose! he who sees thee across a broad glass
Beholds thee in all thy perfection;
And to the pale snout of a temperate ass
Entertains the profoundest objection.
III.
For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use,
And the choicest of wine is my colour;
And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues
The fuller I fill it--the fuller!
IV.
Jolly nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight;
Such dullards know nothing about it.
'T is better, with wine, to extinguish the light,
Than live always, in darkness, without it!
"How long may it be since that boy was found in the way Mrs. Wood
mentions?" inquired Jackson, as soon as the clatter that succeeded Mr.
Smith's melody had subsided.
"Let me see," replied Wood; "exactly twelve years ago last November."
"Why, that must be about the time of the Great Storm," rejoined Jackson.
"Egad!" exclaimed Wood, "you've hit the right nail on the head, anyhow.
It _was_ on the night of the Great Storm that I found him."
"I should like to hear all particulars of the affair," said Jackson, "if
it wouldn't be troubling you too much."
Mr. Wood required little pressing. He took a sip of punch and commenced
his relation. Though meant to produce a totally different effect, the
narrative seemed to excite the risible propensities rather than the
commiseration of his auditor; and when Mr. Wood wound it up by a
description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the
other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave
free scope to his merriment.
"I beg your pardon," he cried; "but really--ha! ha!--you must excuse
me!--that is so uncommonly diverting--ha! ha! Do let me hear it
again?--ha! ha! ha!"
"Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my
misfortunes."
"To be sure! Nothing entertains me so much. People always rejoice at
the misfortunes of others--never at their own! The droll dogs! how
_they_ must have enjoyed it!--ha! ha!"
"I dare say they did. But _I_ found it no laughing matter, I can assure
you. And, though it's a long time ago, I feel as sore on the subject as
ever."
"Quite natural! Never forgive an injury!--_I_ never do!--ha! ha!"
"Really, Mr. Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before. Your laugh
reminds me of--of----"
"Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave.
"You'll not be offended, I hope," returned Wood, drily, "if I say that
your voice, your manner, and, above all, your very extraordinary way of
laughing, put me strangely in mind of one of the 'droll dogs,' (as you
term them,) who helped to perpetrate the outrage I've just described."
"Whom do you mean?" demanded Jackson.
"I allude to an individual, who has since acquired an infamous notoriety
as a thief-taker; but who, in those days, was himself the associate of
thieves."
"Well, Sir, his name?"
"Jonathan Wild."
"'Sblood!" cried Jackson, rising, "I can't sit still and hear Mr. Wild,
whom I believe to be as honest a gentleman as any in the kingdom,
calumniated!"
"Fire and fury!" exclaimed Smith, getting up with the brandy-bottle in
his grasp; "no man shall abuse Mr. Wild in my presence! He's the
right-hand of the community! We could do nothing without him!"
"_We!_" repeated Wood, significantly.
"Every honest man, Sir! He helps us to our own again."
"Humph!" ejaculated the carpenter.
"Surely," observed Thames, laughing, "to one who entertains so high an
opinion of Jonathan Wild, as Mr. Jackson appears to do, it can't be very
offensive to be told, that he's like him."
"I don't object to the likeness, if any such exists, young Sir,"
returned Jackson, darting an angry glance at Thames; "indeed I'm rather
flattered by being thought to resemble a gentleman of Mr. Wild's figure.
But I can't submit to hear the well-earned reputation of my friend
termed an 'infamous notoriety.'"
"No, we can't stand that," hiccupped Smith, scarcely able to keep his
legs.
"Well, gentlemen," rejoined Wood, mildly; "since Mr. Wild is a friend of
yours, I'm sorry for what I said. I've no doubt he's as honest as either
of you."
"Enough," returned Jackson, extending his hand; "and if I've expressed
myself warmly, I'm sorry for it likewise. But you must allow me to
observe, my good Sir, that you're wholly in the wrong respecting my
friend. Mr. Wild never was the associate of thieves."
"Never," echoed Smith, emphatically, "upon my honour."
"I'm satisfied with your assurance," replied the carpenter, drily.
"It's more than I am," muttered Thames.
"I was not aware that Jonathan Wild was an acquaintance of yours, Mr.
Jackson," said Kneebone, whose assiduity to Mrs. Wood had prevented him
from paying much attention to the previous scene.
"I've known him all my life," replied the other.
"The devil you have! Then, perhaps, you can tell me when he intends to
put his threat into execution?"
"What threat?" asked Jackson.
"Why, of hanging the fellow who acts as his jackal; one Blake, or
Blueskin, I think he's called."
"You've been misinformed, Sir," interposed Smith. "Mr. Wild is incapable
of such baseness."
"Bah!" returned the woollen-draper. "I see you don't know him as well as
you pretend. Jonathan is capable of anything. He has hanged twelve of
his associates already. The moment they cease to be serviceable, or
become dangerous he lodges an information, and the matter's settled. He
has always plenty of evidence in reserve. Blueskin is booked. As sure as
you're sitting there, Mr. Smith, he'll swing after next Old Bailey
sessions. I wouldn't be in his skin for a trifle!"
"But he may peach," said Smith casting an oblique glance at Jackson.
"It would avail him little if he did," replied Kneebone. "Jonathan does
what he pleases in the courts."
"Very true," chuckled Jackson; "very true."
"Blueskin's only chance would be to carry _his_ threat into effect,"
pursued the woollen-draper.
"Aha!" exclaimed Jackson. "_He_ threatens, does he?"
"More than that," replied Kneebone; "I understand he drew a knife upon
Jonathan, in a quarrel between them lately. And since then, he has
openly avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the
slightest inkling of treachery. But, perhaps Mr. Smith will tell you I'm
misinformed, also, on that point."
"On the contrary," rejoined Smith, looking askance at his companion, "I
happen to _know_ you're in the right."
"Well, Sir, I'm obliged to you," said Jackson; "I shall take care to put
Mr. Wild on his guard against an assassin."
"And I shall put Blueskin on the alert against the designs of a
traitor," rejoined Smith, in a tone that sounded like a menace.
"In my opinion," remarked Kneebone, "it doesn't matter how soon society
is rid of two such scoundrels; and if Blueskin dies by the rope, and
Jonathan by the hand of violence, they'll meet the fate they merit. Wild
was formerly an agent to the Jacobite party, but, on the offer of a
bribe from the opposite faction, he unhesitatingly deserted and betrayed
his old employers. Of late, he has become the instrument of Walpole, and
does all the dirty work for the Secret Committee. Several arrests of
importance have been intrusted to him; but, forewarned, forearmed, we
have constantly baffled his schemes;--ha! ha! Jonathan's a devilish
clever fellow. But he can't have his eyes always about him, or he'd have
been with us this morning at the Mint, eh, Mr. Jackson!"
"So he would," replied the latter: "so he would."
"With all his cunning, he may meet with his match," continued Kneebone,
laughing. "I've set a trap for him."
"Take care you don't fall into it yourself," returned Jackson, with a
slight sneer.
"Were I in your place," said Smith, "I should be apprehensive of Wild,
because he's a declared enemy."
"And were I in _yours_," rejoined the woollen-draper, "I should be
doubly apprehensive, because he's a professed friend. But we're
neglecting the punch all this time. A bumper round, gentlemen. Success
to our enterprise!"
"Success to our enterprise!" echoed the others, significantly.
"May I ask whether you made any further inquiries into the mysterious
affair about which we were speaking just now?" observed Jackson, turning
to the carpenter.
"I can't say I did," replied Wood, somewhat reluctantly; "what with the
confusion incident to the storm, and the subsequent press of business, I
put it off till it was too late. I've often regretted that I didn't
investigate the matter. However, it doesn't much signify. All concerned
in the dark transaction must have perished."
"Are you sure of that," inquired Jackson.
"As sure as one reasonably can be. I saw their boat swept away, and
heard the roar of the fall beneath the bridge; and no one, who was
present, could doubt the result. If the principal instigator of the
crime, whom I afterwards encountered on the platform, and who was dashed
into the raging flood by the shower of bricks, escaped, his preservation
must have been indeed miraculous."
"Your own was equally so," said Jackson ironically. "What if he _did_
escape?"
"My utmost efforts should be used to bring him to justice."
"Hum!"
"Have you any reason to suppose he survived the accident?" inquired
Thames eagerly.
Jackson smiled and put on the air of a man who knows more than he cares
to tell.
"I merely asked the question," he said, after he had enjoyed the boy's
suspense for a moment.
The hope that had been suddenly kindled in the youth's bosom was as
suddenly extinguished.
"If I thought he lived----" observed Wood.
"_If_," interrupted Jackson, changing his tone: "he _does_ live. And it
has been well for you that he imagines the child was drowned."
"Who is he?" asked Thames impatiently.
"You're inquisitive, young gentleman," replied Jackson, coldly. "When
you're older, you'll know that secrets of importance are not disclosed
gratuitously. Your adoptive father understands mankind better."
"I'd give half I'm worth to hang the villain, and restore this boy to
his rights," said Mr. Wood.
"How do you know he _has_ any rights to be restored to?" returned
Jackson, with a grin. "Judging from what you tell me, I've no doubt he's
the illegitimate offspring of some handsome, but lowborn profligate; in
which case, he'll neither have name, nor wealth for his inheritance. The
assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a
kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her
seducer. The less said, therefore, on this point the better; because, as
nothing is to be gained by it, it would only be trouble thrown away.
But, if you have any particular fancy for hanging the gentleman, who
chose to take the law into his own hands--and I think your motive
extremely disinterested and praiseworthy--why, it's just possible, if
you make it worth my while, that your desires may be gratified."
"I don't see how this is to be effected, unless you yourself were
present at the time," said Wood, glancing suspiciously at the speaker.
"I had no hand in the affair," replied Jackson, bluntly; "but I know
those who had; and could bring forward evidence, if you require it."
"The best evidence would be afforded by an accomplice of the assassin,"
rejoined Thames, who was greatly offended by the insinuation as to his
parentage.
"Perhaps you could point out such a party, Mr. Jackson?" said Wood,
significantly.
"I could," replied Thames.
"Then you need no further information from me," rejoined Jackson,
sternly.
"Stay!" cried Wood, "this is a most perplexing business--if you really
are privy to the affair----"
"We'll talk of it to-morrow, Sir," returned Jackson, cutting him short.
"In the mean time, with your permission, I'll just make a few minutes of
our conversation."
"As many as you please," replied Wood, walking towards the
chimney-piece, and taking down a constable's, staff, which hung upon a
nail.
Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately
sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. While
he was thus occupied, Thames, prompted by an unaccountable feeling of
curiosity, took up the penknife which the other had just used, and
examined the haft. What he there noticed occasioned a marked change in
his demeanour. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and
distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of
anything having happened.
"There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do.
To-morrow at twelve I'll be with you, Mr. Wood. Make up your mind as to
the terms, and I'll engage to find the man."
"Hold!" exclaimed the carpenter, in an authoritative voice: "we can't
part thus. Thames, look the door." (An order which was promptly obeyed.)
"Now, Sir, I must insist upon a full explanation of your mysterious
hints, or, as I am headborough of the district, I shall at once take you
into custody."
Jackson treated this menace with a loud laugh of derision.
"What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the
brandy-bottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder. "It is time!"
"For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes.
"For the caption!" replied Jackson, coolly drawing a brace of pistols
from his pockets.
"Ready!" answered Smith, shaking himself, and producing a similar pair
of weapons.
"In Heaven's name! what's all this?" cried Wood.
"Be still, and you'll receive no injury," returned Jackson. "We're
merely about to discharge our duty by apprehending a rebel. Captain
Kneebone! we must trouble you to accompany us."
"I've no intention of stirring," replied the woollen-draper, who was
thus unceremoniously disturbed: "and I beg you'll sit down, Mr.
Jackson."
"Come, Sir!" thundered the latter, "no trifling! Perhaps," he added,
opening a warrant, "you'll obey this mandate?"
"A warrant!" ejaculated Kneebone, starting to his feet.
"Ay, Sir, from the Secretary of State, for _your_ arrest! You're charged
with high-treason."
"By those who've conspired with me?"
"No! by those who've entrapped you! You've long eluded our vigilance;
but we've caught you at last!"
"Damnation!" exclaimed the woollen-draper; "that I should be the dupe of
such a miserable artifice!"
"It's no use lamenting now, Captain! You ought rather to be obliged to
us for allowing you to pay this visit. We could have secured you when
you left the Mint. But we wished to ascertain whether Mrs. Wood's charms
equalled your description."
"Wretches!" screamed the lady; "don't dare to breathe your vile
insinuations against me! Oh! Mr. Kneebone, are these your French
noblemen?"
"Don't upbraid me!" rejoined the woollen-draper.
"Bring him along, Joe!" said Jackson, in a whisper to his comrade.
Smith obeyed. But he had scarcely advanced a step, when he was felled
to the ground by a blow from the powerful arm of Kneebone, who,
instantly possessing himself of a pistol, levelled it at Jackson's head.
"Begone! or I fire!" he cried.
"Mr. Wood," returned Jackson, with the utmost composure; "you're a
headborough, and a loyal subject of King George. I call upon you to
assist me in the apprehension of this person. You'll be answerable for
his escape."
"Mr. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's
better-half; "recollect you'll be answerable to me."
"I declare I don't know what to do," said Wood, burned by conflicting
emotions. "Mr. Kneebone! you would greatly oblige me by surrendering
yourself."
"Never!" replied the woollen-draper; "and if that treacherous rascal, by
your side, doesn't make himself scarce quickly, I'll send a bullet
through his brain."
"My death will lie at your door," remarked Jackson to the carpenter.
"Show me your warrant!" said Wood, almost driven to his wit's-end;
"perhaps it isn't regular?"
"Ask him who he is?" suggested Thames.
"A good idea!" exclaimed the carpenter. "May I beg to know whom I've the
pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name."
"What does it signify?" returned the latter, angrily.
"A great deal!" replied Thames. "If you won't disclose your name, I will
for you! You are Jonathan Wild!"
"Further concealment is needless," answered the other, pulling off his
wig and black patch, and resuming his natural tone of voice; "I _am_
Jonathan Wild!"
"Say you so!" rejoined Kneebone; "then be this your passport to
eternity."
Upon which he drew the trigger of the pistol, which, luckily for the
individual against whom it was aimed, flashed in the pan.
"I might now send you on a similar journey!" replied Jonathan, with a
bitter smile, and preserving the unmoved demeanour he had maintained
throughout; "but I prefer conveying you, in the first instance, to
Newgate. The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow."
So saying, he sprang, with a bound like that of a tiger-cat, against the
throat of the woollen-draper. And so sudden and well-directed was the
assault, that he completely overthrew his gigantic antagonist.
"Lend a hand with the ruffles, Blueskin!" he shouted, as that personage,
who had just recovered from the stunning effects of the blow, contrived
to pick himself up. "Look quick, d--n you, or we shall never master
him!"
"Murder!" shrieked Mrs. Wood, at the top of her voice.
"Here's a pistol!" cried Thames, darting towards the undischarged weapon
dropped by Blueskin in the scuffle, and pointing it at Jonathan. "Shall
I shoot him?"
"Yes! yes! put it to his ear!" cried Mrs. Wood; "that's the surest way!"
"No! no! give it me!" vociferated Wood, snatching the pistol, and
rushing to the door, against which he placed his back.
"I'll soon settle this business. Jonathan Wild!" he added, in a loud
voice, "I command you to release your prisoner."
"So I will," replied Jonathan, who, with Blueskin's aid, had succeeded
in slipping a pair of handcuffs over the woollen-draper's wrists, "when
I've Mr. Walpole's order to that effect--but not before."
"You'll take the consequences, then?"
"Willingly."
"In that case I arrest you, and your confederate, Joseph Blake, alias
Blueskin, on a charge of felony," returned Wood, brandishing his staff;
"resist my authority, if you dare."
"A clever device," replied Jonathan; "but it won't serve your turn. Let
us pass, Sir. Strike the gag, Blueskin."
"You shall not stir a footstep. Open the window, Thames, and call for
assistance."
"Stop!" cried Jonathan, who did not care to push matters too far, "let
me have a word with you, Mr. Wood."
"I'll have no explanations whatever," replied the carpenter,
disdainfully, "except before a magistrate."
"At least state your charge. It is a serious accusation."
"It _is_," answered Wood. "Do you recollect this key? Do you recollect
to whom you gave it, and for what purpose? or shall I refresh your
memory?"
Wild appeared confounded.
"Release your prisoner," continued Wood, "or the window is opened."
"Mr. Wood," said Jonathan, advancing towards him, and speaking in a low
tone, "the secret of your adopted son's birth is known to me. The name
of his father's murderer is also known to me. I can help you to
both,--nay, I _will_ help you to both, if you do not interfere with my
plans. The arrest of this person is of consequence to me. Do not oppose
it, and I will serve you. Thwart me, and I become your mortal enemy. I
have but to give a hint of that boy's existence in the proper quarter,
and his life will not be worth a day's purchase."
"Don't listen to him, father," cried Thames, unconscious of what was
passing; "there are plenty of people outside."
"Make your choice," said Jonathan.
"If you don't decide quickly, I'll scream," cried Mrs. Wood, popping her
head through the window.
"Set your prisoner free!" returned Wood.
"Take off the ruffles, Blueskin," rejoined Wild. "You know my fixed
determination," he added in a low tone, as he passed the carpenter.
"Before to-morrow night that boy shall join his father."
So saying, he unlocked the door and strode out of the room.
"Here are some letters, which will let you see what a snake you've
cherished in your bosom, you uxorious old dotard," said Blueskin,
tossing a packet of papers to Wood, as he followed his leader.
"'Odd's-my-life! what's this?" exclaimed the carpenter, looking at the
superscription of one of them. "Why, this is your writing Dolly, and
addressed to Mr. Kneebone."
"My writing! no such thing!" ejaculated the lady, casting a look of
alarm at the woollen-draper.
"Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters,"
whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?"
"What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn
them. But men _are_ so careless, there's no trusting anything to them!
However, I must try to brazen it out.--Give me the letters, my love,"
she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked
forgeries."
"Excuse me, Madam," replied the carpenter, turning his back upon her,
and sinking into a chair: "Thames, my love, bring me my spectacles. My
heart misgives me. Fool that I was to marry for beauty! I ought to have
remembered that a fair woman and a slashed gown always find some nail in
the way."
CHAPTER VI.
The first Step towards the Ladder.
If there is one thing on earth, more lovely than another, it is a fair
girl of the tender age of Winifred Wood! Her beauty awakens no feeling
beyond that of admiration. The charm of innocence breathes around her,
as fragrance is diffused by the flower, sanctifying her lightest thought
and action, and shielding her, like a spell, from the approach of evil.
Beautiful is the girl of twelve,--who is neither child nor woman, but
something between both, something more exquisite than either!
Such was the fairy creature presented to Thames Darrell, under the
following circumstances.
Glad to escape from the scene of recrimination that ensued between his
adopted parents, Thames seized the earliest opportunity of retiring, and
took his way to a small chamber in the upper part of the house, where he
and Jack were accustomed to spend most of their leisure in the
amusements, or pursuits, proper to their years. He found the door ajar,
and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table,
busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet of paper. She did not
hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her
head.
It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she
pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most
favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike
figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her
countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun
falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that
seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. Winifred's features would
have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they
had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;--a disorder, that
sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be
sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. We have seen pitted
cheeks, which we would not exchange for dimples and a satin skin.
Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. Her mouth was worthy of
her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and
pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about
them. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and
fringed by long silken lashes. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and
finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. She was
dressed in a little white frock, with a very long body, and very short
sleeves, which looked (from a certain fullness about the hips,) as if it
was intended to be worn with a hoop. Her slender throat was encircled by
a black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of
her head rested a diminutive lace cap.
The room in which she sat was a portion of the garret, assigned, as we
have just stated, by Mr. Wood as a play-room to the two boys; and, like
most boy's playrooms, it exhibited a total absence of order, or
neatness. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again
cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy
table bore the marks of many a conflict. The characters of the youthful
occupants of the room might be detected in every article it contained.
Darell's peculiar bent of mind was exemplified in a rusty broadsword, a
tall grenadier's cap, a musket without lock or ramrod, a belt and
cartouch-box, with other matters evincing a decided military taste.
Among his books, Plutarch's Lives, and the Histories of Great
Commanders, appeared to have been frequently consulted; but the dust had
gathered thickly upon the Carpenter's Manual, and a Treatise on
Trigonometry and Geometry. Beneath the shelf, containing these books,
hung the fine old ballad of '_St. George for England_' and a loyal
ditty, then much in vogue, called '_True Protestant Gratitude, or,
Britain's Thanksgiving for the First of August, Being the Day of His
Majesty's Happy Accession to the Throne_.' Jack Sheppard's library
consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the
tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and
Holinsheds of crime--the Ordinaries of Newgate. His vocal collection
comprised a couple of flash songs pasted against the wall, entitled
'_The Thief-Catcher's Prophecy_,' and the '_Life and Death of the
Darkman's Budge_;' while his extraordinary mechanical skill was
displayed in what he termed (Jack had a supreme contempt for
orthography,) a '_Moddle of his Ma^{s}. Jale off Newgate_;' another
model of the pillory at Fleet Bridge; and a third of the permanent
gibbet at Tyburn. The latter specimen, of his workmanship was adorned
with a little scarecrow figure, intended to represent a housebreaking
chimney-sweeper of the time, described in Sheppard's own hand-writing,
as '_Jack Hall a-hanging_.' We must not omit to mention that a family
group from the pencil of little Winifred, representing Mr. and Mrs.
Wood in very characteristic attitudes, occupied a prominent place on the
walls.
For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the
half-opened door in silence. On a sudden, a change came over her
countenance, which, up to this moment, had worn a smiling and satisfied
expression. Throwing down the pencil, she snatched up a piece of
India-rubber, and exclaiming,--"It isn't at all like him! it isn't half
handsome enough!" was about to efface the sketch, when Thames darted
into the room.
"Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the
drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her
fingers.
"I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her
little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!"
"I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper
from her grasp.
"Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried.
But her request was unheeded. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out
its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself.
"I've a good mind not to speak to you again, Sir!" cried Winifred, with
difficulty repressing a tear of vexation; "you've acted unfairly."
"I feel I have, dear Winny!" replied Thames, abashed at his own
rudeness; "my conduct is inexcusable."
"I'll excuse it nevertheless," returned the little damsel,
affectionately extending her hand to him.
"Why were you afraid to show me this picture, Winny?" asked the youth.
"Because it's not like you," was her answer.
"Well, like or not, I'm greatly pleased with it, and must beg it from
you as a memorial----"
"Of what?" she interrupted, startled by his change of manner.
"Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. "I shall value it highly,
and will promise never to part with it. Winny, this is the last night I
shall pass beneath your father's roof."
"Have you told him so?" she inquired, reproachfully. "No; but I shall,
before he retires to rest."
"Then you _will_ stay!" she cried, clapping her hands joyfully, "for I'm
sure he won't part with you. Oh! thank you--thank you! I'm so happy!"
"Stop, Winny!" he answered, gravely; "I haven't promised yet."
"But you will,--won't you?" she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in the
face.
Unable to withstand this appeal, Thames gave the required promise,
adding,--"Oh! Winny, I wish Mr. Wood had been my father, as well as
yours."
"So do I!" she cried; "for then you would have been _really_ my brother.
No, I don't, either; because----"
"Well, Winny?"
"I don't know what I was going to say," she added, in some confusion;
"only I'm sorry you were born a gentleman."
"Perhaps, I wasn't," returned Thames, gloomily, as the remembrance of
Jonathan Wild's foul insinuation crossed him. "But never mind who, or
what I am. Give me this picture. I'll keep it for your sake."
"I'll give you something better worth keeping," she answered, detaching
the ornament from her neck, and presenting it to him; "this contains a
lock of my hair, and may remind you sometimes of your little sister. As
to the picture, I'll keep it myself, though, if you _do_ go I shall need
no memorial of _you_. I'd a good many things to say to you, besides--but
you've put them all out of my head."
With this, she burst into tears, and sank with her face upon his
shoulder. Thames did not try to cheer her. His own heart was too full of
melancholy foreboding. He felt that he might soon be separated--perhaps,
for ever--from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had
always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of
how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him,
that he could not help joining in her grief.
From this sorrowful state he was aroused by a loud derisive whistle,
followed by a still louder laugh; and, looking up, he beheld the
impudent countenance of Jack Sheppard immediately before him.
"Aha!" exclaimed Jack, with a roguish wink, "I've caught you,--have I?"
The carpenter's daughter was fair and free--
Fair, and fickle, and false, was she!
She slighted the journeyman, (meaning _me!_)
And smiled on a gallant of high degree.
Degree! degree!
She smiled on a gallant of high degree.
Ha! ha! ha!"
"Jack!" exclaimed Thames, angrily.
But Sheppard was not to be silenced. He went on with his song,
accompanying it with the most ridiculous grimaces:
"When years were gone by, she began to rue
Her love for the gentleman, (meaning _you!_)
'I slighted the journeyman fond,' quoth she,
'But where is my gallant of high degree?
Where! where!
Oh! where is my gallant of high degree?'
Ho! ho! ho!"
"What are you doing here!" demanded Thames.
"Oh! nothing at all," answered Jack, sneeringly, "though this room's as
much mine as yours, for that matter. 'But I don't desire to spoil
sport,--not I. And, if you'll give me such a smack of your sweet lips,
Miss, as you've just given Thames, I'll take myself off in less than no
time."
The answer to this request was a "smack" of a very different
description, bestowed upon Sheppard's outstretched face by the little
damsel, as she ran out of the room.
"'Odd's! bodikins!" cried Jack, rubbing his cheek, "I'm in luck to-day.
However, I'd rather have a blow from the daughter than the mother. I
know who hits hardest. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging
himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,--and that's
no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,--if that little minx were
half as fond of me as she is of you."
"That's not likely to be the case, if you go on in this way," replied
Thames, sharply.
"Why, what the devil would you have had me do!--make myself scarce, eh?
You should have tipped me the wink."
"No more of this," rejoined Thames, "or we shall quarrel."
"Who cares if we do?" retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance.
"Jack," said the other, sternly; "don't provoke me further, or I'll give
you a thrashing."
"Two can play at that game, my blood," replied Sheppard, rising, and
putting himself into a posture of defence.
"Take care of yourself, then," rejoined Thames, doubling his fists, and
advancing towards him: "though my right arm's stiff, I can use it, as
you'll find."
Sheppard was no match for his opponent, for, though he possessed more
science, he was deficient in weight and strength; and, after a short
round, in which he had decidedly the worst of it, a well-directed hit on
the _nob_ stretched him at full length on the floor.
"That'll teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head for the future,"
observed Thames, as he helped Jack to his feet.
"I didn't mean to give offence," replied Sheppard, sulkily. "But, let me
tell you, it's not a pleasant sight to see the girl one likes in the
arms of another."
"You want another drubbing, I perceive," said Thames, frowning.
"No, I don't. Enough's as good as a feast of the dainties you provide.
I'll think no more about her. Save us!" he cried, as his glance
accidentally alighted on the drawing, which Winifred had dropped in her
agitation. "Is this _her_ work?"
"It is," answered Thames. "Do you see any likeness?"
"Don't I," returned Jack, bitterly. "Strange!" he continued, as if
talking to himself. "How very like it is!"
"Not so strange, surely," laughed Thames, "that a picture should
resemble the person for whom it's intended."
"Ay, but it _is_ strange how much it resembles somebody for whom it's
_not_ intended. It's exactly like a miniature I have in my pocket."
"A miniature! Of whom?"
"That I can't say," replied Jack, mysteriously. "But, I half suspect, of
your father."
"My father!" exclaimed Thames, in the utmost astonishment; "let me see
it!"
"Here it is," returned Jack, producing a small picture in a case set
with brilliants.
Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man,
apparently--judging from his attire--of high rank, whose proud and
patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to
his own.
"You're right Jack," he said, after a pause, during which he
contemplated the picture with the most fixed attention: "this must have
been my father!"
"No doubt of it," answered Sheppard; "only compare it with Winny's
drawing, and you'll find they're as like as two peas in a pod."
"Where did you get it?" inquired Thames.
"From Lady Trafford's, where I took the box."
"Surely, you haven't stolen it?"
"Stolen's an awkward word. But, as you perceive, I brought it away with
me."
"It must be restored instantly,--be the consequences what they may."
"You're not going to betray me!" cried Jack, in alarm.
"I am not," replied Thames; "but I insist upon your taking it back at
once."
"Take it back yourself," retorted Jack, sullenly. "I shall do no such
thing."
"Very well," replied Thames, about to depart.
"Stop!" exclaimed Jack, planting himself before the door; "do you want
to get me sent across the water?"
"I want to save you from disgrace and ruin," returned Thames.
"Bah!" cried Jack, contemptuously; "nobody's disgraced and ruined
unless he's found out. I'm safe enough if you hold your tongue. Give me
that picture, or I'll make you!"
"Hear me," said Thames, calmly; "you well know you're no match for me."
"Not at fisticuffs, perhaps," interrupted Jack, fiercely; "but I've my
knife."
"You daren't use it."
"Try to leave the room, and see whether I daren't," returned Jack,
opening the blade.
"I didn't expect this from you," rejoined Thames, resolutely. "But your
threats won't prevent my leaving the room when I please, and as I
please. Now, will you stand aside?"
"I won't," answered Jack, obstinately.
Thames said not another word, but marched boldly towards him, and seized
him by the collar.
"Leave go!" cried Jack, struggling violently, and raising his hand, "or
I'll maul you for life."
But Thames was not to be deterred from his purpose; and the strife might
have terminated seriously, if a peace-maker had not appeared in the
shape of little Winifred, who, alarmed by the noise, rushed suddenly
into the room.
"Ah!" she screamed, seeing the uplifted weapon in Sheppard's hand,
"don't hurt Thames--don't, dear Jack! If you want to kill somebody, kill
me, not him."
And she flung herself between them.
Jack dropped the knife, and walked sullenly aside.
"What has caused this quarrel, Thames?" asked the little girl,
anxiously.
"You," answered Jack, abruptly.
"No such thing," rejoined Thames. "I'll tell you all about it presently.
But you must leave us now, dear Winny, Jack and I have something to
settle between ourselves. Don't be afraid. Our quarrel's quite over."
"Are you sure of that?" returned Winifred, looking uneasily at Jack.
"Ay, ay," rejoined Sheppard; "he may do what he pleases,--hang me, if
he thinks proper,--if _you_ wish it."
With this assurance, and at the reiterated request of Thames, the little
girl reluctantly withdrew.
"Come, come, Jack," said Thames, walking up to Sheppard, and taking his
hand, "have done with this. I tell you once more, I'll say and do
nothing to get you into trouble. Best assured of that. But I'm resolved
to see Lady Trafford. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is."
"So she may," returned Jack, brightening up; "it's a good idea. I'll go
with you. But you must see her alone; and that'll be no easy matter to
manage, for she's a great invalid, and has generally somebody with her.
Above all, beware of Sir Rowland Trenchard. He's as savage and
suspicious as the devil himself. I should never have noticed the
miniature at all, if it hadn't been for him. He was standing by, rating
her ladyship,--who can scarcely stir from the sofa,--while I was packing
up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small
casket from him. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this
casket into the box. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em
perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket. I was sorry for what I
did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale
face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother."
"That, alone, ought to have prevented you from acting as you did, Jack,"
returned Thames, gravely.
"I should never have acted as I did," rejoined Sheppard, bitterly; "if
Mrs. Wood hadn't struck me. That blow made me a thief. And, if ever I'm
brought to the gallows, I shall lay my death at her door."
"Well, think no more about it," returned Thames. "Do better in future."
"I will, when I've had my revenge," muttered Jack. "But, take my advice,
and keep out of Sir Rowland's way, or you'll get the poor lady into
trouble as well as me."
"Never fear," replied Thames, taking up his hat. "Come, let's be off."
The two boys, then, emerged upon the landing, and were about to descend
the stairs, when the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Wood resounded from below.
The storm appeared to have blown over, for they were conversing in a
very amicable manner with Mr. Kneebone, who was on the point of
departing.
"Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any
misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper.
"Don't mention it," returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who
admits he has been in the wrong; "your explanation is perfectly
satisfactory."
"We shall expect you to-morrow," insinuated Mrs. Wood; "and pray, don't
bring anybody with you,--especially Jonathan Wild."
"No fear of that," laughed Kneebone.--"Oh! about that boy, Thames
Darrell. His safety must be looked to. Jonathan's threats are not to be
sneezed at. The rascal will be at work before the morning. Keep your eye
upon the lad. And mind he doesn't stir out of your sight, on any
pretence whatever, till I call."
"You hear that," whispered Jack.
"I do," replied Thames, in the same tone; "we haven't a moment to lose."
"Take care of yourself," said Mr. Wood, "and I'll take care of Thames.
It's never a bad day that has a good ending. Good night! God bless you!"
Upon this, there was a great shaking of hands, with renewed apologies
and protestations of friendship on both sides; after which Mr. Kneebone
took his leave.
"And so, you really suspected me?" murmured Mrs. Wood, reproachfully, as
they returned to the parlour. "Oh! you men! you men! Once get a thing
into your head, and nothing will beat it out."
"Why, my love," rejoined her husband, "appearances, you must allow, were
a little against you. But since you assure me _you_ didn't write the
letters, and Mr. Kneebone assures me _he_ didn't receive them, I can't
do otherwise than believe you. And I've made up my mind that a husband
ought to believe only half that he hears, and nothing that he sees."
"An excellent maxim!" replied his wife, approvingly; "the best I ever
heard you utter."
"I must now go and look after Thames," observed the carpenter.
"Oh! never mind him: he'll take no harm! Come with me into the parlour.
I can't spare you at present. Heigho!"
"Now for it!" cried Jack, as the couple entered the room: "the coast's
clear."
Thames was about to follow, when he felt a gentle grasp upon his arm. He
turned, and beheld Winifred.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I shall be back presently," replied Thames, evasively.
"Don't go, I beg of you!" she implored. "You're in danger. I overheard
what Mr. Kneebone said, just now."
"Death and the devil! what a cursed interruption!" cried Jack,
impatiently. "If you loiter in this way, old Wood will catch us."
"If you stir, I'll call him!" rejoined Winifred. "It's you, Jack, who
are persuading my brother to do wrong. Thames," she urged, "the errand,
on which you're going, can't be for any good, or you wouldn't be afraid
of mentioning it to my father."
"He's coming!" cried Jack, stamping his foot, with vexation. "Another
moment, and it'll be too late."
"Winny, I _must_ go!" said Thames, breaking from her.
"Stay, dear Thames!--stay!" cried the little girl. "He hears me not!
he's gone!" she added, as the door was opened and shut with violence;
"something tells me I shall never see him again!"
When her father, a moment afterwards, issued from the parlour to
ascertain the cause of the noise, he found her seated on the stairs, in
an agony of grief.
"Where's Thames?" he hastily inquired.
Winifred pointed to the door. She could not speak.
"And Jack?"
"Gone too," sobbed his daughter.
Mr. Wood uttered something like an imprecation.
"God forgive me for using such a word!" he cried, in a troubled tone;
"if I hadn't yielded to my wife's silly request, this wouldn't have
happened!"
CHAPTER VII.
Brother and Sister.
On the same evening, in a stately chamber of a noble old mansion of
Elizabeth's time, situated in Southampton Fields, two persons were
seated. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired
in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on
wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a
velvet footstool. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side,
proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. It was
no easy matter to determine her age, for, though she still retained a
certain youthfulness of appearance, she had many marks in her
countenance, usually indicating the decline of life, but which in her
case were, no doubt, the result of constant and severe indisposition.
Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight
hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were
large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame
emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. When younger, and
in better health, she must have been eminently lovely; and there were
still the remains of great beauty about her. The expression, however,
which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and
profound melancholy.
Her companion was a person of no inferior condition. Indeed it was
apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related.
He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same
sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour;
the same proud cast of features. But here the resemblance stopped. The
expression was wholly different. He looked melancholy enough, it is
true. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than
sorrow. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or
the bonnet of an inquisitor. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as
fate itself.
"Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. "You
depart for Lancashire to-morrow. Have I your final answer?"
"You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly.
"You shall have the sum you require, but----"
"But what, Madam!"
"Do not misunderstand me," she proceeded. "I give it to King James--not
so you: for the furtherance of a great and holy cause, not for the
prosecution of wild and unprofitable schemes."
Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them.
"And the will?" he said, with forced calmness. "Do you still refuse to
make one!"
"I _have_ made one," replied Lady Trafford.
"How?" cried her brother, starting.
"Rowland," she rejoined, "you strive in vain to terrify me into
compliance with your wishes. Nothing shall induce me to act contrary to
the dictates of my conscience. My will is executed, and placed in safe
custody."
"In whose favour is it made?" he inquired, sternly.
"In favour of my son."
"You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily.
"I _had_ one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps,
I have one still."
"If I thought so--" cried the knight fiercely; "but this is idle," he
added, suddenly checking himself. "Aliva, your child perished with its
father."
"And by whom were they both destroyed?" demanded his sister, raising
herself by a painful effort, and regarding him with a searching glance.
"By the avenger of his family's dishonour--by your brother," he replied,
coolly.
"Brother," cried Lady Trafford, her eye blazing with unnatural light,
and her cheek suffused with a crimson stain: "Brother," she cried,
lifting her thin fingers towards Heaven, "as God shall judge me, I was
wedded to that murdered man!"
"A lie!" ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; "a black, and damning lie!"
"It is the truth," replied his sister, falling backwards upon the couch.
"I will swear it upon the cross!"
"His name, then?" demanded the knight. "Tell me that, and I will believe
you."
"Not now--not now!" she returned, with a shudder. "When I am dead you
will learn it. Do not disquiet yourself. You will not have to wait long
for the information. Rowland," she added, in an altered tone, "I am
certain I shall not live many days. And if you treat me in this way, you
will have my death to answer for, as well as the deaths of my husband
and child. Let us part in peace. We shall take an eternal farewell of
each other."
"Be it so!" rejoined Sir Rowland, with concentrated fury; "but before we
_do_ part, I am resolved to know the name of your pretended husband!"
"Torture shall not wrest it from me," answered his sister, firmly.
"What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded.
"A vow," she answered,--"a vow to my dead husband."
Sir Rowland looked at her for a moment, as if he meditated some terrible
reply. He then arose, and, taking a few turns in the chamber, stopped
suddenly before her.
"What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked.
"I have dreamed that I shall see him before I die," she rejoined.
"Dreamed!" echoed the knight, with a ghastly smile. "Is that all? Then
learn from me that your hopes are visionary as their foundation. Unless
he can arise from the bottom of the Thames, where he and his abhorred
father lie buried, you will never behold him again in this world."
"Heaven have compassion on you, Rowland!" murmured his sister, crossing
her hands and looking upwards; "you have none on me."
"I _will_ have none till I have forced the villain's name from you!" he
cried, stamping the floor with rage.
"Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive
tone.
"His name, I say!--his name!" thundered the knight.
And he unsheathed his sword.
Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. When she came to
herself, she found that her brother had quitted the room, leaving her to
the care of a female attendant. Her first orders were to summon the rest
of her servants to make immediate preparations for her departure for
Lancashire.
"To-night, your ladyship?" ventured an elderly domestic.
"Instantly, Hobson," returned Lady Trafford; "as soon as the carriage
can be brought round."
"It shall be at the door in ten minutes. Has your ladyship any further
commands?"
"None whatever. Yet, stay! There is one thing I wish you to do. Take
that box, and put it into the carriage yourself. Where is Sir Rowland?"
"In the library, your ladyship. He has given orders that no one is to
disturb him. But there's a person in the hall--a very odd sort of
man--waiting to see him, who won't be sent away."
"Very well. Lose not a moment, Hobson."
The elderly domestic bowed, took up the case, and retired.
"Your ladyship is far too unwell to travel," remarked the female
attendant, assisting her to rise; "you'll never be able to reach
Manchester."
"It matters not, Norris," replied Lady Trafford: "I would rather die on
the road, than be exposed to another such scene as I have just
encountered."
"Dear me!" sympathised Mrs. Norris. "I was afraid from the scream I
heard, that something dreadful had happened, Sir Rowland has a terrible
temper indeed--a shocking temper! I declare he frightens me out of my
senses."
"Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly.
"Well that's no reason why he should treat your ladyship so shamefully,
I'm sure. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him
in order."
Lady Trafford sighed deeply.
"Your ladyship has never been well since you married Sir Cecil,"
rejoined Mrs. Norris. "For my part, I don't think you ever quite got
over the accident you met with on the night of the Great Storm."
"Norris!" gasped Lady Trafford, trembling violently.
"Mercy on us! what have I said!" cried the attendant, greatly alarmed by
the agitation of her mistress; "do sit down, your ladyship, while I run
for the ratifia and rosa solis."
"It is past," rejoined Lady Trafford, recovering herself by a powerful
effort; "but never allude to the circumstance again. Go and prepare for
our departure."
In less time than Hobson had mentioned, the carriage was announced. And
Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the
postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet.
CHAPTER VIII.
Miching Mallecho.
Sir Rowland, meantime, paced his chamber with a quick and agitated step.
He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude
even to himself. Not conceiving that his sister--feeble as she was, and
yielding as she had ever shown herself to his wishes, whether expressed
or implied--would depart without consulting him, he was equally
surprised and enraged to hear the servants busied in transporting her to
the carriage. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere
with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge
that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain,
though he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she
travelled by night. But, when the sound of the carriage-wheels died
away, and he felt that she was actually gone, his resolution failed him,
and he rang the bell violently.
"My horses, Charcam," he said, as a servant appeared.
The man lingered.
"'Sdeath! why am I not obeyed?" exclaimed the knight, angrily. "I wish
to overtake Lady Trafford. Use despatch!"
"Her ladyship will not travel beyond Saint Alban's to-night, Sir
Rowland, so Mrs. Norris informed me," returned Charcam, respectfully;
"and there's a person without, anxious for an audience, whom, with
submission, I think your honour would desire to see."
"Ah!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, glancing significantly at Charcam, who was
a confidant in his Jacobite schemes; "is it the messenger from
Orchard-Windham, from Sir William?"
"No, Sir Rowland."
"From Mr. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here
yesterday."
"No, Sir Rowland."
"Perhaps he is from Lord Derwentwater, or Mr. Forster? News _is_
expected from Northumberland."
"I can't exactly say, Sir Rowland. The gentleman didn't communicate his
business to me. But I'm sure it's important."
Charcam said this, not because he knew anything about the matter; but,
having received a couple of guineas to deliver the message, he,
naturally enough, estimated its importance by the amount of the
gratuity.
"Well, I will see him," replied the knight, after a moment's pause; "he
may be from the Earl of Mar. But let the horses be in readiness. I shall
ride to St. Alban's to-night."
So saying, he threw himself into a chair. And Charcam, fearful of
another charge in his master's present uncertain mood, disappeared.
The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the
imperfect light,--for the evening was advancing, and the chamber
darkened by heavy drapery,--to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of
rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. He was plainly
attired in a riding-dress and boots of the period, and wore a hanger by
his side.
"Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he
advanced.
"Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly.
The new-comer looked at Charcam. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the
attendant withdrew.
"You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a
seat.
The knight, who could ill brook this familiarity, instantly arose.
"Don't disturb yourself," continued the other, nowise disconcerted by
the rebuke. "I never stand upon ceremony where I know I shall be
welcome. We _have_ met before."
"Indeed!" rejoined Sir Rowland, haughtily; "perhaps, you will refresh my
memory as to the time, and place."
"Let me see. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the
Mint in Southwark. I have a good memory, you perceive, Sir Rowland."
The knight staggered as if struck by a mortal wound. Speedily recovering
himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, "You are mistaken,
Sir. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention."
The stranger smiled incredulously.
"Well, Sir Rowland," he said, after a brief pause, during which the
knight regarded him with a searching glance, as if endeavouring to
recall his features, "I will not gainsay your words. You are in the
right to be cautious, till you know with whom you have to deal; and,
even then, you can't be too wary. 'Avow nothing, believe nothing, give
nothing for nothing,' is my own motto. And it's a maxim of universal
application: or, at least, of universal practice. I am not come here to
play the part of your father-confessor. I am come to serve you."
"In what way, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, in astonishment.
"You will learn anon. You refuse me your confidence. I applaud your
prudence: it is, however, needless. Your history, your actions, nay,
your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual
adviser."
"Make good your assertions," cried Trenchard, furiously, "or----"
"To the proof," interrupted the stranger, calmly. "You are the son of
Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Sir Montacute
had three children--two daughters and yourself. The eldest, Constance,
was lost, by the carelessness of a servant, during her infancy, and has
never since been heard of: the youngest, Aliva, is the present Lady
Trafford. I merely mention these circumstances to show the accuracy of
my information."
"If this is the extent of it, Sir," returned the knight, ironically,
"you may spare yourself further trouble. These particulars are familiar
to all, who have any title to the knowledge."
"Perhaps so," rejoined the stranger; "but I have others in reserve, not
so generally known. With your permission, I will go on in my own way.
Where I am in error, you can set me right.--Your father, Sir Montacute
Trenchard, who had been a loyal subject of King James the Second, and
borne arms in his service, on the abdication of that monarch, turned his
back upon the Stuarts, and would never afterwards recognise their claims
to the crown. It was said, that he received an affront from James, in
the shape of a public reprimand, which his pride could not forgive. Be
this as it may, though a Catholic, he died a friend to the Protestant
succession."
"So far you are correct," observed Trenchard; "still, this is no
secret."
"Suffer me to proceed," replied the stranger. "The opinions,
entertained by the old knight, naturally induced him to view with
displeasure the conduct of his son, who warmly espoused the cause he had
deserted. Finding remonstrances of no avail, he had recourse to threats;
and when threats failed, he adopted more decided measures."
"Ha!" ejaculated Trenchard.
"As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to
his son's expenditure. He did not quarrel with Rowland's profusion, for
his own revenues were ample; but he _did_ object to the large sums
lavished by him in the service of a faction he was resolved not to
support. Accordingly, the old knight reduced his son's allowance to a
third of its previous amount; and, upon further provocation, he even
went so far as to alter his will in favour of his daughter, Aliva, who
was then betrothed to her cousin, Sir Cecil Trafford."
"Proceed, Sir," said Trenchard, breathing hard.
"Under these circumstances, Rowland did what any other sensible person
would do. Aware of his father's inflexibility of purpose, he set his
wits to work to defeat the design. He contrived to break off his
sister's match; and this he accomplished so cleverly, that he maintained
the strictest friendship with Sir Cecil. For two years he thought
himself secure; and, secretly engaged in the Jacobite schemes of the
time, in which, also, Sir Cecil was deeply involved, he began to relax
in his watchfulness over Aliva. About this time,--namely, in November,
1703--while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London,
on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential
servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. He learnt that his
sister was privately married--the name or rank of her husband could not
be ascertained--and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the
Borough, where she had given birth to a son. Rowland's plans were
quickly formed, and as quickly executed. Accompanied by Sir Cecil, who
still continued passionately enamoured of his sister, and to whom he
represented that she had fallen a victim to the arts of a seducer, he
set off, at fiery speed, for the metropolis. Arrived there, their first
object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's
retreat,--a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's
Fields in Southwark. Refused admittance, they broke open the door.
Aliva's husband, who passed by the name of Darrell, confronted them
sword in hand. For a few minutes he kept them at bay. But, urged by his
wife's cries, who was more anxious for the preservation of her child's
life than her own, he snatched up the infant, and made his escape from
the back of the premises. Rowland and his companions instantly started
in pursuit, leaving the lady to recover as she might. They tracked the
fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all
scent of their prey. Meantime, the lady had overtaken them; but,
terrified by the menaces of her vindictive kinsmen, she did not dare to
reveal herself to her husband, of whose concealment on the roof of the
very house the party were searching she was aware. Aided by an
individual, who was acquainted with a secret outlet from the tenement,
Darrell escaped. Before his departure, he gave his assistant a glove.
That glove is still preserved. In her endeavour to follow him, Aliva met
with a severe fall, and was conveyed away, in a state of insensibility,
by Sir Cecil. She was supposed to be lifeless; but she survived the
accident, though she never regained her strength. Directed by the same
individual, who had helped Darrell to steal a march upon him, Rowland,
with Davies, and another attendant, continued the pursuit. Both the
fugitive and his chasers embarked on the Thames. The elements were
wrathful as their passions. The storm burst upon them in its fury.
Unmindful of the terrors of the night, unscared by the danger that
threatened him, Rowland consigned his sister's husband and his sister's
child to the waves."
"Bring your story to an end, Sir," said Trenchard who had listened to
the recital with mingled emotions of rage and fear.
"I have nearly done," replied the stranger.--"As Rowland's whole crew
perished in the tempest, and he only escaped by miracle, he fancied
himself free from detection. And for twelve years he has been so; until
his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has
bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. During this period
Sir Montacute has been gathered to his fathers. His title has descended
to Rowland: his estates to Aliva. The latter has, since, been induced to
unite herself to Sir Cecil, on terms originating with her brother, and
which, however strange and unprecedented, were acquiesced in by the
suitor."
Sir Rowland looked bewildered with surprise.
"The marriage was never consummated," continued the imperturbable
stranger. "Sir Cecil is no more. Lady Trafford, supposed to be
childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is
not likely to make another marriage. The estates must, ere long, revert
to Sir Rowland."
"Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger,
as he concluded his narration.
"You are complimentary, Sir Rowland," returned the other, with a grim
smile.
"If you _are_ human," rejoined Trenchard, with stern emphasis, "I insist
upon knowing whence you derived your information?"
"I might refuse to answer the question, Sir Rowland. But I am not
indisposed to gratify you. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from
other sources."
"My confessor!" ejaculated the knight, in the extremity of surprise;
"has _he_ betrayed his sacred trust?"
"He has," replied the other, grinning; "and this will be a caution to
you in future, how you confide a secret of consequence to a priest. I
should as soon think of trusting a woman. Tickle the ears of their
reverences with any idle nonsense you please: but tell them nothing you
care to have repeated. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and
speak from experience."
"Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses.
"I'm surprised you've not asked that question before, Sir Rowland. It
would have saved me much circumlocution, and you some suspense. My name
is Wild--Jonathan Wild."
And the great thief-taker indulged himself in a chuckle at the effect
produced by this announcement. He was accustomed to such surprises, and
enjoyed them.
Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword.
"Mr. Wild," he said, in a sarcastic tone, but with great firmness; "a
person of your well-known sagacity must be aware that some secrets are
dangerous to the possessor."
"I am fully aware of it, Sir Rowland," replied Jonathan, coolly; "but I
have nothing to fear; because, in the first place, it will be to your
advantage not to molest me; and, in the second, I am provided against
all contingencies. I never hunt the human tiger without being armed. My
janizaries are without. One of them is furnished with a packet
containing the heads of the statement I have just related, which, if I
don't return at a certain time, will be laid before the proper
authorities. I have calculated my chances, you perceive."
"You have forgotten that you are in my power," returned the knight,
sternly; "and that all your allies cannot save you from my resentment."
"I can at least, protect myself," replied Wild, with, provoking
calmness. "I am accounted a fair shot, as well as a tolerable swordsman,
and I will give proof of my skill in both lines, should occasion require
it. I have had a good many desperate engagements in my time, and have
generally come off victorious. I bear the marks of some of them about me
still," he continued, taking off his wig, and laying bare a bald skull,
covered with cicatrices and plates of silver. "This gash," he added,
pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom
Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. Knap. This wedge of
silver," pointing to another, "which would mend a coffee-pot, serves to
stop up a breach made by Will Colthurst, who robbed Mr. Hearl on
Hounslow-Heath. I secured the dog after he had wounded me. This fracture
was the handiwork of Jack Parrot (otherwise called Jack the Grinder),
who broke into the palace of the Bishop of Norwich. Jack was a comical
scoundrel, and made a little too free with his grace's best burgundy, as
well as his grace's favourite housekeeper. The Bishop, however, to show
him the danger of meddling with the church, gave him a dance at Tyburn
for his pains. Not a scar but has its history. The only inconvenience I
feel from my shattered noddle is an incapacity to drink. But that's an
infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. The hardest
bout I ever had was with a woman--Sally Wells, who was afterwards lagged
for shoplifting. She attacked me with a carving-knife, and, when I had
disarmed her, the jade bit off a couple of fingers from my left hand.
Thus, you see, I've never hesitated and never _shall_ hesitate to expose
my life where anything is to be gained. My profession has hardened me."
And, with this, he coolly re-adjusted his peruke.
"What do you expect to gain from this interview, Mr. Wild!" demanded
Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution.
"Ah! now we come to business," returned Jonathan, rubbing his hands,
gleefully. "These are my terms, Sir Rowland," he added, taking a sheet
of paper from his pocket, and pushing it towards the knight.
Trenchard glanced at the document.
"A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for
doubtful secrecy, when _certain silence_ might be so cheaply procured."
"You would purchase it at the price of your head," replied Jonathan,
knitting his brows. "Sir Rowland," he added, savagely, and with somewhat
of the look of a bull-dog before he flies at his foe, "if it were my
pleasure to do so, I could crush you with a breath. You are wholly in my
power. Your name, with the fatal epithet of 'dangerous' attached to it,
stands foremost on the list of Disaffected now before the Secret
Committee. I hold a warrant from Mr. Walpole for your apprehension."
"Arrested!" exclaimed Trenchard, drawing his sword.
"Put up your blade, Sir Rowland," rejoined Jonathan, resuming his former
calm demeanour, "King James the Third will need it. I have no intention
of arresting you. I have a different game to play; and it'll be your own
fault, if you don't come off the winner. I offer you my assistance on
certain terms. The proposal is so far from being exorbitant, that it
should be trebled if I had not a fellow-feeling in the cause. To be
frank with you, I have an affront to requite, which can be settled at
the same time, and in the same way with your affair. That's worth
something to me; for I don't mind paying for revenge. After all a
thousand pounds is a trifle to rid you of an upstart, who may chance to
deprive you of tens of thousands."
"Did I hear you aright?" asked Trenchard, with startling eagerness.
"Certainly," replied Jonathan, with the most perfect _sangfroid_, "I'll
undertake to free you from the boy. That's part of the bargain."
"Is he alive!" vociferated Trenchard.
"To be sure," returned Wild; "he's not only alive, but likely for life,
if we don't clip the thread."
Sir Rowland caught at a chair for support, and passed his hand across
his brow, on which the damp had gathered thickly.
"The intelligence seems new to you. I thought I'd been sufficiently
explicit," continued Jonathan. "Most persons would have guessed my
meaning."
"Then it was _not_ a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice,
and as if speaking to himself. "I _did_ see them on the platform of the
bridge--the child and his preserver! They were _not_ struck by the
fallen ruin, nor whelmed in the roaring flood,--or, if they _were_, they
escaped as I escaped. God! I have cheated myself into a belief that the
boy perished! And now my worst fears are realized--he lives!"
"As yet," returned Jonathan, with fearful emphasis.
"I cannot--dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard
look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair.
Jonathan laughed scornfully.
"Leave him to me," he said. "He shan't trouble you further."
"No," replied Sir Rowland, who appeared completely prostrated. "I will
struggle no longer with destiny. Too much blood has been shed already."
"This comes of fine feelings!" muttered Jonathan, contemptuously. "Give
me your thorough-paced villain. But I shan't let him off thus. I'll try
a strong dose.--Am I to understand that you intend to plead guilty, Sir
Rowland?" he added. "If so, I may as well execute my warrant."
"Stand off, Sir!" exclaimed Trenchard, starting suddenly backwards.
"I knew that would bring him to," thought Wild.
"Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland.
"At present under the care of his preserver--one Owen Wood, a carpenter,
by whom he was brought up."
"Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,--"of Wych Street?"
"The same."
"A boy from his shop was here a short time ago. Could it be him you
mean?"
"No. That boy was the carpenter's apprentice, Jack Sheppard. I've just
left your nephew."
At this moment Charcam entered the room.
"Beg pardon, Sir Rowland," said the attendant, "but there's a boy from
Mr. Wood, with a message for Lady Trafford."
"From whom?" vociferated Trenchard.
"From Mr. Wood the carpenter."
"The same who was here just now?"
"No, Sir Rowland, a much finer boy."
"'Tis he, by Heaven!" cried Jonathan; "this is lucky. Sir Rowland," he
added, in a deep whisper, "do you agree to my terms?"
"I do," answered Trenchard, in the same tone.
"Enough!" rejoined Wild; "he shall not return."
"Have you acquainted him with Lady Trafford's departure?" said the
knight, addressing Charcam, with as much composure as he could assume.
"No, Sir Rowland," replied the attendant, "as you proposed to ride to
Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself.
Besides, there's something odd about the boy; for, though I questioned
him pretty closely concerning his business, he declined answering my
questions, and said he could only deliver his message to her ladyship. I
thought it better not to send him away till I'd mentioned the
circumstance to you."
"You did right," returned Trenchard.
"Where is he?" asked Jonathan.
"In the hall," replied Charcam.
"Alone?"
"Not exactly, Sir. There's another lad at the gate waiting for him--the
same who was here just now, that Sir Rowland was speaking of, who
fastened up the jewel-case for her ladyship."
"A jewel-case!" exclaimed Jonathan. "Ah, I see it all!" he cried, with a
quick glance. "Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. Was anything
missed after the lad's departure, Sir Rowland?"
"Not that I'm aware of," said the knight.--"Stay! something occurs to
me." And he conferred apart with Jonathan.
"That's it!" cried Wild when Trenchard concluded. "This young fool is
come to restore the article--whatever it may be--which Lady Trafford was
anxious to conceal, and which his companion purloined. It's precisely
what such a simpleton would do. We have him as safe as a linnet in a
cage; and could wring his neck round as easily. Oblige me by acting
under my guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland. I'm an old hand at such
things. Harkee," he added, "Mr. What's-your-name!"
"Charcam," replied the attendant, bowing.
"Very well, Mr. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. But not a word to
him of Lady Trafford's absence--mind that. A robbery has been committed,
and your master suspects this lad as an accessory to the offence. He,
therefore, desires to interrogate him. It will be necessary to secure
his companion; and as you say he is not in the house, some caution must
be used in approaching him, or he may chance to take to his heels, for
he's a slippery little rascal. When you've seized him, cough thrice
thus,--and two rough-looking gentlemen will make their appearance. Don't
be alarmed by their manners, Mr. Charcoal. They're apt to be surly to
strangers, but it soon wears off. The gentleman with the red beard will
relieve you of your prisoner. The other must call a coach as quickly as
he can."
"For whom, Sir?" inquired Charcam. "For me--his master, Mr. Jonathan
Wild."
"Are you Mr. Jonathan Wild?" asked the attendant, in great trepidation.
"I _am_, Charcoal. But don't let my name frighten you. Though," said the
thief-taker, with a complacent smile, "all the world seems to tremble at
it. Obey my orders, and you've nothing to fear. About them quickly. Lead
the lad to suppose that he'll be introduced to Lady Trafford. You
understand me, Charcoal."
The attendant did _not_ understand him. He was confounded by the
presence in which he found himself. But, not daring to confess his want
of comprehension, he made a profound reverence, and retired.
CHAPTER IX.
Consequences of the Theft.
"How do you mean to act, Sir?" inquired Trenchard, as soon as they were
left alone.
"As circumstances shall dictate, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan.
"Something is sure to arise in the course of the investigation, of which
I can take advantage. If not, I'll convey him to St. Giles's round-house
on my own responsibility."
"Is this your notable scheme!" asked the knight, scornfully.
"Once there," proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, "he's
as good as in his grave. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. I can
remove the prisoner at any hour of the night I think fit: and I _will_
remove him. You must, know, Sir Rowland--for I've no secrets from
you--that, in the course of my business I've found it convenient to
become the owner of a small Dutch sloop; by means of which I can
transmit any light ware,--such as gold watches, rings, and plate, as
well as occasionally a bank or goldsmith's note, which has been _spoken
with_ by way of the mail,--you understand me?--to Holland or Flanders,
and obtain a secure and ready market for them. This vessel is now in the
river, off Wapping. Her cargo is nearly shipped. She will sail, at early
dawn to-morrow, for Rotterdam. Her commander, Rykhart Van Galgebrok, is
devoted to my interests. As soon as he gets into blue water, he'll think
no more of pitching the boy overboard than of lighting his pipe. This
will be safer than cutting his throat on shore. I've tried the plan, and
found it answer. The Northern Ocean keeps a secret better than the
Thames, Sir Rowland. Before midnight, your nephew shall be safe beneath
the hatches of the Zeeslang."
"Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon
the river is passing before me. I hear the splash in the water--I see
the white object floating like a sea-bird on the tide--it will not
sink!"
"'Sblood!" exclaimed Jonathan, in a tone of ill-disguised contempt; "it
won't do to indulge those fancies now. Be seated, and calm yourself."
"I have often conjured up some frightful vision of the dead," murmured
the knight, "but I never dreamed of an interview with the living."
"It'll be over in a few minutes," rejoined Jonathan, impatiently; "in
fact, it'll be over too soon for me. I like such interviews. But we
waste time. Have the goodness to affix your name to that memorandum, Sir
Rowland. I require nothing, you see, till my share of the contract is
fulfilled."
Trenchard took up a pen.
"It's the boy's death-warrant," observed Jonathan, with a sinister
smile.
"I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard.
"Damnation!" exclaimed Wild with a snarl, that displayed his glistening
fangs to the farthest extremity of his mouth, "I'm not to be trifled
with thus. That paper _must_ be signed, or I take my departure."
"Go, Sir," rejoined the knight, haughtily.
"Ay, ay, I'll go, fast enough!" returned Jonathan, putting his hands
into his pockets, "but not alone, Sir Rowland."
At this juncture, the door was flung open, and Charcam entered, dragging
in Thames, whom he held by the collar, and who struggled in vain to free
himself from the grasp imposed upon him.
"Here's one of the thieves, Sir Rowland!" cried the attendant. "I was
only just in time. The young rascal had learnt from some of the
women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act
of making off when I got down stairs. Come along, my Newgate bird!" he
continued, shaking him with great violence.
Jonathan gave utterance to a low whistle.
"If things had gone smoothly," he thought, "I should have cursed the
fellow's stupidity. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder."
Trenchard, meanwhile, whose gaze was fixed upon the boy, became livid as
death, but he moved not a muscle.
"'T is he!" he mentally ejaculated.
"What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who
sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed
from the youth's view. "It would be a thousand pities, wouldn't it, to
put so promising a lad out of the way?"
"Devil!" exclaimed the knight fiercely, "Give me the paper."
Jonathan hastily picked up the pen, and presented it to Trenchard, who
attached his signature to the document.
"If I _am_ the devil," observed Wild, "as some folks assert, and I
myself am not unwilling to believe, you'll find that I differ from the
generally-received notions of the arch-fiend, and faithfully execute the
commands of those who confide their souls to my custody."
"Take hence this boy, then," rejoined Trenchard; "his looks unman me."
"Of what am I accused?" asked Thames, who though a good deal alarmed at
first, had now regained his courage.
"Of robbery!" replied Jonathan in a thundering voice, and suddenly
confronting him. "You've charged with assisting your comrade, Jack
Sheppard, to purloin certain articles of value from a jewel-case
belonging to Lady Trafford. Aha!" he continued, producing a short silver
staff, which he carried constantly about with him, and uttering a
terrible imprecation, "I see you're confounded. Down on your
marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save
you from the gallows."
"I've nothing to confess," replied Thames, boldly; "I've done no wrong.
Are _you_ my accuser?"
"I am," replied Wild; "have you anything to allege to the contrary?"
"Only this," returned Thames: "that the charge is false, and malicious,
and that _you_ know it to be so."
"Is that all!" retorted Jonathan. "Come, I must search you my
youngster!"
"You shan't touch me," rejoined Thames; and, suddenly bursting from
Charcam, he threw himself at the feet of Trenchard. "Hear me, Sir
Rowland!" he cried. "I am innocent, f have stolen nothing. This
person--this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely
an hour ago, in Wych Street, is--I know not why--my enemy. He has sworn
that he'll take away my life!"
"Bah!" interrupted Jonathan. "You won't listen to this nonsense, Sir
Rowland!"
"If you _are_ innocent, boy," said the knight, controlling his emotion;
"you have nothing to apprehend. But, what brought you here?"
"Excuse me, Sir Rowland. I cannot answer that question. My business is
with Lady Trafford."
"Are you aware that I am her ladyship's brother?" returned the knight.
"She has no secrets from me."
"Possibly not," replied Thames, in some confusion; "but I am not at
liberty to speak."
"Your hesitation is not in your favour," observed Trenchard, sternly.
"Will he consent, to be searched?" inquired Jonathan.
"No," rejoined Thames, "I won't be treated like a common felon, if I can
help it."
"You shall be treated according to your deserts, then," said Jonathan,
maliciously. And, in spite of the boy's resistance, he plunged his hands
into his pockets, and drew forth the miniature.
"Where did you get this from?" asked Wild, greatly surprised at the
result of his investigation.
Thames returned no answer.
"I thought as much," continued Jonathan. "But we'll find a way to make
you open your lips presently. Bring in his comrade," he added, in a
whisper to Charcam; "I'll take care of him. And don't neglect my
instructions this time." Upon which, with an assurance that he would not
do so, the attendant departed.
"You can, of course, identify this picture as Lady Trafford's property?"
pursued Jonathan, with a meaning glance, as he handed it to the knight.
"I can," replied Trenchard. "Ha!" he exclaimed, with a sudden start, as
his glance fell upon the portrait; "how came this into your possession,
boy?"
"Why don't you answer, sirrah?" cried Wild, in a savage tone, and
striking him with the silver staff. "Can't you speak?"
"I don't choose," replied Thames, sturdily; "and your brutality shan't
make me."
"We'll see that," replied Jonathan, dealing him another and more violent
blow.
"Let him alone," said Trenchard authoritatively, "I have another
question to propose. Do you know whoso portrait this is?"
"I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to
be the portrait of my father."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the knight, in astonishment. "Is your father alive?"
"No," returned Thames; "he was assassinated while I was an infant."
"Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard.
"My heart," rejoined Thames, firmly; "which now tells me I am in the
presence of his murderer."
"That's me," interposed Jonathan; "a thief-taker is always a murderer in
the eyes of a thief. I'm almost sorry your suspicions are unfounded, if
your father in any way resembled you, my youngster. But I can tell you
who'll have the pleasure of hanging your father's son; and that's a
person not a hundred miles distant from you at this moment--ha! ha!"
As he said this, the door was opened, and Charcam entered, accompanied
by a dwarfish, shabby-looking man, in a brown serge frock, with coarse
Jewish features, and a long red beard. Between the Jew and the attendant
came Jack Sheppard; while a crowd of servants, attracted by the news,
that the investigation of a robbery was going forward, lingered at the
doorway in hopes of catching something of the proceedings.
When Jack was brought in, he cast a rapid glance around him, and
perceiving Thames in the custody of Jonathan, instantly divined how
matters stood. As he looked in this direction, Wild gave him a
significant wink, the meaning of which he was not slow to comprehend.
"Get it over quickly," said Trenchard, in a whisper to the thief-taker.
Jonathan nodded assent.
"What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was
looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on.
"Jack Sheppard," returned the boy, fixing his eyes upon a portrait of
the Earl of Mar. "Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?"
"Attend to me, sirrah," rejoined Wild, sternly. "Do you know this
picture?" he added, with another significant look, and pointing to the
miniature.
"I do," replied Jack, carelessly.
"That's well. Can you inform us whence it came?"
"I should think so."
"State the facts, then."
"It came from Lady Trafford's jewel-box."
Here a murmur of amazement arose from the assemblage outside.
"Close the door!" commanded Trenchard, impatiently.
"In my opinion, Sir Rowland," suggested Jonathan; "you'd better allow
the court to remain open."
"Be it so," replied the knight, who saw the force of this reasoning.
"Continue the proceedings."
"You say that the miniature was abstracted from Lady Trafford's
jewel-box," said Jonathan, in a loud voice. "Who took it thence?"
"Thames Darrell; the boy at your side."
"Jack!" cried Thames, in indignant surprise.
But Sheppard took no notice of the exclamation.
A loud buzz of curiosity circulated among the domestics; some of
whom--especially the females--leaned forward to obtain a peep at the
culprit.
"Si--lence!" vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last
syllable.
"Were you present at the time of the robbery?" pursued Jonathan.
"I was," answered Sheppard.
"And will swear to it?"
"I will."
"Liar!" ejaculated Thames.
"Enough!" exclaimed Wild, triumphantly.
"Close the court, Mr. Charcoal. They've heard quite enough for my
purpose," he muttered, as his orders were obeyed, and the domestics
excluded. "It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir
Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in
Saint Giles's round-house. You, Jack Sheppard, have nothing to fear, as
you've become evidence against your accomplice. To-morrow, I shall
carry you before Justice Walters, who'll take your information; and I've
no doubt but Thames Darrell will be fully committed. Now, for the cage,
my pretty canary-bird. Before we start, I'll accommodate you with a pair
of ruffles." And he proceeded to handcuff his captive.
"Hear me!" cried Thames, bursting into tears. "I am innocent. I could
not have committed this robbery. I have only just left Wych Street. Send
for Mr. Wood, and you'll find that I've spoken the truth."
"You'd better hold your peace, my lad," observed Jonathan, in a menacing
tone.
"Lady Trafford would not have thus condemned me!" cried Thames.
"Away with him!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, impatiently.
"Take the prisoners below, Nab," said Jonathan, addressing the dwarfish
Jew; "I'll join you in an instant."
The bearded miscreant seized Jack by the waist, and Thames by the nape
of the neck, and marched off, like the ogre in the fairy tale, with a
boy under each arm, while Charcam brought upt the rear.
CHAPTER X.
Mother and Son.
They had scarcely been gone a moment, when a confused noise was heard
without, and Charcam re-entered the room, with a countenance of the
utmost bewilderment and alarm.
"What's the matter with the man?" demanded Wild.
"Her ladyship--" faltered the attendant.
"What of her?" cried the knight. "Is she returned!"
"Y--e--s, Sir Rowland," stammered Charcam.
"The devil!" ejaculated Jonathan. "Here's a cross-bite."
"But that's not all, your honour," continued Charcam; "Mrs. Norris says
she's dying."
"Dying!" echoed the knight.
"Dying, Sir Rowland. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with
spasms and short breath, and swoonings,--worse than ever she was before.
And Mrs. Norris was so frightened that she ordered the postboys to drive
back as fast as they could. She never expected to get her ladyship home
alive."
"My God!" cried Trenchard, stunned by the intelligence, "I have killed
her."
"No doubt," rejoined Wild, with a sneer; "but don't let all the world
know it."
"They're lifting her out of the carriage," interposed Charcam; "will it
please your honour to send for some advice and the chaplain?"
"Fly for both," returned Sir Rowland, in a tone of bitter anguish.
"Stay!" interposed Jonathan. "Where are the boys?"
"In the hall."
"Her ladyship will pass through it?"
"Of course; there's no other way."
"Then, bring them into this room, the first thing--quick! They must not
meet, Sir Rowland," he added, as Charcam hastened to obey his
instructions.
"Heaven has decreed it otherwise," replied the knight, dejectedly. "I
yield to fate."
"Yield to nothing," returned Wild, trying to re-assure him; "above all,
when your designs prosper. Man's fate is in his own hands. You are your
nephew's executioner, or he is yours. Cast off this weakness. The next
hour makes, or mars you for ever. Go to your sister, and do not quit her
till all is over. Leave the rest to me."
Sir Rowland moved irresolutely towards the door, but recoiled before a
sad spectacle. This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity.
Borne in the arms of a couple of assistants, and preceded by Mrs.
Norris, wringing her hands and wepping, the unfortunate lady was placed
upon a couch. At the same time, Charcam, who seemed perfectly distracted
by the recent occurrences, dragged in Thames, leaving Jack Sheppard
outside in the custody of the dwarfish Jew.
"Hell's curses!" muttered Jonathan between his teeth; "that fool will
ruin all. Take him away," he added, striding up to Charcam.
"Let him remain," interposed Trenchard.
"As you please, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan, with affected
indifference; "but I'm not going to hunt the deer for another to eat the
ven'son, depend on 't."
But seeing that no notice was taken of the retort, he drew a little
aside, and folded his arms, muttering, "This whim will soon be over. She
can't last long. I can pull the strings of this stiff-necked puppet as I
please."
Sir Rowland, meantime, throw himself on his knees beside his sister,
and, clasping her chilly fingers within his own, besought her
forgiveness in the most passionate terms. For a few minutes, she
appeared scarcely sensible of his presence. But, after some restoratives
had been administered by Mrs. Norris, she revived a little.
"Rowland," she said, in a faint voice, "I have not many minutes to live.
Where is Father Spencer? I must have absolution. I have something that
weighs heavily upon my mind."
Sir Rowland's brow darkened.
"I have sent for him," Aliva, he answered; "he will be here directly,
with your medical advisers."
"They are useless," she returned. "Medicine cannot save mo now."
"Dear sister----"
"I should die happy, if I could behold my child."
"Comfort yourself, then, Aliva. You _shall_ behold him."
"You are mocking me, Rowland. Jests are not for seasons like this."
"I am not, by Heaven," returned the knight, solemnly. "Leave us, Mrs.
Norris, and do not return till Father Spencer arrives."
"Your ladyship----" hesitated Norris.
"Go!" said Lady Trafford; "it is my last request."
And her faithful attendant, drowned in tears, withdrew, followed by the
two assistants.
Jonathan stepped behind a curtain.
"Rowland," said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of
indescribable anxiety, "you have assured me that I shall behold my son.
Where is he?"
"Within this room," replied the knight.
"Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford.
"Here," repeated her brother. "But calm yourself, dear sister, or the
interview will be too much for you."
"I _am_ calm--quite calm, Rowland," she answered, with lips whose
agitation belied her words. "Then, the story of his death was false. I
knew it. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child--an
innocent child. God forgive you!"
"May He, indeed, forgive me!" returned Trenchard, crossing himself
devoutly; "but my guilt is not the less heavy, because your child
escaped. This hand consigned him to destruction, but another was
stretched forth to save him. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave
by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son."
"Blessings upon him!" cried Lady Trafford, fervently. "But trifle with
mo no longer. Moments are ages now. Let me see my child, if he is really
here?"
"Behold him!" returned Trenchard, taking Thames (who had been a mute,
but deeply-interested, witness of the scene) by the hand, and leading
him towards her.
"Ah!" exclaimed Lady Trafford, exerting all her strength. "My sight is
failing me. Let me have more light, that I may behold him. Yes!" she
screamed, "these are his father's features! It is--it is my son!"
"Mother!" cried Thames; "are you, indeed, my mother?"
"I am, indeed--my own sweet boy!" she sobbed, pressing him tenderly to
her breast.
"Oh!--to see you thus!" cried Thames, in an agony of affliction.
"Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more
closely to her. "I am happy--quite happy now."
During this touching interview, a change had come over Sir Rowland, and
he half repented of what he had done.
"You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth's father,
Aliva," he said.
"I dare not, Rowland," she answered. "I cannot break my vow. I will
confide it to Father Spencer, who will acquaint you with it when I am no
more. Undraw the curtain, love," she added to Thames, "that I may look
at you."
"Ha!" exclaimed her son, starting back, as he obeyed her, and disclosed
Jonathan Wild.
"Be silent," said Jonathan, in a menacing whisper.
"What have you seen?" inquired Lady Trafford.
"My enemy," replied her son.
"Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. "Sir Rowland
is your uncle--he will be your guardian--he will protect you. Will you
not, brother?"
"Promise," said a deep voice in Trenchard's ear.
"He will kill me," cried Thames. "There is a man in this room who seeks
my life."
"Impossible!" rejoined his mother.
"Look at these fetters," returned Thames, holding up his manacled
wrists; "they were put on by my uncle's command."
"Ah!" shrieked Lady Trafford.
"Not a moment is to be lost," whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. "His
life--or yours?"
"No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. "Your uncle
_must_ protect you. It will be his interest to do so. He will be
dependent on you."
"Do what you please with him," muttered Trenchard to Wild.
"Take off these chains, Rowland," said Lady Trafford, "instantly, I
command you."
"_I_ will," replied Jonathan, advancing, and rudely seizing Thames.
"Mother!" cried the son, "help!"
"What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch,
and extending her hands towards him. "Oh, God! would you take him from
me?--would you murder him?"
"His father's name?--and he is free," rejoined Rowland, holding her
arms.
"Release him first--and I will disclose it!" cried Lady Trafford; "on my
soul, I will!"
"Speak then!" returned Rowland.
"Too late!" shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,--"too
late!--oh!"
Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her
son's mouth, and forced him out of the room.
When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland
standing by the lifeless body of his sister. His countenance was almost
as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side.
"This is your work," said the knight, sternly.
"Not entirely," replied Jonathan, calmly; "though I shouldn't be ashamed
of it if it were. After all, you failed in obtaining the secret from
her, Sir Rowland. Women are hypocrites to the last--true only to
themselves."
"Peace!" cried the knight, fiercely.
"No offence," returned Jonathan. "I was merely about to observe that _I_
am in possession of her secret."
"You!"
"Didn't I tell you that the fugitive Darrell gave me a glove! But we'll
speak of this hereafter. You can _purchase_ the information from me
whenever you're so disposed. I shan't drive a hard bargain. To the point
however. I came back to say, that I've placed your nephew in a coach;
and, if you'll be at my lock in the Old Bailey an hour after midnight,
you shall hear the last tidings of him."
"I will be there," answered Trenchard, gloomily.
"You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland--short accounts, you know."
"Fear nothing. You shall have your reward."
"Thank'ee,--thank'ee. My house is the next door to the Cooper's Arms, in
the Old Bailey, opposite Newgate. You'll find me at supper."
So saying, he bowed and departed.
"That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight,
sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. Would I
could purchase his apathy as easily as I can procure his assistance."
Soon after this Mrs. Norris entered the room, followed by Father
Spencer. On approaching the couch, they found Sir Rowland senseless, and
extended over the dead body of his unfortunate sister.
CHAPTER XI.
The Mohocks.
Jonathan Wild, meanwhile, had quitted the house. He found a coach at the
door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall,
ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the
bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were
safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. As soon
as he had delivered his instructions to Quilt, who, with Abraham,
constituted his body-guard, or janizaries, as he termed them, Jonathan
mounted his steed, and rode off at a gallop. Quilt was not long in
following his example. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to
make the best of his way to Saint Giles's. Stimulated by the promise of
something handsome to drink, the man acquitted himself to admiration in
the management of his lazy cattle. Crack went the whip, and away
floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road,
or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across
Southampton Fields. Skirting the noble gardens of Montague House, (now,
we need scarcely say, the British Museum,) the party speedily reached
Great Russell Street,--a quarter described by Strype, in his edition of
old Stow's famous _Survey_, "as being graced with the best buildings in
all Bloomsbury, and the best inhabited by the nobility and gentry,
especially the north side, as having gardens behind the houses, and the
prospect of the pleasant fields up to Hampstead and Highgate; insomuch
that this place, by physicians, is esteemed the most healthful of any in
London." Neither of the parties outside bestowed much attention upon
these stately and salubriously-situated mansions; indeed, as it was now
not far from ten o'clock, and quite dark, they could scarcely discern
them. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt
could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the
numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. The coachman answered
by a surly grunt, and, plying his whip with redoubled zeal, shaped his
course down Dyot Street; traversed that part of Holborn, which is now
called Broad Street, and where two ancient alms-houses were, then,
standing in the middle of that great thoroughfare, exactly opposite the
opening of Compston Street; and, diving under a wide gateway on the
left, soon reached a more open space, surrounded by mean habitations,
coach-houses and stables, called Kendrick Yard, at the further end of
which Saint Giles's round-house was situated.
No sooner did the vehicle turn the corner of this yard, than Quilt
became aware, from the tumultuous sounds that reached his ears, as well
as from the flashing of various lanterns at the door of the round-house,
that some disturbance was going on; and, apprehensive of a rescue, if he
drew up in the midst of the mob, he thought it prudent to come to a
halt. Accordingly, he stopped the coach, dismounted, and hastened
towards the assemblage, which, he was glad to find, consisted chiefly of
a posse of watchmen and other guardians of the night. Quilt, who was an
ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the
rueful appearance of these personages. Not one of them but bore the
marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict.
Quarter-staves, bludgeons, brown-bills, lanterns, swords, and sconces
were alike shivered; and, to judge from the sullied state of their
habiliments, the claret must have been tapped pretty freely. Never was
heard such a bawling as these unfortunate wights kept up. Oaths exploded
like shells from a battery in full fire, accompanied by threats of
direst vengeance against the individuals who had maltreated them. Here,
might be seen a poor fellow whose teeth were knocked down his throat,
spluttering out the most tremendous menaces, and gesticulating like a
madman: there, another, whose nose was partially slit, vented
imprecations and lamentations in the same breath. On the right, stood a
bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket,
who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the
spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a
meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with
greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm.
"So, the Mohocks have been at work, I perceive," remarked Quilt, as he
drew near the group.
"'Faith, an' you may say that," returned a watchman, who was wiping a
ruddy stream from his brow; "they've broken the paice, and our pates
into the bargain. But shurely I'd know that vice," he added, turning his
lantern towards the janizary. "Ah! Quilt Arnold, my man, is it you? By
the powers! I'm glad to see you. The sight o' your 'andsome phiz allys
does me good."
"I wish I could return the compliment, Terry. But your cracked skull is
by no means a pleasing spectacle. How came you by the hurt, eh?"
"How did I come by it?--that's a nate question. Why, honestly enouch. It
was lent me by a countryman o' mine; but I paid him back in his own
coin--ha! ha!"
"A countryman of yours, Terry?"
"Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt--more's the pity! You've heard of the
Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?"
"Of course; who has not? He's the leader of the Mohocks, the general of
the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and
glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!"
"That's him to a hair?" cried Terence, rapturously. "Och! he's a broth
of a boy!"
"Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?"
"Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and
Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack.
Besides, didn't I tell you that I giv' him as good as he brought--and
better! I jist touched him with my 'Evenin' Star,' as I call this
shillelah," said the watchman, flourishing an immense bludgeon, the knob
of which appeared to be loaded with lead, "and, by Saint Patrick! down
he cum'd like a bullock."
"Zounds!" exclaimed Quilt, "did you kill him?"
"Not quite," replied Terence, laughing; "but I brought him to his
senses."
"By depriving him of 'em, eh! But I'm sorry you hurt his lordship,
Terry. Young noblemen ought to be indulged in their frolics. If they
_do_, now and then, run away with a knocker, paint a sign, beat the
watch, or huff a magistrate, they _pay_ for their pastime, and that's
sufficient. What more could any reasonable man--especially a
watchman--desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a
particular friend of mine. There's not his peer among the peerage."
"Och! if he's a friend o' yours, my dear joy, there's no more to be
said; and right sorry am I, I struck him. But, bloodan'-'ouns! man, if
ould Nick himself were to hit me a blow, I'd be afther givin' him
another."
"Well, well--wait awhile," returned Quilt; "his lordship won't forget
you. He's as generous as he's frolicsome."
As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man,
with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold.
"There's Sharples," cried Quilt.
"Whist!" exclaimed Terence; "he elevates his glim. By Jasus! he's about
to spake to us."
"Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough
would permit him, "my noble pris'ner--ough! ough;--the Markis o'
Slaughterford----"
Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry
guardians of the night.
"No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob.
"Hear! hear!" vociferated Quilt.
"His lordship desires me to say--ough! ough!"
Fresh groans and hisses.
"Von't you hear me?--ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause.
"By all means," rejoined Quilt.
"Raise your vice, and lave off coughin'," added Terence.
"The long and the short o' the matter's this then," returned Sharples
with dignity, "the Markis begs your acceptance o' ten guineas to drink
his health."
The hooting was instantaneously changed to cheers.
"And his lordship, furthermore, requests me to state," proceeded
Sharples, in a hoarse tone, "that he'll be responsible for the doctors'
bill of all such gem'men as have received broken pates, or been
other_wise_ damaged in the fray--ough! ough!"
"Hurrah!" shouted the mob.
"We're all damaged--we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices.
"Ay, good luck to him! so we have," rejoined Terence; "but we've no
objection to take out the dochter's bill in drink."
"None whatever," replied the mob.
"Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples.
"Long life to the Markis, and we accept his honourable proposal,"
responded the mob.
"Long life to the Marquis!" reiterated Terence; "he's an honour to ould
Ireland!"
"Didn't I tell you how it would be?" remarked Quilt.
"Troth, and so did you," returned the watchman; "but I couldn't belave
it. In futur', I'll keep the 'Evenin' Star' for his lordship's enemies."
"You'd better," replied Quilt. "But bring your glim this way. I've a
couple of kinchens in yonder rattler, whom I wish to place under old
Sharples's care."
"Be handy, then," rejoined Terence, "or, I'll lose my share of the smart
money."
With the assistance of Terence, and a linkboy who volunteered his
services, Quilt soon removed the prisoners from the coach, and leaving
Sheppard to the custody of Abraham, proceeded to drag Thames towards the
round-house. Not a word had been exchanged between the two boys on the
road. Whenever Jack attempted to speak, he was checked by an angry growl
from Abraham; and Thames, though his heart was full almost to bursting,
felt no inclination to break the silence. His thoughts, indeed, were too
painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some
time, they quite overcame him. But his grief was of short duration. The
elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach
stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared
utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing
the whole way.
While he was dragged along in the manner just described, Thames looked
around to ascertain, if possible, where he was; for he did not put
entire faith in Jonathan's threat of sending him to the round-house, and
apprehensive of something even worse than imprisonment. The aspect of
the place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to
him; but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding
habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall
steeple of Saint Giles's church, the precursor of the present structure,
which was not erected till some fifteen years later. He recognised this
object at once. Jonathan had not deceived him.
"What's this here kinchen _in_ for?" asked Terence, as he and Quilt
strode along, with Thames between them.
"What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively.
"Oh! nothin' partickler--mere curossity," replied Terence. "By the
powers!" he added, turning his lantern full upon the face of the
captive, "he's a nice genn-teel-lookin' kiddy, I must say. Pity he's
ta'en to bad ways so airly."
"You may spare me your compassion, friend," observed Thames; "I am
falsely detained."
"Of course," rejoined Quilt, maliciously; "every thief is so. If we were
to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday.
We never supposed you helped yourself to a picture set with
diamonds--not we!"
"Is the guv'ner consarned in this job?" asked Terence, in a whisper.
"He is," returned Quilt, significantly. "Zounds! what's that!" he cried,
as the noise of a scuffle was heard behind them. "The other kid's given
my partner the slip. Here, take this youngster, Terry; my legs are
lighter than old Nab's." And, committing Thames to the care of the
watchman, he darted after the fugitive.
"Do you wish to earn a rich reward, my good friend?" said Thames to the
watchman, as soon as they were left alone.
"Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired
Terence. "If so, it won't pay. You're Mister Wild's pris'ner, and worse
luck to it!"
"I don't ask you to liberate me," urged Thames; "but will you convey a
message for me?"
"Where to, honey?"
"To Mr. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street. He lives near the Black
Lion."
"The Black Lion!" echoed Terence. "I know the house well; by the same
token that it's a flash crib. Och! many a mug o' bubb have I drained wi'
the landlord, Joe Hind. And so Misther Wudd lives near the Black Lion,
eh?"
"He does," replied Thames. "Tell him that I--his adopted son, Thames
Darrell--am detained here by Jonathan Wild."
"Thames Ditton--is that your name?"
"No," replied the boy, impatiently; "Darrell--Thames Darrell."
"I'll not forget it. It's a mighty quare 'un, though. I never yet heard
of a Christians as was named after the Shannon or the Liffy; and the
Thames is no better than a dhurty puddle, compared wi' them two noble
strames. But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the
difference. People do call their unlawful children strange names. Are
you quite shure you haven't another alyas, Masther Thames Ditton?"
"Darrell, I tell you. Will you go? You'll be paid handsomely for your
trouble."
"I don't mind the throuble," hesitated Terence, who was really a
good-hearted fellow at the bottom; "and I'd like to sarve you if I
could, for you look like a gentleman's son, and that goes a great way
wi' me. But if Misther Wild were to find out that I thwarted his
schames----"
"I'd not be in your skin for a trifle," interrupted Quilt, who having
secured Sheppard, and delivered him to Abraham, now approached them
unawares; "and it shan't be my fault if he don't hear of it."
"'Ouns!" ejaculated Terence, in alarm, "would you turn snitch on your
old pal, Quilt?"
"Ay, if he plays a-cross," returned Quilt. "Come along, my sly shaver.
With all your cunning, we're more than a match for you."
"But not for me," growled Terence, in an under tone.
"Remember!" cried Quilt, as he forced the captive along.
"Remember the devil!" retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural
audacity. "Do you think I'm afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his
myrmidons? Not I. Master Thames Ditton, I'll do your biddin'; and you,
Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you."
"Dog!" exclaimed Quilt, turning fiercely upon him, "do you threaten?"
But the watchman eluded his grasp, and, mingling with the crowd,
disappeared.
CHAPTER XII.
Saint Giles's Round-house.
Saint Giles's Round-house was an old detached fabric, standing in an
angle of Kendrick Yard. Originally built, as its name imports, in a
cylindrical form, like a modern Martello tower, it had undergone, from
time to time, so many alterations, that its symmetry was, in a great
measure, destroyed. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two
extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end,--a sort of
Heidelberg tun on a large scale,--and this resemblance was increased by
the small circular aperture--it hardly deserved to be called a
door--pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the
structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight
of wooden steps. The prison was two stories high, with a flat roof
surmounted by a gilt vane fashioned like a key; and, possessing
considerable internal accommodation, it had, in its day, lodged some
thousands of disorderly personages. The windows were small, and strongly
grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the
spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. Lights gleamed from the
lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of
revelry might be heard from within.
Warned of the approach of the prisoners by the increased clamour,
Sharples, who was busied in distributing the Marquis's donation,
affected to throw the remainder of the money among the crowd, though, in
reality, he kept back a couple of guineas, which he slipped into his
sleeve, and running hastily up the steps, unlocked the door. He was
followed, more leisurely, by the prisoners; and, during their ascent,
Jack Sheppard made a second attempt to escape by ducking suddenly down,
and endeavouring to pass under his conductor's legs. The dress of the
dwarfish Jew was not, however, favourable to this expedient. Jack was
caught, as in a trap, by the pendant tails of Abraham's long frock; and,
instead of obtaining his release by his ingenuity, he only got a sound
thrashing.
Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards
the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt,
between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist,
and then closed and barred the door.
"Vell," he growled, addressing Quilt, "you know who's here, I suppose?"
"To be sure I do," replied Quilt; "my noble friend, the Marquis of
Slaughterford. What of that?"
"Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. Vot am I to do
vith these young imps, eh?"
"What you generally do with your prisoners, Mr. Sharples," replied
Quilt; "lock 'em up."
"That's easily said. But, suppose I've no place to lock 'em up in, how
then?"
Quilt looked a little perplexed. He passed his arm under that of the
constable, and drew him aside.
"Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's
remonstrances, "it shall be done. But it's confounded inconvenient. One
don't often get sich a vindfal as the Markis----"
"Or such a customer as Mr. Wild," edged in Quilt.
"Now, then, Saint Giles!" interposed Sheppard, "are we to be kept here
all night?"
"Eh day!" exclaimed Sharples: "wot new-fledged bantam's this?"
"One that wants to go to roost," replied Sheppard. "So, stir your
stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch."
"Comin'! comin'!" returned the constable, shuffling towards him.
"Coming!--so is midnight--so is Jonathan Wild," retorted Jack, with a
significant look at Thames.
"Have you never an out-o-the-vay corner, into vich you could shtow these
troublesome warmint?" observed Abraham. "The guv'ner'll be here afore
midnight."
Darrell's attention was drawn to the latter part of this speech by a
slight pressure on his foot. And, turning at the touch, he perceived
Sheppard's glance fixed meaningly upon him.
"Stow it, Nab!" exclaimed Quilt, angrily; "the kinchen's awake."
"Awake!--to be sure I am, my flash cove," replied Sheppard; "I'm down as
a hammer."
"I've just bethought me of a crib as'll serve their turn," interposed
Sharples, "at any rate, they'll be out o' the vay, and as safe as two
chicks in a coop."
"Lead the way to it then, Saint Giles," said Jack, in a tone of mock
authority.
The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off,
like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is
needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden
partition. A door led to the inner room; and it was evident from the
peals of merriment, and other noises, that, ever and anon, resounded
from within, that this chamber was occupied by the Marquis and his
friends. Against the walls hung an assortment of staves, brown-bills,
(weapons then borne by the watch,) muskets, handcuffs, great-coats, and
lanterns. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a
rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of
box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an
apology for a cupboard. Towards this box Sharples directed his steps,
and, unlocking a hatch in the door, disclosed a recess scarcely as
large, and certainly not as clean, as a dog-kennel.
"Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the
lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. "I call
this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in
Guildhall. I _have_ squeezed three kids into it afore now. To be sure,"
he added, lowering his tone, "they wos little 'uns, and one on 'em was
smothered--ough! ough!--how this cough chokes me!"
Sheppard, meanwhile, whose hands were at liberty, managed to possess
himself, unperceived, of the spike of a halbert, which was lying, apart
from the pole, upon a bench near him. Having secured this implement, he
burst from his conductor, and, leaping into the hatch, as clowns
generally spring into the clock-faces, when in pursuit of harlequin in
the pantomime,--that is, back foremost,--broke into a fit of loud and
derisive laughter, kicking his heels merrily all the time against the
boards. His mirth, however, received an unpleasant check; for Abraham,
greatly incensed by his previous conduct, caught him by the legs, and
pushed him with such violence into the hole that the point of the
spike, which he had placed in his pocket, found its way through his
clothes to the flesh, inflicting a slight, but painful wound. Jack, who
had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom
without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even
to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable
functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him.
"How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering
tone.
"Better than your company, Saint Giles," replied Sheppard; "so, shut the
door, and make yourself scarce."
"That boy'll never rest till he finds his vay to Bridewell," observed
Sharples.
"Or the street," returned Jack: "mind my words, the prison's not built
that can keep me."
"We'll see that, young hempseed," replied Sharples, shutting the hatch
furiously in his face, and locking it. "If you get out o' that cage,
I'll forgive you. Now, come along, gem'men, and I'll show you some
precious sport."
The two janizaries followed him as far as the entrance to the inner
room, when Abraham, raising his finger to his lips, and glancing
significantly in the direction of the boys, to explain his intention to
his companions, closed the door after them, and stole softly back again,
planting himself near the recess.
For a few minutes all was silent. At length Jack Sheppard
observed:--"The coast's clear. They're gone into the next room."
Darrell returned no answer.
"Don't be angry with me, Thames," continued Sheppard, in a tone
calculated, as he thought, to appease his companion's indignation. "I
did all for the best, as I'll explain."
"I won't reproach you, Jack," said the other, sternly. "I've done with
you."
"Not quite, I hope," rejoined Sheppard. "At all events, I've not done
with you. If you owe your confinement to me, you shall owe your
liberation to me, also."
"I'd rather lie here for ever, than be indebted to _you_ for my
freedom," returned Thames.
"I've done nothing to offend you," persisted Jack. "Nothing!" echoed the
other, scornfully. "You've perjured yourself."
"That's my own concern," rejoined Sheppard. "An oath weighs little with
me, compared with your safety."
"No more of this," interrupted Thames, "you make the matter worse by
these excuses."
"Quarrel with me as much as you please, Thames, but hear me," returned
Sheppard. "I took the course I pursued to serve you."
"Tush!" cried Thames; "you accused me to skreen yourself."
"On my soul, Thames, you wrong me!" replied Jack, passionately. "I'd lay
down my life for yours."
"And you expect me to believe you after what has passed?"
"I do; and, more than that, I expect you to thank me."
"For procuring my imprisonment?"
"For saving your life."
"How?"
"Listen to me, Thames. You're in a more serious scrape than you imagine.
I overheard Jonathan Wild's instructions to Quilt Arnold, and though he
spoke in slang, and in an under tone, my quick ears, and acquaintance
with the thieves' lingo, enabled me to make out every word he uttered.
Jonathan is in league with Sir Rowland to make away with you. You are
brought here that their designs may be carried into effect with greater
security. Before morning, unless, we can effect an escape, you'll be
kidnapped, or murdered, and your disappearance attributed to the
negligence of the constable."
"Are you sure of this?" asked Thames, who, though as brave a lad as need
be, could not repress a shudder at the intelligence.
"Certain. The moment I entered the room, and found you a prisoner in the
hands of Jonathan Wild, I guessed how matters stood, and acted
accordingly. Things haven't gone quite as smoothly as I anticipated;
but they might have been worse. I _can_ save you, and _will_. But, say
we're friends."
"You're not deceiving me!" said Thames, doubtfully.
"I am not, by Heaven!" replied Sheppard, firmly.
"Don't swear, Jack, or I shall distrust you. I can't give you my hand;
but you may take it."
"Thank you! thank you!" faltered Jack, in a voice full of emotion. "I'll
soon free you from these bracelets."
"You needn't trouble yourself," replied Thames. "Mr. Wood will be here
presently."
"Mr. Wood!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise. "How have you managed to
communicate with him?"
Abraham, who had listened attentively to the foregoing
conversation,--not a word of which escaped him,--now drew in his breath,
and brought his ear closer to the boards.
"By means of the watchman who had the charge of me," replied Thames.
"Curse him!" muttered Abraham.
"Hist!" exclaimed Jack. "I thought I heard a noise. Speak lower.
Somebody may be on the watch--perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew."
"I don't care if he is," rejoined Thames, boldly. "He'll learn that his
plans will be defeated."
"He may learn how to defeat yours," replied Jack.
"So he may," rejoined Abraham, aloud, "so he may."
"Death and fiends!" exclaimed Jack; "the old thief _is_ there. I knew
it. You've betrayed yourself, Thames."
"Vot o' that?" chuckled Abraham. "_You_ can shave him, you know."
"I _can_," rejoined Jack; "and you, too, old Aaron, if I'd a razor."
"How soon do you expect Mishter Vudd?" inquired the janizary,
tauntingly.
"What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily.
"Because I shouldn't like to be out o' the vay ven he arrives," returned
Abraham, in a jeering tone; "it vouldn't be vell bred."
"Vouldn't it!" replied Jack, mimicking his snuffling voice; "then shtay
vere you are, and be cursed to you."
"It's all up," muttered Thames. "Mr. Wood will be intercepted. I've
destroyed my only chance."
"Not your _only_ chance, Thames," returned Jack, in the same undertone;
"but your best. Never mind. We'll turn the tables upon 'em yet. Do you
think we could manage that old clothesman between us, if we got out of
this box?"
"I'd manage him myself, if my arms were free," replied Thames, boldly.
"Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the
hatch. "I likes to hear vot you says. You _can_ have no shecrets from
me."
"Vy don't you talk to your partner, or Saint Giles, if you vant
conversation, Aaron?" asked Jack, slyly.
"Because they're in the next room, and the door's shut; that's vy, my
jack-a-dandy!" replied Abraham, unsuspiciously.
"Oh! they are--are they?" muttered Jack, triumphantly; "that'll do. Now
for it, Thames! Make as great a row as you can to divert his attention."
With this, he drew the spike from his pocket; and, drowning the sound of
the operation by whistling, singing, shuffling, and other noises,
contrived, in a few minutes, to liberate his companion from the
handcuffs.
"Now, Jack," cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, "you are my
friend again. I freely forgive you."
Sheppard cordially returned the pressure; and, cautioning Thames, "not
to let the ruffles drop, or they might tell a tale," began to warble the
following fragment of a robber melody:--
"Oh! give me a chisel, a knife, or a file,
And the dubsmen shall find that I'll do it in style!
_Tol-de-rol!_"
"Vot the devil are you about, noisy?" inquired Abraham.
"Practising singing, Aaron," replied Jack. "Vot are you?"
"Practising patience," growled Abraham.
"Not before it's needed," returned Jack, aloud; adding in a whisper,
"get upon my shoulders, Thames. Now you're up, take this spike. Feel for
the lock, and prize it open,--you don't need to be told _how_. When it's
done, I'll push you through. Take care of the old clothesman, and leave
the rest to me.
When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room,
The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb;
The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground,
But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found.
_Tol-de-rol!_"
As Jack concluded his ditty, the door flew open with a crash, and Thames
sprang through the aperture.
This manoeuvre was so suddenly executed that it took Abraham completely
by surprise. He was standing at the moment close to the hatch, with his
ear at the keyhole, and received a severe blow in the face. He staggered
back a few paces; and, before he could recover himself, Thames tripped
up his heels, and, placing the point of the spike at his throat,
threatened to stab him if he attempted to stir, or cry out. Nor had Jack
been idle all this time. Clearing the recess the instant after his
companion, he flew to the door of the inner room, and, locking it, took
out the key. The policy of this step was immediately apparent. Alarmed
by the noise of the scuffle, Quilt and Sharples rushed to the assistance
of their comrade. But they were too late. The entrance was barred
against them; and they had the additional mortification of hearing
Sheppard's loud laughter at their discomfiture.
"I told you the prison wasn't built that could hold me," cried Jack.
"You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving
ineffectually to burst open the door.
"But I soon shall be," returned Jack; "take these," he added, flinging
the handcuffs against the wooden partition, "and wear 'em yourself."
"Halloo, Nab!" vociferated Quilt. "What the devil are you about! Will
you allow yourself to be beaten by a couple of kids?"
"Not if I can help it," returned Abraham, making a desperate effort to
regain his feet. "By my shalvation, boy," he added, fiercely, "if you
don't take your hande off my peard, I'll sthrangle you."
"Help me, Jack!" shouted Thames, "or I shan't be able to keep the
villain down."
"Stick the spike into him, then," returned Sheppard, coolly, "while I
unbar the outlet."
But Thames had no intention of following his friend's advice. Contenting
himself with brandishing the weapon in the Jew's eyes, he exerted all
his force to prevent him from rising.
While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack
drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard
chanting--as if in contempt of the general uproar--the following
strain:--
With pipe and punch upon the board,
And smiling nymphs around us;
No tavern could more mirth afford
Than old Saint Giles's round-house!
_The round-house! the round-house!
The jolly--jolly round-house!_
"The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar
yielded to his efforts. "Hurrah! come along, Thames; we're free."
"Not sho fasht--not sho fasht!" cried Abraham, struggling with Thames,
and detaining him; "if you go, you musht take me along vid you."
"Save yourself, Jack!" shouted Thames, sinking beneath the superior
weight and strength of his opponent; "leave me to my fate!"
"Never," replied Jack, hurrying towards him. And, snatching the spike
from Thames, he struck the janizary a severe blow on the head. "I'll
make sure work this time," he added, about to repeat the blow.
"Hold!" interposed Thames, "he can do no more mischief. Let us be gone."
"As you please," returned Jack, leaping up; "but I feel devilishly
inclined to finish him. However, it would only be robbing the hangman of
his dues."
With this, he was preparing to follow his friend, when their egress was
prevented by the sudden appearance of Jonathan Wild and Blueskin.
CHAPTER XIII.
The Magdalene.
The household of the worthy carpenter, it may be conceived, was thrown
into the utmost confusion and distress by the unaccountable
disappearance of the two boys. As time wore on, and they did not return,
Mr. Wood's anxiety grew so insupportable, that he seized his hat with
the intention of sallying forth in search of them, though he did not
know whither to bend his steps, when his departure was arrested by a
gentle knock at the door.
"There he is!" cried Winifred, starting up, joyfully, and proving by the
exclamation that her thoughts were dwelling upon one subject only.
"There he is!"
"I fear not," said her father, with a doubtful shake of the head.
"Thames would let himself in; and Jack generally finds an entrance
through the backdoor or the shop-window, when he has been out at
untimely hours. But, go and see who it is, love. Stay! I'll go myself."
His daughter, however, anticipated him. She flew to the door, but
returned the next minute, looking deeply disappointed, and bringing the
intelligence that it was "only Mrs. Sheppard."
"Who?" almost screamed Mrs. Wood.
"Jack Sheppard's mother," answered the little girl, dejectedly; "she has
brought a basket of eggs from Willesden, and some flowers for you."
"For me!" vociferated Mrs. Wood, in indignant surprise. "Eggs for me!
You mistake, child. They must be for your father."
"No; I'm quite sure she said they're for you," replied Winifred; "but
she _does_ want to see father."
"I thought as much," sneered Mrs. Wood.
"I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. "I dare
say she has called to inquire about Jack."
"I dare say no such thing," interposed his better half, authoritatively;
"remain where you are, Sir."
"At all events, let me send her away, my dear," supplicated the
carpenter, anxious to avert the impending storm.
"Do you hear me?" cried the lady, with increasing vehemence. "Stir a
foot, at your peril."
"But, my love," still remonstrated Wood, "you know I'm going to look
after the boys----"
"After Mrs. Sheppard, you mean, Sir," interrupted his wife, ironically.
"Don't think to deceive me by your false pretences. Marry, come up! I'm
not so easily deluded. Sit down, I command you. Winny, show the person
into this room. I'll see her myself; and that's more than she bargained
for, I'll be sworn."
Finding it useless to struggle further, Mr. Wood sank, submissively,
into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary
parent's commission.
"At length, I have my wish," continued Mrs. Wood, regarding her husband
with a glance of vindictive triumph. "I shall behold the shameless
hussy, face to face; and, if I find her as good-looking as she's
represented, I don't know what I'll do in the end; but I'll begin by
scratching her eyes out."
In this temper, it will naturally be imagined, that Mrs. Wood's
reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room
by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. As she
approached, the carpenter's wife eyed her from head to foot, in the hope
of finding something in her person or apparel to quarrel with. But she
was disappointed. Mrs. Sheppard's dress--extremely neat and clean, but
simply fashioned, and of the plainest and most unpretending
material,--offered nothing assailable; and her demeanour was so humble,
and her looks so modest, that--if she had been ill-looking--she might,
possibly, have escaped the shafts of malice preparing to be levelled
against her. But, alas! she was beautiful--and beauty is a crime not to
be forgiven by a jealous woman.
As the lapse of time and change of circumstances have wrought a
remarkable alteration in the appearance of the poor widow, it may not be
improper to notice it here. When first brought under consideration, she
was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks,
and emaciated in frame. Now, she was the very reverse of all this. Her
dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. Her
figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her
complexion--still pale, but without its former sickly cast,--contrasted
agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker
lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original
brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre
that replaced it. One marked difference between the poor outcast, who,
oppressed by poverty, and stung by shame, had sought temporary relief in
the stupifying draught,--that worst "medicine of a mind diseased,"--and
those of the same being, freed from her vices, and restored to comfort
and contentment, if not to happiness, by a more prosperous course of
events, was exhibited in the mouth. For the fresh and feverish hue of
lip which years ago characterised this feature, was now substituted a
pure and wholesome bloom, evincing a total change of habits; and, though
the coarse character of the mouth remained, in some degree, unaltered,
it was so modified in expression, that it could no longer be accounted a
blemish. In fact, the whole face had undergone a transformation. All its
better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they
were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed. What was yet more
worthy of note was, that the widow's countenance had an air of
refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which
seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that
wherein accident had placed her.
"Well, Mrs. Sheppard," said the carpenter, advancing to meet her, and
trying to look as cheerful and composed as he could; "what brings you to
town, eh?--Nothing amiss, I trust?"
"Nothing whatever, Sir," answered the widow. "A neighbour offered me a
drive to Paddington; and, as I haven't heard of my son for some time, I
couldn't resist the temptation of stepping on to inquire after him, and
to thank you for your great goodness to us both, I've brought a little
garden-stuff and a few new-laid eggs for you, Ma'am," she added turning
to Mrs. Wood, who appeared to be collecting her energies for a terrible
explosion, "in the hope that they may prove acceptable. Here's a nosegay
for you, my love," she continued, opening her basket, and presenting a
fragrant bunch of flowers to Winifred, "if your mother will allow me to
give it you."
"Don't touch it, Winny!" screamed Mrs. Wood, "it may be poisoned."
"I'm not afraid, mother," said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet.
"How sweet these roses are! Shall I put them into water?"
"Put them where they came from," replied Mrs. Wood, severely, "and go to
bed."
"But, mother, mayn't I sit up to see whether Thames returns?" implored
Winifred.
"What can it matter to you whether he returns or not, child," rejoined
Mrs. Wood, sharply. "I've spoken. And my word's law--with _you_, at
least," she added, bestowing a cutting glance upon her husband.
The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in
the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew.
Mrs. Sheppard, who witnessed this occurrence with dismay, looked
timorously at Wood, in expectation of some hint being given as to the
course she had better pursue; but, receiving none, for the carpenter was
too much agitated to attend to her, she ventured to express a fear that
she was intruding.
"Intruding!" echoed Mrs. Wood; "to be sure you are! I wonder how you
dare show your face in this house, hussy!"
"I thought you sent for me, Ma'am," replied the widow, humbly.
"So I did," retorted Mrs. Wood; "and I did so to see how far your
effrontery would carry you."
"I'm sure I'm very sorry. I hope I haven't given any unintentional
offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood.
"Don't exchange glances with him under my very nose, woman!" shrieked
Mrs. Wood; "I'll not bear it. Look at me, and answer me one question.
And, mind! no prevaricating--nothing but the truth will satisfy me."
Mrs. Sheppard raised her eyes, and fixed them upon her interrogator.
"Are you not that man's mistress?" demanded Mrs. Wood, with a look meant
to reduce her supposed rival to the dust.
"I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples,
but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone.
"That's false!" cried Mrs. Wood. "I'm too well acquainted with your
proceedings, Madam, to believe that. Profligate women are never
reclaimed. _He_ has told me sufficient of you--"
"My dear," interposed Wood, "for goodness' sake--"
"I _will_ speak," screamed his wife, totally disregarding the
interruption; "I _will_ tell this worthless creature what I know about
her,--and what I think of her."
"Not now, my love--not now," entreated Wood.
"Yes, _now_," rejoined the infuriated dame; "perhaps, I may never have
another opportunity. She has contrived to keep out of my sight up to
this time, and I've no doubt she'll keep out of it altogether for the
future."
"That was my doing, dearest," urged the carpenter; "I was afraid if you
saw her that some such scene as this might occur."
"Hear me, Madam, I beseech you," interposed Mrs. Sheppard, "and, if it
please you to visit your indignation on any one let it be upon me, and
not on your excellent husband, whose only fault is in having bestowed
his charity upon so unworthy an object as myself."
"Unworthy, indeed!" sneered Mrs. Wood.
"To him I owe everything," continued the widow, "life itself--nay, more
than life,--for without his assistance I should have perished, body and
soul. He has been a father to me and my child."
"I never doubted the latter point, I assure you, Madam," observed Mrs.
Wood.
"You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is
irreclaimable. Do not believe it, Madam. It is not so. The poor wretch,
driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul
abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without
the pale of mercy. I have suffered--I have sinned--I have repented. And,
though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though
tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet,
knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my
transgressions may be forgiven."
"Mighty fine!" ejaculated Mrs. Wood, contemptuously.
"You cannot understand me, Madam; and it is well you cannot. Blest with
a fond husband, surrounded by every comfort, _you_ have never been
assailed by the horrible temptations to which misery has exposed _me_.
You have never known what it is to want food, raiment, shelter. You have
never seen the child within your arms perishing from hunger, and no
relief to be obtained. You have never felt the hearts of all hardened
against you; have never heard the jeer or curse from every lip; nor
endured the insult and the blow from every hand. I _have_ suffered all
this. I could resist the tempter _now_, I am strong in health,--in mind.
But _then_--Oh! Madam, there are moments--moments of darkness, which
overshadow a whole existence--in the lives of the poor houseless
wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted;
when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and
when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue. Pardon what I have said,
Madam. I do not desire to extenuate my guilt--far less to defend it; but
I would show you, and such as you--who, happily, are exempted from
trials like mine--how much misery has to do with crime. And I affirm to
you, on my own conviction, that she who falls, because she has not
strength granted her to struggle with affliction, _may_ be
reclaimed,--may repent, and be forgiven,--even as she, whose sins,
'though many, were forgiven her'.
"It gladdens me to hear you talk thus, Joan," said Wood, in a voice of
much emotion, while his eyes filled with tears, "and more than repays me
for all I have done for you."
"If professions of repentance constitute a Magdalene, Mrs. Sheppard is
one, no doubt," observed Mrs. Wood, ironically; "but I used to think it
required something more than _mere words_ to prove that a person's
character was abused."
"Very right, my love," said Wood, "very sensibly remarked. So it does.
Bu I can speak to that point. Mrs. Sheppard's conduct, from my own
personal knowledge, has been unexceptionable for the last twelve years.
During that period she has been a model of propriety."
"Oh! of course," rejoined Mrs. Wood; "I can't for an instant question
such distinterested testimony. Mrs. Sheppard, I'm sure, will say as much
for you. He's a model of conjugal attachment and fidelity, a pattern to
his family, and an example to his neighbours. Ain't he, Madam?'"
"He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more--much more than
that."
"He's no such thing!" cried Mrs. Wood, furiously. "He's a base,
deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine--that's what he is. But,
I'll expose him. I'll proclaim his misdoings to the world; and, then, we
shall see where he'll stand. Marry, come up! I'll show him what an
injured wife can do. If all wives were of my mind and my spirit,
husbands would soon be taught their own insignificance. But a time
_will_ come (and that before long,) when our sex will assert its
superiority; and, when we have got the upper hand, let 'em try to subdue
us if they can. But don't suppose, Madam, that anything I say has
reference to you. I'm speaking of virtuous women--of WIVES, Madam.
Mistresses neither deserve consideration nor commiseration."
"I expect no commiseration," returned Mrs. Sheppard, gently, "nor do I
need any. But, rather than be the cause of any further misunderstanding
between you and my benefactor, I will leave London and its neighbourhood
for ever."
"Pray do so, Madam," retorted Mrs. Wood, "and take your son with you."
"My son!" echoed the widow, trembling.
"Yes, your son, Madam. If you can do any good with him, it's more than
we can. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle,
good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold."
"Is this true, Sir?" cried Mrs. Sheppard, with an agonized look at Wood.
"I know you'll not deceive me. Is Jack what Mrs. Wood represents him?"
"He's not exactly what I could desire him to be, Joan," replied the
carpenter, reluctantly, "But a ragged colt sometimes makes the best
horse. He'll mend, I hope."
"Never," said Mrs. Wood,--"he'll never mend. He has taken more than one
step towards the gallows already. Thieves and pickpockets are his
constant companions."
"Thieves!" exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, horror-stricken.
"Jonathan Wild and Blueskin have got him into their hands," continued
Mrs. Wood.
"Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly.
"If you doubt my word, woman," replied the carpenter's wife, coldly,
"ask Mr. Wood."
"I know you'll contradict it, Sir," said the widow, looking at Wood as
if she dreaded to have her fears confirmed,--"I know you will."
"I wish I could, Joan," returned the carpenter, sadly.
Mrs. Sheppard let fall her basket.
"My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously--, "my son the
companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be."
"Why not?" rejoined Mrs. Wood, in a taunting tone. "Your son's father
was a thief; and Jonathan Wild (unless I'm misinformed,) was his
friend,--so it's not unnatural he should show some partiality towards
Jack."
"Jonathan Wild was my husband's bitterest enemy," said Mrs. Sheppard.
"He first seduced him from the paths of honesty, and then betrayed him
to a shameful death, and he has sworn to do the same thing by my son.
Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while
that terrible man lives!"
"Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well."
"Oh, no,--no," replied Mrs. Sheppard, distractedly. "All cannot be well,
if this is true. Tell me, Sir," she added, with forced calmness, and
grasping Wood's arm; "what has Jack done? Tell me in a word, that I may
know the worst. I can bear anything but suspense."
"You're agitating yourself unnecessarily, Joan," returned Wood, in a
soothing voice. "Jack has been keeping bad company. That's the only
fault I know of."
"Thank God for that!" ejaculated Mrs. Sheppard, fervently. "Then it is
not too late to save him. Where is he, Sir? Can I see him?"
"No, that you can't," answered Mrs. Wood; "he has gone out without
leave, and has taken Thames Darrell with him. If I were Mr. Wood, when
he does return, I'd send him about his business. I wouldn't keep an
apprentice to set my authority at defiance."
Mr. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking
at the door.
"'Odd's-my-life!--what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed.
"It's Jonathan Wild come back with a troop of constables at his heels,
to search the house," rejoined Mrs. Wood, in equal trepidation. "We
shall all be murdered. Oh! that Mr. Kneebone were here to protect me!"
"If it _is_ Jonathan," rejoined Wood, "it is very well for Mr. Kneebone
he's not here. He'd have enough to do to protect himself, without
attending to you. I declare I'm almost afraid to go to the door.
Something, I'm convinced, has happened to the boys."
"Has Jonathan Wild been here to-day?" asked Mrs. Sheppard, anxiously.
"To be sure he has!" returned Mrs. Wood; "and Blueskin, too. They're
only just gone, mercy on us! what a clatter," she added, as the knocking
was repeated more violently than before.
While the carpenter irresolutely quitted the room, with a strong
presentiment of ill upon his mind, a light quick step was heard
descending the stairs, and before he could call out to prevent it, a man
was admitted into the passage.
"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of
the Irish watchman.
"It is", seplied Winifred; "have you brought any tidings of Thames
Darrell!"
"Troth have I!" replied Terence: "but, bless your angilic face, how did
you contrive to guess that?"
"Is he well?--is he safe?--is he coming back," cried the little girl,
disregarding the question.
"He's in St. Giles's round-house," answered Terence; "but tell Mr. Wudd
I'm here, and have brought him a message from his unlawful son, and
don't be detainin' me, my darlin', for there's not a minute to lose if
the poor lad's to be recused from the clutches of that thief and
thief-taker o' the wurld, Jonathan Wild."
The carpenter, upon whom no part of this hurried dialogue had been lost,
now made his appearance, and having obtained from Terence all the
information which that personage could impart respecting the perilous
situation of Thames, he declared himself ready to start to Saint Giles's
at once, and ran back to the room for his hat and stick; expressing his
firm determination, as he pocketed his constable's staff with which he
thought it expedient to arm himself, of being direfully revenged upon
the thief-taker: a determination in which he was strongly encouraged by
his wife. Terence, meanwhile, who had followed him, did not remain
silent, but recapitulated his story, for the benefit of Mrs. Sheppard.
The poor widow was thrown into an agony of distress on learning that a
robbery had been committed, in which her son (for she could not doubt
that Jack was one of the boys,) was implicated; nor was her anxiety
alleviated by Mrs. Wood, who maintained stoutly, that if Thames had been
led to do wrong, it must be through the instrumentality of his worthless
companion.
"And there you're right, you may dipind, marm," observed Terence.
"Master Thames Ditt--what's his blessed name?--has honesty written in
his handsome phiz; but as to his companion, Jack Sheppard, I think you
call him, he's a born and bred thief. Lord bless you marm! we sees
plenty on 'em in our purfession. Them young prigs is all alike. I seed
he was one,--and a sharp un, too,--at a glance."
"Oh!" exclaimed the widow, covering her face with her hands.
"Take a drop of brandy before we start, watchman," said Wood, pouring
out a glass of spirit, and presenting it to Terence, who smacked his
lips as he disposed of it. "Won't you be persuaded, Joan?" he added,
making a similar offer to Mrs. Sheppard, which she gratefully declined.
"If you mean to accompany us, you may need it."
"You are very kind, Sir," returned the widow, "but I require no support.
Nothing stronger than water has passed my lips for years."
"We may believe as much of that as we please, I suppose," observed the
carpenter's wife, with a sneer. "Mr. Wood," she continued, in an
authoritative tone, seeing her husband ready to depart, "one word before
you set out. If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again,
I leave it--that's all. Now, do what you please. You know _my_ fixed
determination."
Mr. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and
bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. He was followed with equal
celerity by Terence and the widow. Traversing what remained of Wych
Street at a rapid pace, and speeding along Drury Lane, the trio soon
found themselves in Kendrick Yard. When they came to the round-house,
Terry's courage failed him. Such was the terror inspired by Wild's
vindictive character, that few durst face him who had given him cause
for displeasure. Aware that he should incur the thief-taker's bitterest
animosity by what he had done, the watchman, whose wrath against Quilt
Arnold had evaporated during the walk, thought it more prudent not to
hazard a meeting with his master, till the storm had, in some measure,
blown over. Accordingly, having given Wood such directions as he thought
necessary for his guidance, and received a handsome gratuity in return
for his services, he departed.
It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples
that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the
round-house. Reconnoitring them through a small grated loophole, he
refused to open the door till they had explained their business. This,
Wood, acting upon Terry's caution, was most unwilling to do; but,
finding he had no alternative, he reluctantly made known his errand and
the bolts were undrawn. Once in, the constable's manner appeared totally
changed. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. Apologizing
for their detention, he answered the questions put to him respecting the
boys, by positively denying that any such prisoners had been entrusted
to his charge, but offered to conduct him to every cell in the building
to prove the truth of his assertion. He then barred and double-locked
the door, took out the key, (a precautionary measure which, with a grim
smile, he said he never omitted,) thrust it into his vest, and motioning
the couple to follow him, led the way to the inner room. As Wood obeyed,
his foot slipped; and, casting his eyes upon the floor, he perceived it
splashed in several places with blood. From the freshness of the stains,
which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it
was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the
carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a
thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes
before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered.
Nor was this impression removed as he stole a glance at Mrs. Sheppard,
and saw from her terrified look that she had made the same alarming
discovery as himself. But it was now too late to turn back, and, nerving
himself for the shock he expected to encounter, he ventured after his
conductor. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited
to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the
key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. Vexation at his
folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short
time silent. When he could find words, he tried by the most urgent
solicitations to prevail upon the constable to let him out. But threats
and entreaties--even promises were ineffectual; and the unlucky captive,
after exhausting his powers of persuasion, was compelled to give up the
point.
The room in which he was detained--that lately occupied by the Mohocks,
who, it appeared, had been allowed to depart,--was calculated to inspire
additional apprehension and disgust. Strongly impregnated with the
mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the
atmosphere was almost stifling. The benches running round the room,
though fastened to the walls by iron clamps, had been forcibly wrenched
off; while the table, which was similarly secured to the boards, was
upset, and its contents--bottles, jugs, glasses, and bowls were broken
and scattered about in all directions. Everything proclaimed the
mischievous propensities of the recent occupants of the chamber.
Here lay a heap of knockers of all sizes, from the huge lion's head to
the small brass rapper: there, a collection of sign-boards, with the
names and calling of the owners utterly obliterated. On this side stood
the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been
effected,--namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was
erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with
the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign
wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some half-dozen
staves, and a broken sword.
As the carpenter's gaze wandered over this scene of devastation, his
attention was drawn by Mrs. Sheppard towards an appalling object in one
corner. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched
upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which
the blood had oosed. Near the body, which, it will be surmised, was that
of Abraham Mendez, two ruffianly personages were seated, quietly
smoking, and bestowing no sort of attention upon the new-comers. Their
conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though
unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who
learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from
her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their
discourse. From other obscure hints dropped by the speakers, Mrs.
Sheppard ascertained that Thames Darrell had been carried off--where she
could not make out--by Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold; and that Jack had
been induced to accompany Blueskin to the Mint. This intelligence, which
she instantly communicated to the carpenter, drove him almost frantic.
He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success
than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and
the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the
most miserable state imaginable.
At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became
visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of
bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted.
Whoever this might be, the visit seemed to have some reference to the
carpenter, for, shortly afterwards, Sharples made his appearance, and
informed the captives they were free. Without waiting to have the
information repeated, Wood rushed forth, determined as soon as he could
procure assistance, to proceed to Jonathan Wild's house in the Old
Bailey; while Mrs. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another
direction, hurried off to the Mint.
CHAPTER XIV.
The Flash Ken.
In an incredibly short space of time,--for her anxiety lent wings to her
feet,--Mrs. Sheppard reached the debtor's garrison. From a scout
stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of
the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she
ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the
description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before,
and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. This was enough for the poor
widow. She felt she was now near her boy, and, nothing doubting her
ability to rescue him from his perilous situation, she breathed a
fervent prayer for his deliverance; and bending her steps towards the
tavern in question, revolved within her mind as she walked along the
best means of accomplishing her purpose. Aware of the cunning and
desperate characters of the persons with whom she would have to
deal,--aware, also, that she was in a quarter where no laws could be
appealed to, nor assistance obtained, she felt the absolute necessity of
caution. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an
old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted,
instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance
was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on
the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for
something to drink. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to
her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining,
unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window
that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed
in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured
the view. The Master of the Mint, in the exercise of his two-fold office
of governor and publican, was mounted upon a chair, and holding forth to
his guests in a speech, to which Mrs. Sheppard was unwillingly compelled
to listen.
"Gentlemen of the Mint," said the orator, "when I was first called, some
fifty years ago, to the important office I hold, there existed across
the water three places of refuge for the oppressed and persecuted
debtor."
"We know it," cried several voices.
"It happened, gentlemen," pursued the Master, "on a particular occasion,
about the time I've mentioned, that the Archduke of Alsatia, the
Sovereign of the Savoy, and the Satrap of Salisbury Court, met by
accident at the Cross Shovels. A jolly night we made of it, as you may
suppose; for four such monarchs don't often come together. Well, while
we were smoking our pipes, and quaffing our punch, Alsatia turns to me
and says, 'Mint,' says he, 'you're well off here.'--'Pretty well,' says
I; 'you're not badly off at the Friars, for that matter.'--'Oh! yes we
are,' says he.--'How so?' says I.--'It's all up with us,' says he;
'they've taken away our charter.'--'They can't,' says I.--'They have,'
says he.--'They can't, I tell you,' says I, in a bit of a passion; 'it's
unconstitutional.'--'Unconstitutional or not,' says Salisbury Court and
Savoy, speaking together, 'it's true. We shall become a prey to the
Philistines, and must turn honest in self-defence.'--'No fear o' that,'
thought I.--'I see how it'll be,' observed Alsatia, 'everybody'll pay
his debts, and only think of such a state of things as that.'--'It's
_not_ to be thought of,' says I, thumping the table till every glass on
it jingled; 'and I know a way as'll prevent it.'--'What is it, Mint?'
asked all three.--'Why, hang every bailiff that sets a foot in your
territories, and you're safe,' says I.--'We'll do it,' said they,
filling their glasses, and looking as fierce as King George's grenadier
guards; 'here's your health, Mint.' But, gentlemen, though they talked
so largely, and looked so fiercely, they did _not_ do it; they did _not_
hang the bailiffs; and where are they?"
"Ay, where are they?" echoed the company with indignant derision.
"Gentlemen," returned the Master, solemnly, "it is a question easily
answered--they are NOWHERE! Had they hanged the bailiffs, the bailiffs
would not have hanged them. We ourselves have been similarly
circumstanced. Attacked by an infamous and unconstitutional statute,
passed in the reign of the late usurper, William of Orange, (for I may
remark that, if the right king had been upon the throne, that illegal
enactment would never have received the royal assent--the
Stuarts--Heaven preserve 'em!--always siding with the debtors); attacked
in this outrageous manner, I repeat, it has been all but '_up_' with US!
But the vigorous resistance offered on that memorable occasion by the
patriotic inhabitants of Bermuda to the aggressions of arbitrary power,
secured and established their privileges on a firmer basis than
heretofore; and, while their pusillanimous allies were crushed and
annihilated, they became more prosperous than ever. Gentlemen, I am
proud to say that _I_ originated--that _I_ directed those measures. I
hope to see the day, when not Southwark alone, but London itself shall
become one Mint,--when all men shall be debtors, and none
creditors,--when imprisonment for debt shall be utterly abolished,--when
highway-robbery shall be accounted a pleasant pastime, and forgery
an accomplishment,--when Tyburn and its gibbets shall be
overthrown,--capital punishments discontinued,--Newgate, Ludgate, the
Gatehouse, and the Compters razed to the ground,--Bridewell and
Clerkenwell destroyed,--the Fleet, the King's Bench, and the Marshalsea
remembered only by name! But, in the mean time, as that day may possibly
be farther off than I anticipate, we are bound to make the most of the
present. Take care of yourselves, gentlemen, and your governor will take
care of you. Before I sit down, I have a toast to propose, which I am
sure will be received, as it deserves to be, with enthusiasm. It is the
health of a stranger,--of Mr. John Sheppard. His father was one of my
old customers, and I am happy to find his son treading in his steps. He
couldn't be in better hands than those in which he has placed himself.
Gentlemen,--Mr. Sheppard's good health, and success to him!"
Baptist's toast was received with loud applause, and, as he sat down
amid the cheers of the company, and a universal clatter of mugs and
glasses, the widow's view was no longer obstructed. Her eye wandered
quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled
upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which her
son formed the principal figure. The agonized mother could scarcely
repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze. There sat Jack,
evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his
dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a
half-emptied rummer before him,--there he sat, receiving and returning,
or rather attempting to return,--for he was almost past
consciousness,--the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom
had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back
of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft
nonsense into his ear.
Both these ladies possessed considerable personal attractions. The
younger of the two, who was seated next to Jack, and seemed to
monopolize his attention, could not be more than seventeen, though her
person had all the maturity of twenty. She had delicate oval features,
light, laughing blue eyes, a pretty _nez retroussé_, (why have we not
the term, since we have the best specimens of the feature?) teeth of
pearly whiteness, and a brilliant complexion, set off by rich auburn
hair, a very white neck and shoulders,--the latter, perhaps, a trifle
too much exposed. The name of this damsel was Edgeworth Bess; and, as
her fascinations will not, perhaps, be found to be without some
influence upon the future fortunes of her boyish admirer, we have
thought it worth while to be thus particular in describing them. The
other _bona roba_, known amongst her companions as Mistress Poll Maggot,
was a beauty on a much larger scale,--in fact, a perfect Amazon.
Nevertheless though nearly six feet high, and correspondingly
proportioned, she was a model of symmetry, and boasted, with the frame
of a Thalestris or a Trulla, the regular lineaments of the Medicean
Venus. A man's laced hat,--whether adopted from the caprice of the
moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,--cocked knowingly on
her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. Mrs. Maggot, as well
as her companion Edgeworth Bess, was showily dressed; nor did either of
them disdain the aid supposed to be lent to a fair skin by the contents
of the patchbox. On an empty cask, which served him for a chair, and
opposite Jack Sheppard, whose rapid progress in depravity afforded him
the highest satisfaction, sat Blueskin, encouraging the two women in
their odious task, and plying his victim with the glass as often as he
deemed it expedient to do so. By this time, he had apparently
accomplished all he desired; for moving the bottle out of Jack's reach,
he appropriated it entirely to his own use, leaving the devoted lad to
the care of the females. Some few of the individuals seated at the other
tables seemed to take an interest in the proceedings of Blueskin and his
party, just as a bystander watches any other game; but, generally
speaking, the company were too much occupied with their own concerns to
pay attention to anything else. The assemblage was for the most part, if
not altogether, composed of persons to whom vice in all its aspects was
too familiar to present much of novelty, in whatever form it was
exhibited. Nor was Jack by any means the only stripling in the room. Not
far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice
as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. Near to these
hopeful youths sat a fence, or receiver, bargaining with a clouter, or
pickpocket, for a _suit_,--or, to speak in more intelligible language, a
watch and seals, two _cloaks_, commonly called watch-cases, and a
_wedge-lobb,_ otherwise known as a silver snuff-box. Next to the
receiver was a gang of housebreakers, laughing over their exploits, and
planning fresh depredations; and next to the housebreakers came two
gallant-looking gentlemen in long periwigs and riding-dresses, and
equipped in all other respects for the road, with a roast fowl and a
bottle of wine before them. Amid this varied throng,--varied in
appearance, but alike in character,--one object alone, we have said,
rivetted Mrs. Sheppard's attention; and no sooner did she in some degree
recover from the shock occasioned by the sight of her son's debased
condition, than, regardless of any other consideration except his
instant removal from the contaminating society by which he was
surrounded, and utterly forgetting the more cautious plan she meant to
have adopted, she rushed into the room, and summoned him to follow her.
"Halloa!" cried Jack, looking round, and trying to fix his inebriate
gaze upon the speaker,--"who's that?"
"Your mother," replied Mrs. Sheppard. "Come home directly, Sir."
"Mother be----!" returned Jack. "Who is it, Bess?"
"How should I know?" replied Edgeworth Bess. "But if it _is_ your
mother, send her about her business."
"That I will," replied Jack, "in the twinkling of a bedpost."
"Glad to see you once more in the Mint, Mrs. Sheppard," roared Blueskin,
who anticipated some fun. "Come and sit down by me."
"Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of
spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard."
"Jack, my love," cried Mrs. Sheppard, disregarding the taunt, "come
away."
"Not I," replied Jack; "I'm too comfortable where I am. Be off!"
"Jack!" exclaimed his unhappy parent.
"Mr. Sheppard, if you please, Ma'am," interrupted the lad; "I allow
nobody to call me Jack. Do I, Bess, eh?"
"Nobody whatever, love," replied Edgeworth Bess; "nobody but me, dear."
"And me," insinuated Mrs. Maggot. "My little fancy man's quite as fond
of me as of you, Bess. Ain't you, Jacky darling?"
"Not quite, Poll," returned Mr. Sheppard; "but I love you next to her,
and both of you better than _Her_," pointing with the pipe to his
mother.
"Oh, Heavens!" cried Mrs. Sheppard.
"Bravo!" shouted Blueskin. "Tom Sheppard never said a better thing than
that--ho! ho!"
"Jack," cried his mother, wringing her hands in distraction, "you'll
break my heart!"
"Poh! poh!" returned her son; "women don't so easily break their hearts.
Do they, Bess?"
"Certainly not," replied the young lady appealed to, "especially about
their sons."
"Wretch!" cried Mrs. Sheppard, bitterly.
"I say," retorted Edgeworth Bess, with a very unfeminine imprecation, "I
shan't stand any more of that nonsense. What do you mean by calling me
wretch, Madam!" she added marching up to Mrs. Sheppard, and regarding
her with an insolent and threatening glance.
"Yes--what do you mean, Ma'am?" added Jack, staggering after her.
"Come with me, my love, come--come," cried his mother, seizing his hand,
and endeavouring to force him away.
"He shan't go," cried Edgeworth Bess, holding him by the other hand.
"Here, Poll, help me!"
Thus exhorted, Mrs. Maggot lent her powerful aid, and, between the two,
Jack was speedily relieved from all fears of being carried off against
his will. Not content with this exhibition of her prowess, the Amazon
lifted him up as easily as if he had been an infant, and placed him upon
her shoulders, to the infinite delight of the company, and the increased
distress of his mother.
"Now, let's see who'll dare to take him down," she cried.
"Nobody shall," cried Mr. Sheppard from his elevated position. "I'm my
own master now, and I'll do as I please. I'll turn cracksman, like my
father--rob old Wood--he has chests full of money, and I know where
they're kept--I'll rob him, and give the swag to you, Poll--I'll--"
Jack would have said more; but, losing his balance, he fell to the
ground, and, when taken up, he was perfectly insensible. In this state,
he was laid upon a bench, to sleep off his drunken fit, while his
wretched mother, in spite of her passionate supplications and
resistance, was, by Blueskin's command, forcibly ejected from the house,
and driven out of the Mint.
CHAPTER XV.
The Robbery in Willesden Church.
During the whole of the next day and night, the poor widow hovered like
a ghost about the precincts of the debtors' garrison,--for admission (by
the Master's express orders,) was denied her. She could learn nothing of
her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which
added to, rather than alleviated her misery,--namely, that Jonathan Wild
had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. At one time, she
determined to go to Wych Street, and ask Mr. Wood's advice and
assistance, but the thought of the reception she was likely to meet with
from his wife deterred her from executing this resolution. Many other
expedients occurred to her; but after making several ineffectual
attempts to get into the Mint unobserved, they were all abandoned.
At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day--Sunday--having
spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the
robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she
set out homewards. It was a long walk she had to undertake, even if she
had endured no previous fatigue, but feeble as she was, it was almost
more than she could accomplish. Daybreak found her winding her painful
way along the Harrow Road; and, in order to shorten the distance as much
as possible, she took the nearest cut, and struck into the meadows on
the right. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of
tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a
hill. Here her strength completely failed her, and she was compelled to
seek some repose. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once
into a deep and refreshing slumber.
When she awoke, the sun was high in Heaven. It was a bright and
beautiful day: _so_ bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was
cheered by it. The air, perfumed with the delicious fragrance of the
new-mown grass, was vocal with the melodies of the birds; the thick
foliage of the trees was glistening in the sunshine; all nature seemed
happy and rejoicing; but, above all, the serene Sabbath stillness
reigning around communicated a calm to her wounded spirit.
What a contrast did the lovely scene she now gazed upon present to the
squalid neighbourhood she had recently quitted! On all sides, expanded
prospects of country the most exquisite and most varied. Immediately
beneath her lay Willesden,--the most charming and secluded village in
the neighbourhood of the metropolis--with its scattered farm-houses, its
noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove
of rook-haunted trees.
Towards this spot Mrs. Sheppard now directed her steps. She speedily
reached her own abode,--a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of
the village. The first circumstance that struck her on her arrival
seemed ominous. Her clock had stopped--stopped at the very hour on which
she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again.
After partaking of some little refreshment, and changing her attire,
Mrs. Sheppard prepared for church. By this time, she had so far
succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the
neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice--if
sorrowfully, still composedly.
Every old country church is beautiful, but Willesden is the most
beautiful country church we know; and in Mrs. Sheppard's time it was
even more beautiful than at present, when the hand of improvement has
proceeded a little too rashly with alterations and repairs. With one or
two exceptions, there were no pews; and, as the intercourse with London
was then but slight, the seats were occupied almost exclusively by the
villagers. In one of these seats, at the end of the aisle farthest
removed from the chancel, the widow took her place, and addressed
herself fervently to her devotions.
The service had not proceeded far, when she was greatly disturbed by the
entrance of a person who placed himself opposite her, and sought to
attract her attention by a number of little arts, surveying her, as he
did so, with a very impudent and offensive stare. With this person--who
was no other than Mr. Kneebone--she was too well acquainted; having,
more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his
impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it
now added considerably to her distraction. But a far greater affliction
was in store for her.
Just as the clergyman approached the altar, she perceived a boy steal
quickly into the church, and ensconce himself behind the woollen-draper,
who, in order to carry on his amatory pursuits with greater convenience,
and at the same time display his figure (of which he was not a little
vain) to the utmost advantage, preferred a standing to a sitting
posture. Of this boy she had only caught a glimpse;--but that glimpse
was sufficient to satisfy her it was her son,--and, if she could have
questioned her own instinctive love, she could not question her
antipathy, when she beheld, partly concealed by a pillar immediately in
the rear of the woollen-draper, the dark figure and truculent features
of Jonathan Wild. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker
raised his eyes--those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!--their glare froze the
life-blood in her veins.
As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. Why was he there?
why did the tempter dare to invade that sacred spot! She could not
answer her own questions, but vague fearful suspicions passed through
her mind. Meanwhile, the service proceeded; and the awful command,
"_Thou shalt not steal_!" was solemnly uttered by the preacher, when
Mrs. Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand
glance along the side of the woollen-draper. She could not see what
occurred, though she guessed it; but she saw Jonathan's devilish
triumphing glance, and read in it,--"Your son has committed a
robbery--here--in these holy walls--he is mine--mine for ever!"
She uttered a loud scream, and fainted.
CHAPTER XVI.
Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey.
Just as St. Sepulchre's church struck one, on the eventful night of the
10th of June, (to which it will not be necessary to recur,) a horseman,
mounted on a powerful charger, and followed at a respectful distance by
an attendant, galloped into the open space fronting Newgate, and
directed his course towards a house in the Old Bailey. Before he could
draw in the rein, his steed--startled apparently by some object
undistinguishable by the rider,--swerved with such suddenness as to
unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. The next moment, however,
he was picked up, and set upon his feet by a person who, having
witnessed the accident, flew across the road to his assistance.
"You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?" inquired this individual.
"Not materially, Mr. Wild," replied the other, "a little shaken, that's
all. Curses light on the horse!" he added, seizing the bridle of his
steed, who continued snorting and shivering, as if still under the
influence of some unaccountable alarm; "what can ail him?"
"_I_ know what ails him, your honour," rejoined the groom, riding up as
he spoke; "he's seen somethin' not o' this world."
"Most likely," observed Jonathan, with a slight sneer; "the ghost of
some highwayman who has just breathed his last in Newgate, no doubt."
"May be," returned the man gravely.
"Take him home, Saunders," said Sir Rowland, resigning his faulty steed
to the attendant's care, "I shall not require you further. Strange!" he
added, as the groom departed; "Bay Stuart has carried me through a
hundred dangers, but never played me such a trick before."
"And never should again, were he mine," rejoined Jonathan. "If the best
nag ever foaled were to throw me in this unlucky spot, I'd blow his
brains out."
"What do you mean, Sir?" asked Trenchard.
"A fall against Newgate is accounted a sign of death by the halter,"
replied Wild, with ill-disguised malignity.
"Tush!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, angrily.
"From that door," continued the thief-taker, pointing to the gloomy
portal of the prison opposite which they were standing, "the condemned
are taken to Tyburn. It's a bad omen to be thrown near that door."
"I didn't suspect you of so much superstition, Mr. Wild," observed the
knight, contemptuously.
"Facts convince the most incredulous," answered Jonathan, drily. "I've
known several cases where the ignominious doom I've mentioned has been
foretold by such an accident as has just befallen you. There was Major
Price--you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,--he stumbled as he was
getting out of his chair at that very gate. Well, _he_ was executed for
murder. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched
off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. It was a pity
he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. Another
instance was that of Toby Tanner--"
"No more of this," interrupted Trenchard; "where is the boy?"
"Not far hence," replied Wild. "After all our pains we were near losing
him, Sir Rowland."
"How so?" asked the other, distrustfully.
"You shall hear," returned Jonathan. "With the help of his comrade, Jack
Sheppard, the young rascal made a bold push to get out of the
round-house, where my janizaries had lodged him, and would have
succeeded too, if, by good luck,--for the devil never deserts so useful
an agent as I am, Sir Rowland,--I hadn't arrived in time to prevent
him. As it was, my oldest and trustiest setter, Abraham Mendez, received
a blow on the head from one of the lads that will deprive me of his
services for a week to come,--if, indeed it does not disable him
altogether. However, if I've lost one servant, I've gained another,
that's one comfort. Jack Sheppard is now wholly in my hands."
"What is this to me, Sir?" said Trenchard, cutting him short.
"Nothing whatever," rejoined the thief-taker, coldly. "But it is much to
me. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you--an object of
hatred. I owed his father a grudge: that I settled long ago. I owe his
mother one, and will repay the debt, with interest, to her son. I could
make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your
nephew, Sir Rowland,--but that wouldn't serve my turn. To be complete,
my vengeance must be tardy. Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for
it. Besides, revenge is sweetened by delay; and I indulge too freely in
the passion to rob it of any of its zest. I've watched this lad--this
Sheppard--from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself
little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose. I have suffered
him to be brought up decently--honestly; because I would make his fall
the greater, and deepen the wound I meant to inflict upon his mother.
From this night I shall pursue a different course; from this night his
ruin may be dated. He is in the care of those who will not leave
the task assigned to them--the utter perversion of his
principles--half-finished. And when I have steeped him to the lips in
vice and depravity; when I have led him to the commission of every
crime; when there is neither retreat nor advance for him; when he has
plundered his benefactor, and broken the heart of his mother--then--but
not till then, I will consign him to the fate to which I consigned his
father. This I have sworn to do--this I will do."
"Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and,
as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head,
which,--fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,--only burnt
the priming. The blaze, however, was sufficient to reveal to the
thief-taker the features of his intended assassin. They were those of
the Irish watchman.
"Ah! Terry O'Flaherty!" vociferated Jonathan, in a tone that betrayed
hot the slightest discomposure. "Ah! Terry O'Flaherty!" he cried,
shouting after the Irishman, who took to his heels as soon as he found
his murderous attempt unsuccessful; "you may run, but you'll not get out
of my reach. I'll put a brace of dogs on your track, who'll soon hunt
you down. You shall swing for this after next sessions, or my name's not
Jonathan Wild. I told you, Sir Rowland," he added, turning to the
knight, and chuckling, "the devil never deserts me."
"Conduct me to your dwelling, Sir, without further delay," said
Trenchard, sternly,--"to the boy."
"The boy's not at my house," replied Wild.
"Where is he, then?" demanded the other, hastily.
"At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a
sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side,
and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to
be committed. You need have no apprehensions about him, Sir Rowland.
He's safe enough now. I left him in charge of Quilt Arnold and Rykhart
Van Galgebrok--the skipper I spoke of--with strict orders to shoot him
if he made any further attempt at escape; and they're not lads--the
latter especially--to be trifled with. I deemed it more prudent to send
him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search
after him by his adoptive father--the carpenter Wood. If you choose, you
can see him put on board the Zeeslang yourself, Sir Rowland. But,
perhaps, you'll first accompany me to my dwelling for a moment, that we
may arrange our accounts before we start. I've a few necessary
directions to leave with my people, to put 'em on their guard against
the chance of a surprise. Suffer me to precede you. This way, Sir
Rowland."
The thief-taker's residence was a large dismal-looking, habitation,
separated from the street by a flagged court-yard, and defended from
general approach by an iron railing. Even in the daylight, it had a
sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining
houses, as if afraid of their society. In the obscurity in which it was
now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy
to make it resemble one as much as possible. The windows were grated,
the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a
cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer,
with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance
and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. The clanking of
chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have been
music in Jonathan's ears, so much pains did he take to subject himself
to such sounds. The scanty furniture of the rooms corresponded with
their dungeon-like aspect. The walls were bare, and painted in
stone-colour; the floors, devoid of carpet; the beds, of hangings; the
windows, of blinds; and, excepting in the thief-taker's own
audience-chamber, there was not a chair or a table about the premises;
the place of these conveniences being elsewhere supplied by benches, and
deal-boards laid across joint-stools. Great stone staircases leading no
one knew whither, and long gloomy passages, impressed the occasional
visitor with the idea that he was traversing a building of vast extent;
and, though this was not the case in reality, the deception was so
cleverly contrived that it seldom failed of producing the intended
effect. Scarcely any one entered Mr. Wild's dwelling without
apprehension, or quitted it without satisfaction. More strange stories
were told of it than of any other house in London. The garrets were said
to be tenanted by coiners, and artists employed in altering watches and
jewelry; the cellars to be used as a magazine for stolen goods. By some
it was affirmed that a subterranean communication existed between the
thief-taker's abode and Newgate, by means of which he was enabled to
maintain a secret correspondence with the imprisoned felons: by others,
that an under-ground passage led to extensive vaults, where such
malefactors as he chose to screen from justice might lie concealed till
the danger was blown over. Nothing, in short, was too extravagant to be
related of it; and Jonathan, who delighted in investing himself and his
residence with mystery, encouraged, and perhaps originated, these
marvellous tales. However this may be, such was the ill report of the
place that few passed along the Old Bailey without bestowing a glance of
fearful curiosity at its dingy walls, and wondering what was going on
inside them; while fewer still, of those who paused at the door, read,
without some internal trepidation, the formidable name--inscribed in
large letters on its bright brass-plate--of JONATHAN WILD.
Arrived at his habitation, Jonathan knocked in a peculiar manner at the
door, which was instantly opened by the grim-visaged porter just alluded
to. No sooner had Trenchard crossed the threshold than a fierce barking
was heard at the farther extremity of the passage, and, the next moment,
a couple of mastiffs of the largest size rushed furiously towards him.
The knight stood upon his defence; but he would unquestionably have been
torn in pieces by the savage hounds, if a shower of oaths, seconded by a
vigorous application of kicks and blows from their master, had not
driven them growling off. Apologizing to Sir Rowland for this unpleasant
reception, and swearing lustily at his servant for occasioning it by
leaving the dogs at liberty, Jonathan ordered the man to light them to
the audience-room. The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did
not appear to relish the rating. Ascending the stairs, and conducting
them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door
was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a
chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it.
Following his guide, Sir Rowland found himself in a large and lofty
apartment, the extent of which he could not entirely discern until
lights were set upon the table. He then looked around him with some
curiosity; and, as the thief-taker was occupied in giving directions to
his attendant in an undertone, ample leisure was allowed him for
investigation. At the first glance, he imagined he must have stumbled
upon a museum of rarities, there were so many glass-cases, so many open
cabinets, ranged against the walls; but the next convinced him that if
Jonathan was a virtuoso, his tastes did not run in the ordinary
channels. Trenchard was tempted to examine the contents of some of these
cases, but a closer inspection made him recoil from them in disgust. In
the one he approached was gathered together a vast assortment of
weapons, each of which, as appeared from the ticket attached to it, had
been used as an instrument of destruction. On this side was a razor with
which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted
with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which
a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. As it is not, however, our
intention to furnish a complete catalogue of these curiosities, we shall
merely mention that in front of them lay a large and sharp knife, once
the property of the public executioner, and used by him to dissever the
limbs of those condemned to death for high-treason; together with an
immense two-pronged flesh-fork, likewise employed by the same terrible
functionary to plunge the quarters of his victims in the caldrons of
boiling tar and oil. Every gibbet at Tyburn and Hounslow appeared to
have been plundered of its charnel spoil to enrich the adjoining
cabinet, so well was it stored with skulls and bones, all purporting to
be the relics of highwaymen famous in their day. Halters, each of which
had fulfilled its destiny, formed the attraction of the next
compartment; while a fourth was occupied by an array of implements of
housebreaking almost innumerable, and utterly indescribable. All these
interesting objects were carefully arranged, classed, and, as we have
said, labelled by the thief-taker. From this singular collection
Trenchard turned to regard its possessor, who was standing at a little
distance from him, still engaged in earnest discourse with his
attendant, and, as he contemplated his ruthless countenance, on which
duplicity and malignity had set their strongest seals, he could not help
calling to mind all he had heard of Jonathan's perfidiousness to his
employers, and deeply regretting that he had placed himself in the power
of so unscrupulous a miscreant.
Jonathan Wild, at this time, was on the high-road to the greatness which
he subsequently, and not long afterwards, obtained. He was fast rising
to an eminence that no one of his nefarious profession ever reached
before him, nor, it is to be hoped, will ever reach again. He was the
Napoleon of knavery, and established an uncontrolled empire over all the
practitioners of crime. This was no light conquest; nor was it a
government easily maintained. Resolution, severity, subtlety, were
required for it; and these were qualities which Jonathan possessed in an
extraordinary degree. The danger or difficulty of an exploit never
appalled him. What his head conceived his hand executed. Professing to
stand between the robber and the robbed, he himself plundered both. He
it was who formed the grand design of a robber corporation, of which he
should be the sole head and director, with the right of delivering those
who concealed their booty, or refused to share it with him, to the
gallows. He divided London into districts; appointed a gang to each
district; and a leader to each gang, whom he held responsible to
himself. The country was partitioned in a similar manner. Those whom he
retained about his person, or placed in offices of trust, were for the
most part convicted felons, who, having returned from transportation
before their term had expired, constituted, in his opinion, the safest
agents, inasmuch as they could neither be legal evidences against him,
nor withhold any portion of the spoil of which he chose to deprive them.
But the crowning glory of Jonathan, that which raised him above all his
predecessors in iniquity, and clothed this name with undying
notoriety--was to come. When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced
a terrible trade, till then unknown--namely, a traffic in human blood.
This he carried on by procuring witnesses to swear away the lives of
those persons who had incurred his displeasure, or whom it might be
necessary to remove.
No wonder that Trenchard, as he gazed at this fearful being, should have
some misgivings cross him.
Apparently, Jonathan perceived he was an object of scrutiny; for,
hastily dismissing his attendant, he walked towards the knight.
"So, you're admiring my cabinet, Sir Rowland," he remarked, with a
sinister smile; "it _is_ generally admired; and, sometimes by parties
who afterwards contribute to the collection themselves,--ha! ha! This
skull," he added, pointing to a fragment of mortality in the case beside
them, "once belonged to Tom Sheppard, the father of the lad I spoke of
just now. In the next box hangs the rope by which he suffered. When I've
placed another skull and another halter beside them, I shall be
contented."
"To business, Sir!" said the knight, with a look of abhorrence.
"Ay, to business," returned Jonathan, grinning, "the sooner the better."
"Here is the sum you bargained for," rejoined Trenchard, flinging a
pocket-book on the table; "count it."
Jonathan's eyes glistened as he told over the notes.
"You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he
had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning. There's a hundred
pounds too much."
"Keep it," said Trenchard, haughtily.
"I'll place it to your account, Sir Rowland," answered the thief-taker,
smiling significantly. "And now, shall we proceed to Queenhithe?"
"Stay!" cried the other, taking a chair, "a word with you, Mr. Wild."
"As many as you please, Sir Rowland," replied Jonathan, resuming his
seat. "I'm quite at your disposal."
"I have a question to propose to you," said Trenchard, "relating to--"
and he hesitated.
"Relating to the father of the boy--Thames Darrell," supplied Jonathan.
"I guessed what was coming. You desire to know who he was, Sir Rowland.
Well, you _shall_ know."
"Without further fee?" inquired the knight.
"Not exactly," answered Jonathan, drily. "A secret is too valuable a
commodity to be thrown away. But I said I wouldn't drive a hard bargain
with you, and I won't. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing
the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and
what you confide to me shall never transpire,--at least to your
disadvantage."
"I am at a loss to understand you Sir,", said Trenchard.
"I'll make myself intelligible before I've done," rejoined Wild. "I need
not remind you, Sir Rowland, that I am aware you are deeply implicated
in the Jacobite plot which is now known to be hatching."
"Ha!" ejaculated the other.
"Of course, therefore," pursued Jonathan, "you are acquainted with all
the leaders of the proposed insurrection,--nay, must be in
correspondence with them."
"What right have you to suppose this, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, sternly.
"Have a moment's patience, Sir Rowland," returned Wild; "and you shall
hear. If you will furnish me with a list of these rebels, and with
proofs of their treason, I will not only insure your safety, but will
acquaint you with the real name and rank of your sister Aliva's husband,
as well as with some particulars which will never otherwise reach your
ears, concerning your lost sister, Constance."
"My sister Constance!" echoed the knight; "what of her?"
"You agree to my proposal, then?" said Jonathan.
"Do you take me for as great a villain as yourself, Sir?" said the
knight, rising.
"I took you for one who wouldn't hesitate to avail himself of any
advantage chance might throw in his way," returned the thief-taker,
coldly. "I find I was in error. No matter. A time _may_ come,--and that
ere long,--when you will be glad to purchase my secrets, and your own
safety, at a dearer price than the heads of your companions."
"Are you ready?" said Trenchard, striding towards the door.
"I am," replied Jonathan, following him, "and so," he added in an
undertone, "are your captors."
A moment afterwards, they quitted the house.
CHAPTER XVII.
The Night-Cellar.
After a few minutes' rapid walking, during which neither party uttered a
word, Jonathan Wild and his companion had passed Saint Paul's, dived
down a thoroughfare on the right, and reached Thames Street.
At the period of this history, the main streets of the metropolis were
but imperfectly lighted, while the less-frequented avenues were left in
total obscurity; but, even at the present time, the maze of courts and
alleys into which Wild now plunged, would have perplexed any one, not
familiar with their intricacies, to thread them on a dark night.
Jonathan, however, was well acquainted with the road. Indeed, it was his
boast that he could find his way through any part of London blindfolded;
and by this time, it would seem, he had nearly arrived at his
destination; for, grasping his companion's arm, he led him along a
narrow entry which did not appear to have an outlet, and came to a halt.
Cautioning the knight, if he valued his neck, to tread carefully,
Jonathan then descended a steep flight of steps; and, having reached the
bottom in safety, he pushed open a door, that swung back on its hinges
as soon as it had admitted him; and, followed by Trenchard, entered the
night-cellar.
The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure
the cabin of a ship. It was long and narrow, with a ceiling supported
by huge uncovered rafters, and so low as scarcely to allow a tall man
like himself to stand erect beneath it. Notwithstanding the heat of the
season,--which was not, however, found particularly inconvenient in this
subterranean region,--a large heaped-up fire blazed ruddily in one
corner, and lighted up a circle of as villanous countenances as ever
flame shone upon.
The guests congregated within the night-cellar were, in fact, little
better than thieves; but thieves who confined their depredations almost
exclusively to the vessels lying in the pool and docks of the river.
They had as many designations as grades. There were game watermen and
game lightermen, heavy horsemen and light horsemen, scuffle-hunters, and
long-apron men, lumpers, journeymen coopers, mud-larks, badgers, and
ratcatchers--a race of dangerous vermin recently, in a great measure,
extirpated by the vigilance of the Thames Police, but at this period
flourishing in vast numbers. Besides these plunderers, there were others
with whom the disposal of their pillage necessarily brought them into
contact, and who seldom failed to attend them during their hours of
relaxation and festivity;--to wit, dealers in junk, old rags, and marine
stores, purchasers of prize-money, crimps, and Jew receivers. The latter
formed by far the most knavish-looking and unprepossessing portion of
the assemblage. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat
frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by
their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their
coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be
told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate.
The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost
as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives
above-mentioned, Mrs. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm
nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her
upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in
the King's service. This lady was singularly lucky in her matrimonial
connections. She had been married four times: three of her husbands died
of hempen fevers; and the fourth, having been twice condemned, was saved
from the noose by Jonathan Wild, who not only managed to bring him off,
but to obtain for him the situation of under-turnkey in Newgate.
On the appearance of the thief-taker, Mrs. Spurling was standing near
the fire superintending some culinary preparation; but she no sooner
perceived him, than hastily quitting her occupation, she elbowed a way
for him and the knight through the crowd, and ushered them, with much
ceremony, into an inner room, where they found the objects of their
search, Quilt Arnold and Rykhart Van Galgebrok, seated at a small table,
quietly smoking. This service rendered, without waiting for any farther
order, she withdrew.
Both the janizary and the skipper arose as the others entered the room.
"This is the gentleman," observed Jonathan, introducing Trenchard to the
Hollander, "who is about to intrust his young relation to your care."
"De gentleman may rely on my showing his relation all de attention in my
power," replied Van Galgebrok, bowing profoundly to the knight; "but if
any unforseen accident--such as a slip overboard--should befal de jonker
on de voyage, he mushn't lay de fault entirely on my shoulders--haw!
haw!"
"Where is he?" asked Sir Rowland, glancing uneasily around. "I do not
see him."
"De jonker. He's here," returned the skipper, pointing significantly
downwards. "Bring him out, Quilt."
So saying, he pushed aside the table, and the janizary stooping down,
undrew a bolt and opened a trap-door.
"Come out!" roared Quilt, looking into the aperture. "You're wanted."
But as no answer was returned, he trust his arm up to the shoulder into
the hole, and with some little difficulty and exertion of strength, drew
forth Thames Darrell.
The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale,
but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm.
"Why didn't you come out when I called you, you young dog?" cried Quilt
in a savage tone.
"Because I knew what you wanted me for!" answered Thames firmly.
"Oh! you did, did you?" said the janizary. "And what do you suppose we
mean to do with you, eh?"
"You mean to kill me," replied Thames, "by my cruel uncle's command. Ah!
there he stands!" he exclaimed as his eye fell for the first time upon
Sir Rowland. "Where is my mother?" he added, regarding the knight with a
searching glance.
"Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling.
"Dead!" echoed the boy. "Oh no--no! You say this to terrify me--to try
me. But I will not believe you. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her.
Tell me, Sir," he added, advancing towards the knight, "tell me has this
man spoken falsely?--Tell me my mother is alive, and do what you please
with me."
"Tell him so, and have done with him, Sir Rowland," observed Jonathan
coldly.
"Tell me the truth, I implore you," cried Thames. "Is she alive?"
"She is not," replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and
unable to endure the boy's agonized look.
"Are you answered?" said Jonathan, with a grin worthy of a demon.
"My mother!--my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees,
and bursting into tears. "Shall I never see that sweet face
again,--never feel the pressure of those kind hands more--nor listen to
that gentle voice! Ah! yes, we shall meet again in Heaven, where I shall
speedily join you. Now then," he added more calmly, "I am ready to die.
The only mercy you can show me is to kill me."
"Then we won't even show you that mercy," retorted the thief-taker
brutally. "So get up, and leave off whimpering. Your time isn't come
yet."
"Mr. Wild," said Trenchard, "I shall proceed no further in this
business. Set the boy free."
"If I disobey you, Sir Rowland," replied the thief-taker, "you'll thank
me for it hereafter. Gag him," he added, pushing Thames rudely toward
Quilt Arnold, "and convey him to the boat."
"A word," cried the boy, as the janizary was preparing to obey his
master's orders. "What has become of Jack Sheppard?"
"Devil knows!" answered Quilt; "but I believe he's in the hands of
Blueskin, so there's no doubt he'll soon be on the high-road to Tyburn."
"Poor Jack!" sighed Thames. "You needn't gag me," he added, "I'll not
cry out."
"We won't trust you, my youngster," answered the janizary. And,
thrusting a piece of iron into his mouth, he forced him out of the room.
Sir Rowland witnessed these proceedings like one stupified. He neither
attempted to prevent his nephew's departure, nor to follow him.
Jonathan kept his keen eye fixed upon him, as he addressed himself for a
moment to the Hollander.
"Is the case of watches on board?" he asked in an under tone.
"Ja," replied the skipper.
"And the rings?"
"Ja."
"That's well. You must dispose of the goldsmith's note I gave you
yesterday, as soon as you arrive at Rotterdam. It'll be advertised
to-morrow."
"De duivel!" exclaimed Van Galgebrok, "Very well. It shall be done as
you direct. But about dat jonker," he continued, lowering his voice;
"have you anything to add consarnin' him? It's almosht a pity to put him
onder de water."
"Is the sloop ready to sail?" asked Wild, without noticing the skipper's
remark.
"Ja," answered Van; "at a minut's nodish."
"Here are your despatches," said Jonathan with a significant look, and
giving him a sealed packet. "Open them when you get on board--not
before, and act as they direct you."
"I ondershtand," replied the skipper, putting his finger to his nose;
"it shall be done."
"Sir Rowland," said Jonathan, turning to the knight, "will it please you
to remain here till I return, or will you accompany us?"
"I will go with you," answered Trenchard, who, by this time, had
regained his composure, and with it all his relentlessness of purpose.
"Come, then," said Wild, marching towards the door, "we've no time to
lose."
Quitting the night-cellar, the trio soon arrived at the riverside. Quilt
Arnold was stationed at the stair-head, near which the boat containing
the captive boy was moored. A few words passed between him and the
thief-taker as the latter came up; after which, all the party--with the
exception of Quilt, who was left on shore--embarked within the wherry,
which was pushed from the strand and rowed swiftly along the stream--for
the tide was in its favour--by a couple of watermen. Though scarcely two
hours past midnight, it was perfectly light. The moon had arisen, and
everything could be as plainly distinguished as during the day. A thin
mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly
look. As they approached London Bridge, the thief-taker whispered Van
Galgebrok, who acted as steersman, to make for a particular arch--near
the Surrey shore. The skipper obeyed, and in another moment, they swept
through the narrow lock. While the watermen were contending with the
eddies occasioned by the fall below the bridge, Jonathan observed a
perceptible shudder run through Trenchard's frame.
"You remember that starling, Sir Rowland," he said maliciously, "and
what occurred on it, twelve years ago?"
"Too well," answered the knight, frowning. "Ah! what is that?" he cried,
pointing to a dark object floating near them amid the boiling waves, and
which presented a frightful resemblance to a human face.
"We'll see," returned the thief-taker. And, stretching out his hand, he
lifted the dark object from the flood.
It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the
features remaining. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the
bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the
face, gave it a ghastly appearance.
"It's the skull of a _rebel_," said Jonathan, with marked emphasis on
the word, "blown by the wind from a spike on the bridge above us. I
don't know whose brainless head it may be, but it'll do for my
collection." And he tossed it carelessly into the bottom of the boat.
After this occurence, not a word was exchanged between them until they
came in sight of the sloop, which was lying at anchor off Wapping.
Arrived at her side, it was soon evident, from the throng of seamen in
Dutch dresses that displayed themselves, that her crew were on the
alert, and a rope having been thrown down to the skipper, he speedily
hoisted himself on deck. Preparations were next made for taking Thames
on board. Raising him in his arms, Jonathan passed the rope round his
body, and in this way the poor boy was drawn up without difficulty.
While he was swinging in mid air, Thames regarded his uncle with a stern
look, and cried in a menacing voice, "We shall meet again."
"Not in this world," returned Jonathan. "Weigh anchor, Van!" he shouted
to the skipper, "and consult your despatches."
"Ja--ja," returned the Hollander. And catching hold of Thames, he
quitted the deck.
Shortly afterwards, he re-appeared with the information that the captive
was safe below; and giving the necessary directions to his crew, before
many minutes had elapsed, the Zeeslang spread her canvass to the first
breeze of morning.
By the thief-taker's command, the boat was then rowed toward a muddy
inlet, which has received in more recent times the name of Execution
Dock. As soon as she reached this spot, Wild sprang ashore, and was
joined by several persons,--among whom was Quilt Arnold, leading a
horse by the bridle,--he hastened down the stairs to meet him. A coach
was also in attendance, at a little distance.
Sir Rowland, who had continued absorbed in thought, with his eyes fixed
upon the sloop, as she made her way slowly down the river, disembarked
more leisurely.
"At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched
the strand.
"Not so, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan; "you are my prisoner."
"How!" ejaculated Trenchard, starting back and drawing his sword.
"You are arrested for high treason," rejoined Wild, presenting a pistol
at his head, while he drew forth a parchment,--"here is my warrant."
"Traitor!" cried Sir Rowland--"damned--double-dyed traitor!"
"Away with him," vociferated Jonathan to his myrmidons, who, having
surrounded Trenchard, hurried him off to the coach before he could utter
another word,--"first to Mr. Walpole, and then to Newgate. And now,
Quilt," he continued, addressing the janizary, who approached him with
the horse, "fly to St. Giles's round-house, and if, through the agency
of that treacherous scoundrel, Terry O'Flaherty, whom I've put in my
Black List, old Wood should have found his way there, and have been
detained by Sharpies as I directed, you may release him. I don't care
how soon he learns that he has lost his adopted son. When I've escorted
you proud fool to his new quarters, I'll proceed to the Mint and look
after Jack Sheppard."
With this, he mounted his steed and rode off.
CHAPTER XVIII.
How Jack Sheppard broke out of the Cage at Willesden.
The heart-piercing scream uttered by Mrs. Sheppard after the commission
of the robbery in Willesden church was productive of unfortunate
consequences to her son. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and
was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards
befell him. Startled by the cry, as may be supposed, the attention of
the whole congregation was drawn towards the quarter whence it
proceeded. Amongst others, a person near the door, roused by the shriek,
observed a man make his exit with the utmost precipitation. A boy
attempted to follow; but as the suspicions of the lookers-on were roused
by the previous circumstances, the younger fugitive was seized and
detained. Meanwhile, Mr. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in
the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above
described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his
pocket-book,--about the security of which, as it contained several
letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite
plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,--and finding it gone, he felt
certain he had been robbed. Turning quickly round, in the hope of
discovering the thief, he was no less surprised than distressed--for in
spite of his faults, the woollen-draper was a good-natured fellow--to
perceive Jack Sheppard in custody. The truth at once flashed across his
mind. This, then, was the cause of the widow's wild inexplicable
look,--of her sudden shriek! Explaining his suspicious in a whisper to
Jack's captor, who proved to be a church-warden and a constable, by name
John Dump,--Mr. Kneebone begged him to take the prisoner into the
churchyard. Dump instantly complied, and as soon as Jack was removed
from the sacred edifice, his person was searched from head to foot--but
without success. Jack submitted to this scrutiny with a very bad grace,
and vehemently protested his innocence. In vain did the woollen-draper
offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up
his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. He
answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of
the matter--had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up. Nor
did he content himself with declaring his guiltlessness of the crime
imputed to him, but began in his turn to menace his captor and accuser,
loading the latter with the bitterest upbraidings. By this time, the
churchyard was crowded with spectators, some of whom dispersed in
different directions in quest of the other robber. But all that could be
ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time
before in the direction of London. Of this man Kneebone resolved to go
in pursuit; and leaving Jack in charge of the constable, he proceeded to
the small inn,--which bore then, as it bears now, the name of the Six
Bells,--where, summoning the hostler, his steed was instantly brought
him, and, springing on its back, he rode away at full speed.
Meanwhile, after a consultation between Mr. Dump and the village
authorities, it was agreed to lock up the prisoner in the cage. As he
was conveyed thither, an incident occurred that produced a considerable
impression on the feelings of the youthful offender. Just as they
reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard--where the tall elms cast a
pleasant shade over the rustic graves--a momentary stoppage took place.
At this gate two paths meet. Down that on the right the young culprit
was dragged--along that on the left a fainting woman was borne in the
arms of several females. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her
pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him.
He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the
distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from
it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison.
The cage at Willesden was, and is--for it is still standing--a small
round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof, to
which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish
officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to vagrants
and other disorderly persons, are attached. Over these boards the two
arms of a guide-post serve to direct the way-farer--on the right hand to
the neighbouring villages of Neasdon and Kingsbury, and on the left to
the Edgeware Road and the healthy heights of Hampstead. The cage has a
strong door, with an iron grating at the top, and further secured by a
stout bolt and padlock. It is picturesquely situated beneath a tree on
the high road, not far from the little hostel before mentioned, and at
no great distance from the church.
For some time after he was locked up in this prison Jack continued in a
very dejected state. Deserted by his older companion in iniquity, and
instigator to crime, he did not know what might become of him; nor, as
we have observed, was the sad spectacle he had just witnessed, without
effect. Though within the last two days he had committed several heinous
offences, and one of a darker dye than any with which the reader has
been made acquainted, his breast was not yet so callous as to be wholly
insensible to the stings of conscience. Wearied at length with thinking
on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw
himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured
to compose himself to slumber. When he awoke, it was late in the day;
but though he heard voices outside, and now and then caught a glimpse of
a face peeping at him through the iron grating over the door, no one
entered the prison, or held any communication with him. Feeling rather
exhausted, it occurred to him that possibly some provisions might have
been left by the constable; and, looking about, he perceived a pitcher
of water and a small brown loaf on the floor. He ate of the bread with
great appetite, and having drunk as much as he chose of the water,
poured the rest on the floor. His hunger satisfied, his spirits began to
revive, and with this change of mood all his natural audacity returned.
And here he was first visited by that genius which, in his subsequent
career, prompted him to so many bold and successful attempts. Glancing
around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an
escape from it. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break
open,--the walls too thick: but the ceiling,--if he could reach
it--there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. While he was
meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he
chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. Here was an instrument which
might be of the greatest service to him in accomplishing his design. He
put it carefully aside, resolved to defer the attempt till night. Time
wore on somewhat slowly with the prisoner, who had to control his
impatience in the best way he could; but as the shades of evening were
darkening, the door was unlocked, and Mr. Dump popped his head into the
cage. He brought another small loaf, and a can with which he replenished
the pitcher, recommending Jack to be careful, as he would get nothing
further till morning. To this Jack replied, that he should be perfectly
contented, provided he might have a small allowance of gin. The latter
request, though treated with supreme contempt by Mr. Dump, made an
impression on some one outside; for not long after the constable
departed, Jack heard a tap at the door, and getting up at the summons,
he perceived the tube of a pipe inserted between the bars. At once
divining the meaning of this ingenious device, he applied his mouth to
the tube, and sucked away, while the person outside poured spirit into
the bowl. Having drunk as much as he thought prudent, and thanked his
unknown friend for his attention, Jack again lay down on the straw, and
indulged himself with another nap, intending to get up as soon as it was
perfectly dark. The strong potation he had taken, combined with fatigue
and anxiety he had previously undergone, made him oversleep himself, and
when he awoke it was just beginning to grow light. Cursing himself for
his inertness, Jack soon shook off this drowsiness, and set to work in
earnest. Availing himself of certain inequalities in the door, he soon
managed to climb up to the roof; and securing his feet against a slight
projection in the wall, began to use the fork with great effect. Before
many minutes elapsed, he had picked a large hole in the plaster, which
showered down in a cloud of dust; and breaking off several laths, caught
hold of a beam, by which he held with one hand, until with the other he
succeeded, not without some difficulty, in forcing out one of the tiles.
The rest was easy. In a few minutes more he had made a breach in the
roof wide enough to allow him to pass through. Emerging from this
aperture, he was about to descend, when he was alarmed by hearing the
tramp of horses' feet swiftly approaching, and had only time to hide
himself behind one of the largest sign-boards before alluded to when two
horsemen rode up. Instead of passing on, as Jack expected, these persons
stopped opposite the cage, when one of them, as he judged from the
sound, for he did not dare to look out of his hiding place, dismounted.
A noise was next heard, as if some instrument were applied to the door
with the intent to force it open, and Jack's fears were at once
dispelled, At first, he had imagined they were officers of justice, come
to convey him to a stronger prison: but the voice of one of the parties,
which he recognised, convinced him they were his friends.
"Look quick, Blueskin, and be cursed to you!" was growled in the deep
tones of Jonathan Wild. "We shall have the whole village upon us while
you're striking the jigger. Use the gilt, man!"
"There's no need of picklock or crow-bar, here, Mr. Wild," cried Jack,
placing his hat on the right arm of the guide-post, and leaning over the
board, "I've done the trick myself."
"Why, what the devil's this?" vociferated Jonathan, looking up. "Have
you broken out of the cage, Jack?"
"Something like it," replied the lad carelessly.
"Bravo!" cried the thief-taker approvingly.
"Well, that beats all I ever heard of!" roared Blueskin.
"But are you really there?"
"No, I'm here," answered Jack, leaping down. "I tell you what, Mr.
Wild," he added, laughing, "it must be a stronger prison than Willesden
cage that can hold me."
"Ay, ay," observed Jonathan, "you'll give the keepers of his Majesty's
jails some trouble before you're many years older, I'll warrant you. But
get up behind, Blueskin. Some one may observe us."
"Come, jump up," cried Blueskin, mounting his steed, "and I'll soon wisk
you to town. Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot are dying to see you. I
thought Bess would have cried her pretty eyes out when she heard you was
nabbed. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. Mr. Wild
has done his business."
"Ay--ay," laughed Jonathan. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the
letters I wanted. He's now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland
Trenchard. So get up, and let's be off."
"Before I leave this place, I must see my mother."
"Nonsense," returned Jonathan gruffly. "Would you expose yourself to
fresh risk? If it hadn't been for her you wouldn't have been placed in
your late jeopardy."
"I don't care for that," replied Jack. "See her I _will_. Leave me
behind: I'm not afraid. I'll be at the Cross Shovels in the course of
the day."
"Nay, if you're bent upon this folly," observed Wild, who appeared to
have his own reasons for humouring the lad, "I shan't hinder you.
Blueskin will take care of the horses, and I'll go with you."
So saying, he dismounted; and flinging his bridle to his companion, and
ordering him to ride off to a little distance, he followed Jack, who had
quitted the main road, and struck into a narrow path opposite the cage.
This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most
beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile.
"There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small
wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little
trim garden in front of it. "I'll be back in a minute."
"Don't hurry yourself," said Jonathan, "I'll wait for you here."
CHAPTER XIX.
Good and Evil.
As Jack opened the gate, and crossed the little garden, which exhibited
in every part the neatness and attention of its owner, he almost
trembled at the idea of further disturbing her peace of mind. Pausing
with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the
village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees.
The rooks were cawing amid the boughs, and all nature appeared awaking
to happiness. From this peaceful scene Jack's eye fell upon Jonathan,
who, seated upon the stile, under the shade of an elder tree, was
evidently watching him. A sarcastic smile seemed to play upon the
chief-taker's lips; and abashed at his own irresolution, the lad went
on.
After knocking for some time at the door without effect, he tried the
latch, and to his surprise found it open. He stepped in with a heavy
foreboding of calamity. A cat came and rubbed herself against him as he
entered the house, and seemed by her mewing to ask him for food. That
was the only sound he heard.
Jack was almost afraid of speaking; but at length he summoned courage to
call out "Mother!"
"Who's there?" asked a faint voice from the bed.
"Your son," answered the boy.
"Jack," exclaimed the widow, starting up and drawing back the curtain.
"Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?"
"You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. "I'm come to say good bye to
you, and to assure you of my safety before I leave this place."
"Where are you going?" asked his mother.
"I hardly know," returned Jack; "but it's not safe for me to remain much
longer here."
"True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of
the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. I won't keep you long. But
tell me how have you escaped from the confinement in which you were
placed--come and sit by me--here--upon the bed--give me your hand--and
tell me all about it."
Her son complied, and sat down upon the patch-work coverlet beside her.
"Jack," said Mrs. Sheppard, clasping him with a hand that burnt with
fever, "I have been ill--dreadfully ill--I believe delirious--I thought
I should have died last night--I won't tell you what agony you have
caused me--I won't reproach you. Only promise me to amend--to quit your
vile companions--and I will forgive you--will bless you. Oh! my dear,
dear son, be warned in time. You are in the hands of a wicked, a
terrible man, who will not stop till he has completed your destruction.
Listen to your mother's prayers, and do not let her die broken-hearted."
"It is too late," returned Jack, sullenly; "I can't be honest if I
would."
"Oh! do not say so," replied his wretched parent. "It is never too late.
I know you are in Jonathan Wild's power, for I saw him near you in the
church; and if ever the enemy of mankind was permitted to take human
form, I beheld him then. Beware of him, my son! Beware of him! You know
not what villany he is capable of. Be honest, and you will be happy. You
are yet a child; and though you have strayed from the right path, a
stronger hand than your own has led you thence. Return, I implore of
you, to your master,--to Mr. Wood. Acknowledge your faults. He is all
kindness, and will overlook them for your poor father's sake--for mine.
Return to him, I say--"
"I can't," replied Jack, doggedly.
"Can't!" repeated his mother. "Why not?"
"_I'll_ tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed. And
immediately afterwards the curtain was drawn aside, and disclosed the
Satanic countenance of Jonathan Wild, who had crept into the house
unperceived, "I'll tell you, why he can't go back to his master," cried
the thief-taker, with a malignant grin. "He has robbed him."
"Robbed him!" screamed the widow. "Jack!"
Her son averted his gaze.
"Ay, robbed him," reiterated Jonathan. "The night before last, Mr.
Wood's house was broken into and plundered. Your son was seen by the
carpenter's wife in company with the robbers. Here," he added, throwing
a handbill on the bed, "are the particulars of the burglary, with the
reward for Jack's apprehension."
"Ah!" ejaculated the widow, hiding her face.
"Come," said Wild, turning authoritatively to Jack,--"you have
overstayed your time."
"Do not go with him, Jack!" shrieked his mother. "Do not--do not!"
"He _must!_" thundered Jonathan, "or he goes to jail."
"If you must go to prison, I will go with you," cried Mrs. Sheppard:
"but avoid that man as you would a serpent."
"Come along," thundered Jonathan.
"Hear me, Jack!" shrieked his mother. "You know not what you do. The
wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. As I hope for mercy, I
speak the truth!--let him deny it if he can."
"Pshaw!" said Wild. "I could hang him now if I liked. But he may remain
with you if he pleases: _I_ sha'n't hinder him."
"You hear, my son," said the widow eagerly. "Choose between good and
evil;--between him and me. And mind, your life,--more than your
life--hangs upon your choice."
"It does so," said Wild. "Choose, Jack."
The lad made no answer, but left the room.
"He is gone!" cried Mrs. Sheppard despairingly.
"For ever!" said the thief-taker, preparing to follow.
"Devil!" cried the widow, catching his arm, and gazing with frantic
eagerness in his face, "how many years will you give my son before you
execute your terrible threat?"
"NINE!" answered Jonathan sternly.
END OF THE SECOND EPOCH.
EPOCH THE THIRD.
1724
THE PRISON-BREAKER.
CHAPTER I.
The Return.
Nearly nine years after the events last recorded, and about the middle
of May, 1724, a young man of remarkably prepossessing appearance took
his way, one afternoon, along Wych Street; and, from the curiosity with
which he regarded the houses on the left of the road, seemed to be in
search of some particular habitation. The age of this individual could
not be more than twenty-one; his figure was tall, robust, and gracefully
proportioned; and his clear gray eye and open countenance bespoke a
frank, generous, and resolute nature. His features were regular, and
finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,--a little shaded,
however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy
contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of
substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed
his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as
luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the
Second's days--a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in
our own days. He wore a French military undress of the period, with high
jack-boots, and a laced hat; and, though his attire indicated no
particular rank, he had completely the air of a person of distinction.
Such was the effect produced upon the passengers by his good looks and
manly deportment, that few--especially of the gentler and more
susceptible sex--failed to turn round and bestow a second glance upon
the handsome stranger. Unconscious of the interest he excited, and
entirely occupied by his own thoughts--which, if his bosom could have
been examined, would have been found composed of mingled hopes and
fears--the young man walked on till he came to an old house, with great
projecting bay windows on the first floor, and situated as nearly as
possible at the back of St. Clement's church. Here he halted; and,
looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying
a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not
the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE,
WOOLLEN-DRAPER.
Tears started to the young man's eyes on beholding the change, and it
was with difficulty he could command himself sufficiently to make the
inquiries he desired to do respecting the former owner of the house. As
he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom
he at once recognised as the present proprietor. Mr. Kneebone was
attired in the extremity of the mode. A full-curled wig descended
half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was
twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath,
and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and
bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. A stiff,
formally-cut coat of cinnamon-coloured cloth, with rows of plate
buttons, each of the size of a crown piece, on the sleeves, pockets, and
skirts, reached the middle of his legs; and his costume was completed by
the silver-hilted sword at his side, and the laced hat under his left
arm.
Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to
know his business.
"I'm almost afraid to state it," faltered the other; "but, may I ask
whether Mr. Wood, the carpenter, who formerly resided here, is still
living?"
"If you feel any anxiety on his account, Sir, I'm happy to be able to
relieve it," answered Kneebone, readily. "My good friend, Owen
Wood,--Heaven preserve him!--_is_ still living. And, for a man who'll
never see sixty again, he's in excellent preservation, I assure you."
"You delight me with the intelligence," said the stranger, entirely
recovering his cheerfulness of look.
"I began to fear, from his having quitted the old place, that some
misfortune must have befallen him."
"Quite the contrary," rejoined the woollen-draper, laughing
good-humouredly. "Everything has prospered with him in an extraordinary
manner. His business has thriven; legacies have unexpectedly dropped
into his lap; and, to crown all, he has made a large fortune by a lucky
speculation in South-Sea stock,--made it, too, where so many others have
lost fortunes, your humble servant amongst the number--ha! ha! In a
word, Sir, Mr. Wood is now in very affluent circumstances. He stuck to
the shop as long as it was necessary, and longer, in my opinion. When he
left these premises, three years ago, I took them from him; or
rather--to deal frankly with you,--he placed me in them rent-free, for,
I'm not ashamed to confess it, I've had losses, and heavy ones; and, if
it hadn't been for him, I don't know where I should have been. Mr. Wood,
Sir," he added, with much emotion, "is one of the best of men, and would
be the happiest, were it not that--" and he hesitated.
"Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly.
"His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily.
"I understand," replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile. "But,
it strikes me, I've heard that Mrs. Wood was once a favourite of yours."
"So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous
pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied
about his gallantry,--"so she was. But those days are over--quite over.
Since her husband has laid me under such a weight of obligation, I
couldn't, in honour, continue--hem!" and he took another explanatory
pinch. "Added to which, she is neither so young as she was, nor, is her
temper by any means improved--hem!"
"Say no more on the subject, Sir," observed the stranger, gravely; "but
let us turn to a more agreeable one--her daughter."
"That is a far more agreeable one, I must confess," returned Kneebone,
with a self-sufficient smirk.
The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his
impertinence.
"Is she married?" he asked, after a brief pause.
"Married!--no--no," replied the woollen-draper. "Winifred Wood will
never marry, unless the grave can give up its dead. When a mere child
she fixed her affections upon a youth named Thames Darrell, whom her
father brought up, and who perished, it is supposed, about nine years
ago; and she has determined to remain faithful to his memory."
"You astonish me," said the stranger, in a voice full of emotion.
"Why it _is_ astonishing, certainly," remarked Kneebone, "to find any
woman constant--especially to a girlish attachment; but such is the
case. She has had offers innumerable; for where wealth and beauty are
combined, as in her instance, suitors are seldom wanting. But she was
not to be tempted."
"She is a matchless creature!" exclaimed the young man.
"So I think," replied Kneebone, again applying to the snuff-box, and by
that means escaping the angry glance levelled at him by his companion.
"I have one inquiry more to make of you, Sir," said the stranger, as
soon as he had conquered his displeasure, "and I will then trouble you
no further. You spoke just now of a youth whom Mr. Wood brought up. As
far as I recollect, there were two. What has become of the other?"
"Why, surely you don't mean Jack Sheppard?" cried the woollen-draper in
surprise.
"That was the lad's name," returned the stranger.
"I guessed from your dress and manner, Sir, that you must have been long
absent from your own country," said Kneebone; "and now I'm convinced of
it, or you wouldn't have asked that question. Jack Sheppard is the talk
and terror of the whole town. The ladies can't sleep in their beds for
him; and as to the men, they daren't go to bed at all. He's the most
daring and expert housebreaker that ever used a crow-bar. He laughs at
locks and bolts; and the more carefully you guard your premises from
him, the more likely are you to insure an attack. His exploits and
escapes are in every body's mouth. He has been lodged in every
round-house in the metropolis, and has broken out of them all, and
boasts that no prison can hold him. We shall see. His skill has not been
tried. At present, he is under the protection of Jonathan Wild."
"Does that villain still maintain his power?" asked the stranger
sternly.
"He does," replied Kneebone, "and, what is more surprising, it seems to
increase. Jonathan completely baffles and derides the ends of justice.
It is useless to contend with him, even with right on your side. Some
years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to
league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's machinations got
clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my
shoulders. I charged the thief-taker, as was the fact, with having
robbed me, by means of the lad Sheppard, whom he instigated to deed, of
the very pocket-book he produced in evidence against me; but it was of
no avail--I couldn't obtain a hearing. Mr. Wood fared still worse.
Bribed by a certain Sir Rowland Trenchard, Jonathan kidnapped the
carpenter's adopted son, Thames Darrell, and placed him in the hands of
a Dutch Skipper, with orders to throw him overboard when he got out to
sea; and though this was proved as clear as day, the rascal managed
matters so adroitly, and gave such a different complexion to the whole
affair, that he came off with flying colours. One reason, perhaps, of
his success in this case might be, that having arrested his associate in
the dark transaction, Sir Rowland Trenchard, on a charge of high
treason, he was favoured by Walpole, who found his account in retaining
such an agent. Be this as it may, Jonathan remained the victor; and
shortly afterwards,--at the price of a third of his estate, it was
whispered,--he procured Trenchard's liberation from confinement."
At the mention of the latter occurrence, a dark cloud gathered upon the
stranger's brow.
"Do you know anything further of Sir Rowland?" he asked.
"Nothing more than this," answered Kneebone,--"that after the failure of
his projects, and the downfall of his party, he retired to his seat,
Ashton Hall, near Manchester, and has remained there ever since,
entirely secluded from the world."
The stranger was for a moment lost in reflection.
"And now, Sir," he said, preparing to take his departure, "will you add
to the obligation already conferred by informing me where I can meet
with Mr. Wood?"
"With pleasure," replied the woollen-draper. "He lives at Dollis Hill, a
beautiful spot near Willesden, about four or five miles from town, where
he has taken a farm. If you ride out there, and the place is well worth
a visit, for the magnificent view it commands of some of the finest
country in the neighbourhood of London,--you are certain to meet with
him. I saw him yesterday, and he told me he shouldn't stir from home for
a week to come. He called here on his way back, after he had been to
Bedlam to visit poor Mrs. Sheppard."
"Jack's mother?" exclaimed the young man. "Gracious Heaven!--is she the
inmate of a mad-house?"
"She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her
son's misconduct. Alas! that the punishment of his offences should fall
on her head. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his
master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never
afterwards recovered her reason. She rambles continually about Jack, and
her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be
gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. I pity
her from the bottom of my heart. But, in the midst of all her
affliction, she has found a steady friend in Mr. Wood, who looks after
her comforts, and visits her constantly. Indeed, I've heard him say
that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. That,
Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan."
The stranger said nothing, but hastily brushed away a tear. Perceiving
he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had
the honour of addressing.
Before the question could be answered, a side-door was opened, and a
very handsome woman of Amazonian proportions presented herself, and
marched familiarly up to Mr. Kneebone. She was extremely showily
dressed, and her large hooped petticoat gave additional effect to her
lofty stature. As soon as she noticed the stranger, she honoured him
with an extremely impudent stare, and scarcely endeavoured to disguise
the admiration with which his good looks impressed her.
"Don't you perceive, my dear Mrs. Maggot, that I'm engaged," said
Kneebone, a little disconcerted.
"Who've you got with you?" demanded the Amazon, boldly.
"The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper,
with increased embarrassment. "I don't know his name." And he looked at
the moment as if he had lost all desire to know it.
"Well, he's a pretty fellow at all events," observed Mrs. Maggot, eyeing
him from head to heel with evident satisfaction;--"a devilish pretty
fellow!"
"Upon my word, Poll," said Kneebone, becoming very red, "you might have
a little more delicacy than to tell him so before my face."
"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Maggot, drawing up her fine figure to its full
height; "because I condescend to live with you, am I never to look at
another man,--especially at one so much to my taste as this? Don't think
it!"
"You had better retire, Madam," said the woollen-draper, sharply, "if
you can't conduct yourself with more propriety."
"Order those who choose to obey you," rejoined the lady scornfully.
"Though you lorded it over that fond fool, Mrs. Wood, you shan't lord it
over me, I can promise you. That for you!" And she snapped her fingers
in his face.
"Zounds!" cried Kneebone, furiously. "Go to your own room, woman,
directly, or I'll make you!"
"Make me!" echoed Mrs. Maggot, bursting into a loud contemptuous laugh.
"Try!"
Enraged at the assurance of his mistress, the woollen-draper
endeavoured to carry his threat into execution, but all his efforts to
remove her were unavailing. At length, after he had given up the point
from sheer exhaustion, the Amazon seized him by the throat, and pushed
him backwards with such force that he rolled over the counter.
"There!" she cried, laughing, "that'll teach you to lay hands upon me
again. You should remember, before you try your strength against mine,
that when I rescued you from the watch, and you induced me to come and
live with you, I beat off four men, any of whom was a match for you--ha!
ha!"
"My dear Poll!" said Kneebone, picking himself up, "I entreat you to
moderate yourself."
"Entreat a fiddlestick!" retorted Mrs. Maggot: "I'm tired of you, and
will go back to my old lover, Jack Sheppard. He's worth a dozen of you.
Or, if this good-looking young fellow will only say the word, I'll go
with him."
"You may go, and welcome, Madam!" rejoined Kneebone, spitefully. "But, I
should think, after the specimen you've just given of your amiable
disposition, no person would be likely to saddle himself with such an
incumbrance."
"What say you, Sir?" said the Amazon, with an engaging leer at the
stranger. "_You_ will find me tractable enough; and, with _me_ by, your
side you need fear neither constable nor watchman. I've delivered Jack
Sheppard from many an assault. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a
prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. Will you
take me?"
However tempting Mrs. Maggot's offer may appear, the young man thought
fit to decline it, and, after a few words of well-merited compliment on
her extraordinary prowess, and renewed thanks to Mr. Kneebone, he took
his departure.
"Good bye!" cried Mrs. Maggot, kissing her hand to him. "I'll find you
out. And now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the
woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard."
"You shall first go to Bridewell, you jade!" rejoined Kneebone. "Here,
Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable."
"He had better bring half-a-dozen," said the Amazon, taking up a
cloth-yard wand, and quietly seating herself; "one won't do."
On leaving Mr. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in
the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he
shaped his course towards the west end of the town. Urging his steed
along Oxford Road,--as that great approach to the metropolis was then
termed,--he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the
exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on
the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw
in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off
upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place
of execution. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked
by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. Opposite
the gallows was an open gallery, or scaffolding, like the stand at a
racecourse, which, on state occasions, was crowded with spectators.
Without the inclosure were reared several lofty gibbets, with their
ghastly burthens. Altogether, it was a hideous and revolting sight.
Influenced, probably, by what he had heard from Mr. Kneebone, respecting
the lawless career of Jack Sheppard, and struck with the probable fate
that awaited him, the young man, as he contemplated this scene, fell
into a gloomy reverie. While he was thus musing, two horsemen rode past
him; and, proceeding to a little distance, stopped likewise. One of them
was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and
harsh forbidding features. He was well mounted, as was his companion;
and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at his girdle. The other
individual, who was a little in advance, was concealed from the
stranger's view. Presently, however, a sudden movement occurred, and
disclosed his features, which were those of a young man of nearly his
own age. The dress of this person was excessively showy, and consisted
of a scarlet riding-habit, lined and faced with blue, and bedizened with
broad gold lace, a green silk-knit waistcoat, embroidered with silver,
and decorated with a deep fringe, together with a hat tricked out in the
same gaudy style. His figure was slight, but well-built; and, in stature
he did not exceed five feet four. His complexion was pale; and there was
something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. His head
was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his
sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. A mutual recognition
took place at the same instant between the stranger and this individual.
Both started. The latter seemed inclined to advance and address the
former; but suddenly changing his mind, he shouted to his companion in
tones familiar to the stranger's ear; and, striking spurs into his
steed, dashed off at full speed along the Edgeware Road. Impelled by a
feeling, into which we shall not pause to inquire, the stranger started
after them; but they were better mounted, and soon distanced him.
Remarking that they struck off at a turning on the left, he took the
same road, and soon found himself on Paddington-Green. A row of
magnificent, and even then venerable, elms threw their broad arms over
this pleasant spot. From a man, who was standing beneath the shade of
one these noble trees, information was obtained that the horsemen had
ridden along the Harrow Road. With a faint view of overtaking them
the pursuer urged his steed to a quicker pace. Arrived at
Westbourne-Green--then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and
furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse--he
perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending
the gentle hill that rises from Kensall-Green.
By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all
trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure
subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having
wandered--as he conceived--so far out of his course. Before retracing
his steps, however, he allowed his gaze to range over the vast and
beautiful prospect spread out beneath him, which is now hidden, from the
traveller's view by the high walls of the General Cemetery, and can,
consequently, only be commanded from the interior of that attractive
place of burial,--and which, before it was intersected by canals and
railroads, and portioned out into hippodromes, was exquisite indeed.
After feasting his eye upon this superb panorama, he was about to
return, when he ascertained from a farmer that his nearest road to
Willesden would be down a lane a little further on, to the right.
Following this direction, he opened a gate, and struck into one of the
most beautiful green lanes imaginable; which, after various windings,
conducted him into a more frequented road, and eventually brought him to
the place he sought. Glancing at the finger-post over the cage, which
has been described as situated at the outskirts of the village, and
seeing no directions to Dollis Hill, he made fresh inquiries as to where
it lay, from an elderly man, who was standing with another countryman
near the little prison.
"Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat.
"Mr. Wood's," was the reply.
"There is Dollis Hill," said the man, pointing to a well-wooded eminence
about a mile distant, "and there," he added, indicating the roof of a
house just visible above a grove of trees "is Mr. Wood's. If you ride
past the church, and mount the hill, you'll come to Neasdon and then
you'll not have above half a mile to go."
The young man thanked his informant, and was about to follow his
instructions, when the other called after him----
"I say, master, did you ever hear tell of Mr. Wood's famous 'prentice?"
"What apprentice?" asked the stranger, in surprise.
"Why, Jack Sheppard, the notorious house-breaker,--him as has robbed
half Lunnun, to be sure. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day
after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a
gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,--that he did, the
heathen. The gentleman catched him i' th' fact, and we shut him up for
safety i' that pris'n. But," said the fellow, with a laugh, "he soon
contrived to make his way out on it, though. Ever since he's become so
famous, the folks about here ha' christened it Jack Sheppard's cage. His
mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son
took to bad ways, she went distracted,--and now she's i' Bedlam, I've
heerd."
"I tell e'e what, John Dump," said the other fellow, who had hitherto
preserved silence, "I don't know whether you talkin' o' Jack Sheppard
has put him into my head or not; but I once had him pointed out to me,
and if that _were_ him as I seed then, he's just now ridden past us, and
put up at the Six Bells."
"The deuce he has!" cried Dump. "If you were sure o' that we might seize
him, and get the reward for his apprehension."
"That 'ud be no such easy matter," replied the countryman. "Jack's a
desperate fellow, and is always well armed; besides, he has a comrade
with him. But I'll tell e'e what we _might_ do----"
The young man heard no more. Taking the direction pointed out, he rode
off. As he passed the Six Bells, he noticed the steeds of the two
horsemen at the door; and glancing into the house, perceived the younger
of the two in the passage. The latter no sooner beheld him than he
dashed hastily into an adjoining room. After debating with himself
whether he should further seek an interview, which, though, now in his
power, was so sedulously shunned by the other party, he decided in the
negative; and contenting himself with writing upon a slip of paper the
hasty words,--"You are known by the villagers,--be upon your guard,"--he
gave it to the ostler, with instructions to deliver it instantly to the
owner of the horse he pointed out, and pursued his course.
Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend
screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he
obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached
the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of
Neasdon. From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park
than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis
Hill. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently
stealing over the face of the country. Bordered by fine timber, the road
occasionally offered glimpses of a lovely valley, until a wider opening
gave a full view of a delightful and varied prospect. On the left lay
the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy
cloud marked the position of the metropolis. The stranger concluded he
could not be far from his destination, and a turn in the road showed him
the house.
Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof,
stood Mr. Wood's dwelling,--a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house.
On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a
tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of
good-heartedness and benevolence. The progress of time was marked in Mr.
Wood by increased corpulence and decreased powers of vision,--by deeper
wrinkles and higher shoulders, by scantier breath and a fuller habit.
Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had
imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. Around him were all the evidences
of plenty. A world of haystacks, bean-stacks, and straw-ricks flanked
the granges adjoining his habitation; the yard was crowded with poultry,
pigeons were feeding at his feet, cattle were being driven towards the
stall, horses led to the stable, a large mastiff was rattling his chain,
and stalking majestically in front of his kennel, while a number of
farming-men were passing and repassing about their various occupations.
At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned
terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruit-trees in blossom,
and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring.
Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. Wood turned to look at him. It
was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the
features and figure of the stranger.
"I need not ask whether this is Mr. Wood's," said the latter, "since I
find him at his own gate."
"You are right, Sir," said the worthy carpenter, rising. "I am Owen
Wood, at your service."
"You do not remember me, I dare say," observed the stranger.
"I can't say I do," replied Wood. "Your voice seems familiar to
me--and--but I'm getting a little deaf--and my eyes don't serve me quite
so well as they used to do, especially by this light."
"Never mind," returned the stranger, dismounting; "you'll recollect me
by and by, I've no doubt. I bring you tidings of an old friend."
"Then you're heartily welcome, Sir, whoever you are. Pray, walk in.
Here, Jem, take the gentleman's horse to the stable--see him dressed and
fed directly. Now, Sir, will you please to follow me?"
Mr. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern
notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a
neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and
creepers. There was no light in the room; but, notwithstanding this, the
young man did not fail to detect the buxom figure of Mrs. Wood, now more
buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,--as well as a young and
beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter's
daughter.
Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Her features were still
slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as
a child,--but that was the only drawback to her beauty. Their expression
was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand
times plainer than hers. Her figure was perfect,--tall, graceful,
rounded,--and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the
stars in lustre. On the stranger's appearance, she was seated near the
window busily occupied with her needle.
"My wife and daughter, Sir," said the carpenter, introducing them to his
guest.
Mrs. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated,
glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a
very civil salutation. Winifred's reception was kind, but more distant,
and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her occupation.
"This gentleman brings us tidings of an old friend, my dear," said the
carpenter.
"Ay, indeed! And who may that be?" inquired his wife.
"One whom you may perhaps have forgotten," replied the stranger, "but
who can never forget the kindness he experienced at your hands, or at
those of your excellent husband."
At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's
cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand.
"I have a token to deliver to you," continued the stranger, addressing
her.
"To me?" gasped Winifred.
"This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black
ribband from his breast, and giving it her,--"do you remember it?"
"I do--I do!" cried Winifred.
"What's all this?" exclaimed Wood in amazement.
"Do you not know me, father?" said the young man, advancing towards him,
and warmly grasping his hand. "Have nine years so changed me, that there
is no trace left of your adopted son?"
"God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can--can it
be?"
"Surely," screamed Mrs. Wood, joining the group, "it isn't Thames
Darrell come to life again?"
"It is--it is!" cried Winifred, rushing towards him, and flinging her
arms round his neck,--"it is my dear--dear brother!"
"Well, this is what I never expected to see," said the carpenter,
wiping his eyes; "I hope I'm not dreaming! Thames, my dear boy, as soon
as Winny has done with you, let me embrace you."
"My turn comes before yours, Sir," interposed his better half. "Come to
my arms, Thames! Oh! dear! Oh! dear!"
To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or
describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had hugged
his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to squeeze the
breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his wig into the
empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic actions, in
order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction--to describe the
scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the more subdued,
but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be a needless task, as
it must occur to every one's imagination. Supper was quickly served; the
oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel
of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink--their
hearts were too full.
Thames sat with Winifred's hand clasped in his own, and commenced a
recital of his adventures, which may be briefly told. Carried out to sea
by Van Galgebrok, and thrown overboard, while struggling with the waves,
he had been picked up by a French fishing-boat, and carried to Ostend.
After encountering various hardships and privations for a long time,
during which he had no means of communicating with England, he, at
length, found his way to Paris, where he was taken notice of by Cardinal
Dubois, who employed him as one of his secretaries, and subsequently
advanced to the service of Philip of Orleans, from whom he received a
commission. On the death of his royal patron, he resolved to return to
his own country; and, after various delays, which had postponed it to
the present time, he had succeeded in accomplishing his object.
Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and,
when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply
her feelings had been interested.
The discourse, then, turned to Darrell's old playmate, Jack Sheppard;
and Mr. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy
condition to which it had reduced his mother.
"For my part, it's only what I expected of him," observed Mrs. Wood,
"and I'm sorry and surprised he hasn't swung for his crimes before this.
The gallows has groaned for him for years. As to his mother, I've no
pity for her. She deserves what has befallen her."
"Dear mother, don't say so," returned Winifred. "One of the consequences
of criminal conduct, is the shame and disgrace which--worse than any
punishment the evil-doer can suffer--is brought by it upon the innocent
relatives; and, if Jack had considered this, perhaps he would not have
acted as he has done, and have entailed so much misery on his unhappy
parent."
"I always detested Mrs. Sheppard," cried the carpenter's wife bitterly;
"and, I repeat, Bedlam's too good for her."
"My dear," observed Wood, "you should be more charitable--"
"Charitable!" repeated his wife, "that's your constant cry. Marry, come
up! I've been a great deal too charitable. Here's Winny always urging
you to go and visit Mrs. Sheppard in the asylum, and take her this, and
send her that;--and I've never prevented you, though such mistaken
liberality's enough to provoke a saint. And, then, forsooth, she must
needs prevent your hanging Jack Sheppard after the robbery in Wych
Street, when you might have done so. Perhaps you'll call that charity:
_I_ call it defeating the ends of justice. See what a horrible rascal
you've let loose upon the world!"
"I'm sure, mother," rejoined Winifred, "if any one was likely to feel
resentment, I was; for no one could be more frightened. But I was sorry
for poor Jack--as I am still, and hoped he would mend."
"Mend!" echoed Mrs. Wood, contemptuously, "he'll never mend till he
comes to Tyburn."
"At least, I will hope so," returned Winifred. "But, as I was saying, I
was most dreadfully frightened on the night of the robbery! Though so
young at the time, I remember every circumstance distinctly. I was
sitting up, lamenting your departure, dear Thames, when, hearing an odd
noise, I went to the landing, and, by the light of a dark lantern, saw
Jack Sheppard, stealing up stairs, followed by two men with crape on
their faces. I'm ashamed to say that I was too much terrified to scream
out--but ran and hid myself."
"Hold your tongue!" cried Mrs. Wood. "I declare you throw me into an
ague. Do you think _I_ forget it? Didn't they help themselves to all the
plate and the money--to several of my best dresses, and amongst others,
to my favourite kincob gown; and I've never been able to get another
like it! Marry, come up! I'd hang 'em all, if I could. Were such a thing
to happen again, I'd never let Mr. Wood rest till he brought the
villains to justice."
"I hope such a thing never _will_ happen again, my dear," observed Wood,
mildly, "but, when it does, it will be time to consider what course we
ought to pursue."
"Let them attempt it, if they dare!" cried Mrs. Wood, who had worked
herself into a passion; "and, I'll warrant 'em, the boldest robber among
'em shall repent it, if he comes across me."
"No doubt, my dear," acquiesced the carpenter, "no doubt."
Thames, who had been more than once on the point of mentioning his
accidental rencounter with Jack Sheppard, not being altogether without
apprehension, from the fact of his being in the neighbourhood,--now
judged it more prudent to say nothing on the subject, from a fear of
increasing Mrs. Wood's displeasure; and he was the more readily induced
to do this, as the conversation began to turn upon his own affairs. Mr.
Wood could give him no further information respecting Sir Rowland
Trenchard than what he had obtained from Kneebone; but begged him to
defer the further consideration of the line of conduct he meant to
pursue until the morrow, when he hoped to have a plan to lay before
him, of which he would approve.
The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating.
As Mrs. Wood, who had recovered her good humour, quitted the room she
bestowed a hearty embrace on Thames, and she told him laughingly, that
she would "defer all _she_ had to propose to him until to-morrow."
To-morrow! She never beheld it.
After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the
carpenter to his sleeping apartment--a comfortable cosy chamber; such a
one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its
dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white
furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. Left to himself, he
took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the,
chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. It was a copy of the pencil sketch
taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender
recollections.
When about to retire to rest, the rencounter with Jack Sheppard again
recurred to him, and he half blamed himself for not acquainting Mr. Wood
with the circumstances, and putting him upon his guard against the
possibility of an attack. On weighing the matter over, he grew so uneasy
that he resolved to descend, and inform him of his misgivings. But, when
he got to the door with this intention, he became ashamed of his fears;
and feeling convinced that Jack--bad as he might be--was not capable of
such atrocious conduct as to plunder his benefactor twice, he contented
himself with looking to the priming of his pistols, and placing them
near him, to be ready in case of need, he threw himself on the bed and
speedily fell asleep.