IN THE PRESS-YARD.
Press-yard described--Charges for admission--Extortionate fees paid
to turnkeys and governor--The latter’s perquisites--Night carousing
in Press-yard--Penalty for excess--Days how spent--Arrival of
Jacobite prisoners--Discussed by lower officials--Preparations for
them--Their appearance and demeanour--High prices charged for gaol
lodgings--They live royally--First executions abate their
gaiety--Escapes--Keeper superseded by officials specially appointed
by Lord Mayor--Strictness of new _régime_--A military guard
mounts--Rioting and revels among the Jacobites once more checked by
execution of members of the party--Rumours of an amnesty--Mr.
Freeman, who fired a pistol in theatre when Prince of Wales was
present, committed to Press-yard--Freeman’s violent
conduct--Prisoners suffer from overcrowding and heat--Pardons--Rob
Roy in Newgate--Other prisoners in Press-yard--Major Bernardi--His
history and long detentions--Dies in gaol after forty years’
imprisonment.
The situation of this section of the prison has been already indicated.
It was intended more especially for State prisoners, or those
incarcerated on “commitments of State,” and was deemed to be part and
parcel of the governor’s house, not actually within the precincts of the
prison. This was a pious fiction, put forth as an excuse for exacting
fees in excess of the amounts prescribed by Art of Parliament. A sum of
twenty guineas was charged for admission to this favoured spot; in other
words, “for liberty of having room enough to walk two or three of a
breadth.”[85] “The gentlemen admitted here are moreover under a
necessity of paying 11_s._ each per week, although two and sometimes
three lie in a bed, and some chambers have three or four beds in
them.”[86] The act referred to specially provided that keepers might not
charge more than half-a-crown per week as rent for every chamber. This
rule the governor of Newgate--“for this haughty commander-in-chief over
defenceless men is styled by the same name as the constable of the
Tower”--entirely ignored, and the prisoner committed to his custody had
to decide between submitting to the extortion, “or take up his abode in
the common gaol,” where he had thieves and villains for his associates,
and was “perpetually tormented and eaten up by distempers and vermin.”
The extortion practised is graphically described by one who endured it.
The author of the ‘History of the Press-yard,’ after having been mulcted
on first arrival at the lodge for drink and “garnish,”[87] was, although
presumably a State prisoner, and entitled to better treatment, at once
cast in the condemned hold. In this gruesome place, which has been
already described, he lay “seized with a panic dread” at the survey of
his new tenement, and willing to change it for another on almost any
terms. “As this was the design of my being brought hither, so was I made
apprized of it by an expected method; for I had not bewailed my
condition more than half-an-hour, before I heard a voice from above
crying out from a board taken out of my ceiling, which was the speaker’s
floor, ‘Sir, I understand your name is ----, and that you are a
gentleman too well educated to take up your abode in a vault set apart
only for thieves, parricides, and murderers. From hence criminals after
sentence of death are carried to the place of execution, and from hence
you may be removed to a chamber equal to one in any private house, where
you may be furnished with the best conversation and entertainment, on a
valuable consideration.’” The speaker went on to protest that he acted
solely from good will; that he was himself a prisoner, and had suffered
at first in the same manner, but had paid a sum to be removed to better
quarters, “which he thanked God he enjoyed then to his heart’s content,
wanting for nothing that a gaol could afford him.” The victim begged to
know the terms, and to be put in communication with the proper officer
to make a contract for release. The other promised accordingly, and a
quarter of an hour afterwards “clang went the chain of my door and
bolts, and in comes a gentleman-like man of very smiling aspect,” who
apologized profusely, swearing that those who had ill-used a gentleman
in such an unhandsome manner should be well trounced for it. “He
moreover excused the want of suitable entertainment for persons of
condition in prison-houses, and assured me that I should be immediately
conducted to the governor’s house, who would take all imaginable care of
my reception. After this he very kindly took me by the hand to lead me
down into the lodge, which I rightly apprehended as a motive to feel my
pulse, and therefore made use of the opportunity to clap two pieces,
which he let my hand go to have a fast grip of, in his.”
His deliverer was the head turnkey, by name Bodenham Rouse, whom he
accompanied to the Lodge, and there again stood drink. “We gave our
service to one another in a glass of wine, drawn by Dame Spurling, the
fat hostess who kept the tap in the Lodge.” Over the friendly glass
terms were propounded and accepted, and having paid down his twenty
guineas--a large sum, excused on the grounds that Mr. Pitt the governor
had paid £1000 for his place--the prisoner followed his guide through
Phœnix court into the governor’s house, where he had the honour of
saluting and taking a dram of arrack with the great Mr. Pitt, who “as a
mark of his favourable intentions to me, gave order for furnishing me a
bed with clean sheets, after I had paid the woman that brought them to
my barrack of a chamber in the press-yard, whither I was soon conveyed
through a door with a great iron chain to it, five shillings.”
The new-comer was cordially welcomed and introduced by “George, the
cobbler of Highgate,”[88] apparently a prison official, to a congenial
companion, who explained to him the ways of the place. It was in the
first place incumbent on every arrival to pay his footing. About seven
or eight o’clock the entrance fee was demanded. It had previously been
only six bottles of wine, and tobacco in proportion. This was now raised
to ten or twelve bottles, which, if a prisoner was straitened for money,
“could be scored at the bar of the honest tapster, who, though he lost
several hundred pounds by that method of proceeding, was not discouraged
from going on with it in favour of unhappy gentlemen.” This talk lasted
over pipes and a pot of stout, until notice was brought by “a person in
gray hairs, who had then the keys of the press-yard, that all things
were ready for an evening refreshment, and that honest Tom the butler
had carried the bottles, pipes, and tobacco into our refectory, called
the tap-room.” Here the giver of the entertainment seated himself at the
head of the table, and the guests on each side of him. Among them was a
major who had been in the army[89] so long that he was of the same
standing as the Duke of Marlborough, and “commanded over General Mallow,
now a great officer in Spain, when he was an ensign on the Irish
establishment.” Another was “a gentleman, who being of the late King
James’s Horse Guards, had adhered to that exiled monarch’s fortunes till
he was driven out of Ireland.” Both these gentlemen had married since
their confinement, the one, though near seventy,[90] “to a young woman
not much above twenty ... the other, of less advanced years, to a widow
gentlewoman of a like age, who lived very comfortably with him--” of
course in the prison.
They met the new-comer with “all possible civility, and indeed made the
hours pass over more agreeably than he could have expected in that
place.” They drank deep and late. “I continued whipping out sixpences to
advance more bottles, till our cheerfulness was turned into drowsiness,
and merriment became the subject of dispute with some of my
fellow-prisoners, so it was thought high time by the most sober of us to
break up and retire to our chambers, with the ceremony of the turnkeys
locking each of the two staircase-doors after us.” The new prisoner,
furnished with a clay candlestick, “because he had not yet equipped
himself with one of earthenware,” found his way up three pairs of stairs
to a large room, which had its entrance through the chapel. The bars
were as thick as his wrist, and very numerous. The stone walls, which
had borne the same hue for above half a century, were bedaubed with
texts of Scripture written in charcoal, such as “Man is born to
trouble, as the sparks fly upward,” “Before I was afflicted I went
astray, but now I have kept Thy word.” There were bedsteads made of
boards for the bedding, but neither “flocks nor feathers to make one.”
The tables and chairs were of like antiquity and use. “And Potiphar’s
wife’s chambermaid’s hat at the coffee-house in Chelsea had as fair a
claim to any modern fashion as any one thing in the room.” Our author is
disgusted at the accommodation provided for the price, twelve shillings
a week, and another twelve pence for the woman or nurse who cleaned the
place. But he is consoled by being told what he had escaped by not being
locked up on the master’s side, “where, besides a thousand other
inconveniences, I must have paid one and sixpence per diem for leave to
associate myself with pickpockets in a dark and stinking cellar.”
The following morning he was admitted into other mysteries of the place.
All who had exceeded the previous night had to pay the usual forfeit, a
groat in drink for the turnkeys, which the latter collect very
punctually, and at the payment of the forfeit, “as many persons as think
fit may be present.” The names of the offenders having been called over
with all ceremony, all pleaded guilty and promptly paid the fine, which
was forthwith spent in liquor, to be consumed by the cobbler of Highgate
and his fellows. From this time forward the novice was free of the
place, and was looked upon by the other prisoners as one of themselves.
The morning passed with the ordinary diversions. Talk over the persons
of distinction who had gone to Tyburn out of such and such a room, was
varied by the perusal of newspapers hired out by the turnkeys, and the
discussion of the literary merits of the last dying speech composed by a
condemned prisoner, who was on the brink of the gallows. One is given by
the author of ‘The Press-yard’ in extenso, the oration of one J----
B--ggs, an “orange merchant,” sentenced to die for outwitting the Bank
of England, a flowery piece of rhetoric, hardly worth transcribing,
which wound up with these words,--
“So much by way of oration. Here, Jack (Ketch), do your office decently
and with despatch; these clothes, hat, and wig are yours; you will find
fifteen shillings and some grocery in my pocket. Now, Mr. Ordinary, you
may sing the psalm if you please, and I’ll endeavour as well as it is
possible to bear a bob with you, but let it be none of your penitential
ones.”
Thus passed the day. Towards evening visitors began to flock in from
outside to take their bottle and comfort “the distressed inhabitants” of
Newgate press-yard in the only way possible, by inordinate drinking. Of
the visitors some were friends and relatives, others came from sheer
predilection for criminal society. Among them was an alderman’s son,
“who, not having so much prudence as his father, rendered himself
suspected by keeping suspicious company.” Political affinities attracted
more: the eminent merchant, “who would have done much better to relieve
the Militia officer (? Bernardi), he came to carouse with, at a
distance, than to appear so publicly in support of a person obnoxious to
the Government;” or the clergyman, “who had made himself famous at
Whitechapel, or in Saint Laurence’s Church, whom it behoved in a
particular manner to take heed of his ways, since his zeal had already
gained him the opposite party’s displeasure.” All of these came and went
as they pleased. Conviviality was general, liquor was freely called for,
potations were deep, and the press-yard of Newgate at night time was
like the tap-room of a common inn.
The moment was one of considerable political excitement. The Pretender’s
first attempt had collapsed in the north, and the press-yard was about
to be crowded with more eminent guests. Our author is aroused one fine
morning by loud joy-bells pealing from the churches, and he learns from
his Jacobite companion that the “king’s (Pretender’s) affairs were
ruined, and that the generals Willis and Carpenter had attacked the
Jacobite forces in Preston, and taken all prisoners at discretion.”
Newgate is convulsed by the news. Its officers are wild with delight,
“calling for liquor after an extravagant manner, and drinking to their
good luck, which was to arise from the ruin and loss of lives and
fortunes in many good families.” A dialogue is overheard between the
hangman, the deputy bed-maker, and a turnkey’s understrapper to the
following effect:--
_Executioner._ Come, Doll, here’s to you. Good days to us once
more. If this news be true I am made a man for ever.
_Bed-maker._ What news, Mr. Marvell?[91] Has the Parliament
lengthened out the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act?
_Deputy Turnkey._ No, you fool; something better than that.
_Exec._ Two or three hundred prisoners for high treason. Drink a
bumper to their sudden arrival. They’ll be your tenants very
speedily.
_Bedm._ How! Two or three hundred! Where shall we stow them?
_Dep. T._ Never heed that we shall find room for them, provided
they have wherewithal to pay for it.
_Exec._ Pay for it! Most of them have very great estates, and are
topping gentry, so there is no question we shall all of us make a
penny by them.
_Dep. T._ I for fees to lighten their irons.
_Bedm._ I for keeping their chambers sweet and clean.
_Exec._ I for civility money in placing their halters’ knot right
under their left ear, and separating their quarters at the place of
execution with all imaginable decency.
_Bedm._ But with fine gentlemen such as these are said to be, what
is their crime?
_Dep. T._ She’s so stupid as not to remember that we are talking of
the defeated rebels.
_Bedm._ True; now I understand you. And those sort of gentry are to
be brought hither?
_Dep. T._ Yes, you fool. Tom, t’other quartern of Geneva; we shall
call for our bottle of port in a few days. I’ll e’en think of
conning my new lesson against the prisoners come to town. “May it
please your honour, this pair of derbys is as bright as silver, and
weigh two guineas lighter than those such a gentleman has on.”
_Bedm._ And I, these sheets are made of the finest holland, and are
never used but when persons of the first rank are to lie in them.
Sir, such an one gave me a guinea the first night he handselled
them.
_Exec._ I shall not be behindhand with this, though it will come
last to my turn to finger any of their money. For you are to
remember, that besides £3 per head I shall have from the sheriff
for the execution of every peer, their clothes and the money in
their pockets will likewise be my perquisites. And for every
gentleman hanged and quartered I am to have the like sum, with the
respective gratifications they shall make me for a quick and easy
despatch; so that in all likelihood, provided the king does not
unseasonably spoil my market by reprieves and pardons, which I hope
he will never consent to, I shall not only purchase the title of an
esquire, but the estate too, and be in a condition of yet taking an
apprentice (? as hangman) under the same that are usually given to
a Turkey merchant, which may make my wife hold up her head one day
or other to the level of an alderman’s wife.
This conversation was presently interrupted by the approach of Mr. Pitt,
the governor, who came, accompanied by other officials, to survey the
rooms, and estimate the number of new tenants that could be accommodated
therein. All due preparations made, a few days more brought to Newgate
the unfortunate noblemen and gentlemen who had surrendered at
discretion, hoping thus, although vainly, to save both life and estate.
On their arrival in London they were led in triumph through the streets
to their respective places of durance--viz. the Tower, the Marshalsea,
Newgate, and the Fleet. The prisoners on arrival at Highgate were met by
Major-General Tarlton with two battalions of Royal Foot Guards,
completely armed. Cords were also brought sufficient to pinion each
prisoner after the manner of condemned criminals, and to lead their
horses with, “for each, from the lord to the footman, was accommodated
with a Grenadier to that end.” Thus under safe conduct they marched from
the Hill of Highgate to their several places of confinement. The
Major-General led the way, being “preceded by several citizens of more
loyalty than compassion, who made repeated huzzas to excite the mob to
do the like.” After the General commanding came a company of the first
regiment of Guards, “who made a very fine appearance.” Then came the
division for the Tower, two and two, the Earl of Derwentwater and Lord
Widdrington in the first rank, the other lords and noblemen following
with haltered horses, bound like common malefactors, and reviled and
hooted.
Those for Newgate brought up the rear. They were civilly and humanely
treated on arrival there. The officers received them under the gateway,
and no sooner were the prisoners alighted from their horses and their
names called over, than their cords were immediately cut from their arms
and shoulders, and refreshment of wine brought to them. “Their number
was about seventy,” says our author.[92] “And amongst them in particular
I could not but cast my eye upon one Mr. Archibald Bolair, who in the
sixteenth year of his age was said to have signalized his courage, and
have displayed as much skill and dexterity in feats of arms in the
battle of Preston as the oldest commander of them, Brigadier Macintosh
himself, though trained up in warlike affairs, not excepted. What
induced me to distinguish him from the rest was the fearless way of
expression he made use of when the clerk of the prison cut his cords.
‘By my soul, man,’ said he, ‘you should not have done that, but kept it
whole that I might either have been hanged with it, or have it to show,
if I escaped the gallows, how I had been led like a dog in a string for
twice two miles together.’ Mr. Bolair then enquired feelingly for his
followers, who had been brought so many miles from home out of
observance of his orders, and he was anxious that they should not want.”
Young Mr. Bolair was told off to the same room as our author, into which
two additional beds were placed, for the convenience of the keeper, who
by four beds in one room, filled each with three tenants, got £6 per
week, besides the sums paid as entrance money.
The prisoners included many persons of note. Two of them--Mr. Forster,
who thought himself slighted and ill-used because, in consideration of
his seat in Parliament, he had not been imprisoned in the Tower; and
Francis Anderson, esquire, commonly called Sir Francis, a gentleman of
£2000 per annum--had apartments in the governor’s house at £5 per head
per week. There were also Colonel Oxborough, Brigadier Macintosh, the
two Talbots, the Shaftos, Mr. Wogan, and Captain Menzies, who with their
adherents and servants were thrust into the worst dungeons,--such as
“the lion’s den” and the “middle dark,”--till for better lodgment they
had advanced more money than would have rented one of the best houses in
Piccadilly or St. James’s Square. The fee or premium paid by Mr. Forster
and Sir Francis Anderson for being accommodated in the governor’s house
was £60, and it cost the latter twenty-five guineas more to keep off his
irons. Mr. Widdrington, Mr. Ratcliffe, and others paid twenty guineas
apiece for the like favour at their first coming in; and every one that
would not be turned to the common side, ten guineas, beside two
guineas, one guinea and ten shillings per man for every week’s lodging,
although in some rooms the men lay four in a bed. As the result of these
extortions it was computed that Mr. Pitt cleared some £3000 or £4000 in
three or four months, “besides valuable presents given in private, and
among others a stone (entire) horse.”
Money was, however, plentiful among the incarcerated Jacobites, and so
far as was consistent with their situation, they lived right royally.
Sympathetic friends from without plied them with wines and luxurious
diet. They had every day a variety of the choicest eatables in season,
“and that too as early as the greatest and nicest ladies.”[93] Forty
shillings for a dish of peas was nothing to their pockets, nor 13s. for
a dish of fish. These, “with the best French wine, was an ordinary
regale.” They “lived in this profuse manner, and fared so sumptuously
through the means of daily visitants and helps from abroad.” Money
circulated plentifully within the prison. While it was difficult to
change a guinea at any house in the street, nothing was more easy than
to have silver for gold in any quantity in Newgate. Nor did many of them
lack female sympathy. Ladies of the first rank and quality, even
tradesmen’s wives and daughters, “made a sacrifice of their husbands’
and parents’ rings and precious movables for the use of those whom the
law had appointed to be so many sacrifices themselves.”[94] “It is not
to be supposed that a champion so noted for the cause as Captain Silk
was neglected; for he had his full share of those treats which soon made
his clothes too little for his corpse.” When not feasting and
chambering, the prisoners found diversion in playing shuttlecock, “at
which noble game the valiant Forster beat all who engaged him, so that
he triumphed with his feather in the prison though he could not do it in
the field.”[95]
For long there was nothing among them but “flaunting apparel, venison
pasties, hams, chickens, and other costly meats.” But soon all their
jollity came abruptly to an end. The news of the sad fate of the two
peers Derwentwater and Kenmure, who had been brought to trial and
executed upon Tower Hill, “abated their gaiety.” They were yet more
unmistakably reminded of their perilous position by the notice which now
came to them to provide themselves with counsel and witnesses for their
own defence. Fresh committals too were made to Newgate; prisoners were
sent in from the Tower and the Fleet. Among them were Mr. Howard,
brother to the Duke of Norfolk, the Master of Nairn, Mr. Baird
Hamilton, “a gentleman who behaved with wonderful gallantry at the
action of Preston;” Mr. Charles Radcliffe, Lord Derwentwater’s brother,
“a youth of extraordinary courage;” Mr. Charles and Mr. Peregrine
Widdington, “two gentlemen of diversion and pleasure, both papists;” the
two Mr. Cottons, father and son, “nonjurant protestants, and of great
estate in Huntingdonshire;” Mr. Thomas Errington, “a gentleman that had
been in the French service, ... with the laird of Macintosh, Colonel
McIntosh, and Major McIntosh, together with other Scotch gentlemen.”
Brought thus face to face with their very pressing danger, all more or
less cast about them for some means of escape. Several desperate
attempts were made to break prison. Thus on the 14th March it was
discovered that several had tried to get out by breaking through the
press-yard wall, “from which they were to be let down by a rope, instead
of being tucked up by one at Tyburn.” For this several were placed in
irons. Some time later Mr. Forster got clean away,[96] as did Brigadier
Macintosh and eight others. Mr. George Budden, formerly an upholsterer
near Fleet bridge, also effected his escape; and last, but not least,
Mr. Charles Radcliffe, Lord Derwentwater’s brother. After Mr. Forster’s
escape the Government took greater precautions, and a lieutenant with
thirty men of the Foot Guards was ordered to do constant duty at
Newgate. Mr. Pitt, the keeper, was strongly suspected of collusion, and
was attached on a charge of high treason, being after arrest committed
to the custody of one Wilcox, a messenger, “who used him in a barbarous
manner, contrary no doubt to the instruction of the noble lord that
issued the warrant for his confinement.” The city authorities, no doubt
exercised at the insecurity of their gaol, also roused themselves “to
look better after their prison of Newgate,” and instead of leaving Mr.
Rouse chief turnkey in charge of the whole place, specially appointed
Mr. Carleton Smith, an officer of the Lord Mayor’s, and with him Mr.
Russell, to take care of the rebels in the press-yard. These new
officials “performed their part so well,” it is said, “by examining all
the visitors, debarring entrance to all riding hoods, cloaks, and arms,
and by sitting up all night in the prison, each in his turn, that not
one man escaped from thence during their time.”
The new keepers appear to have stirred up much animosity from their
punctual discharge of their duties. Mr. Russell, we read, shortly after
his appointment was very much abused and threatened by Captain Silk and
some of the rebels, who surrounded him in the press-yard, but he made
his retreat without any harm. There must have been some in the reigning
monarch’s service with secret sympathies for the Pretender; for it is
recorded, May 14th, that “an officer of the guards with two others
conversed with the rebels all day.” They were, moreover, humoursome and
abusive to the new keepers because of their care in looking after their
prisoners; whereof Messrs. Carleton Smith and Russell complained to the
Lord Mayor, who thereupon ordered that no officer should be permitted to
visit the prisoners without the express permission of the Secretary of
State; and next day it is stated the officer in fault was “submissive
and sorry for his offence.” This was not the first offence of the kind.
A few days before the officer of the guard went in (even then),
“contrary to custom,” with his sword on to see the prisoners. He
continued with them for some hours, and whether heated with wine or
otherwise, beat one of the turnkeys as he brought in a rebel from trial.
This officer was placed in arrest, and another mounted guard in his
place, who “prevented the drunkenness and other irregularities of the
soldiers which might have given the prisoners an opportunity to escape.”
Matters were not too comfortable for the military guard. The men at the
gate were liable to insults as on the 19th May, when they were reviled
by a Tory constable. They were also open to efforts to wean them from
their allegiance. One day Mr. Carleton Smith detected a prisoner, Isaac
Dalton,[97] in durance for libel, endeavouring to corrupt the sentinels
by giving them money to drink the Pretender’s health with. “But he
missed his aim.” The soldiers heartily drank to King George in wine
supplied by Mr. Smith, and declared they would oppose the Pretender to
the last drop of their blood. All the guards were not equally loyal,
however. On another occasion the soldiers of the guard “had the
impudence to sing Captain Silk’s dearly beloved tune, ‘The king shall
have his own again,’ for which their officer, Captain Reeve, a very
loyal gentleman, threatened them with imprisonment.”
The peril of the prisoners bred a certain reckless turbulence among
them. On the 29th May a mob collected in great numbers outside, carrying
oaken boughs on pretence of commemorating the restoration. The guard was
reinforced, lest the mob should attempt to break open the gaol. Inside
the rebels were very noisy, and insulted their keepers; “but they were
soon put out of a capacity of doing much harm, for by way of precaution
they were all locked up before ten o’clock.” This hour of early closing
was continued, and greatly resented by them. A few days later they made
a great disturbance at the sound of a bell set up by order of the Lord
Mayor to ring them to their apartments at the regular hour. They asked
for the order. It was read to them, to their manifest dissatisfaction,
for it referred the recent escapes to the unaccountable liberty of
indulgence permitted them, and insisted that upon the ringing of the
bell in question all should betake themselves to their apartments. Ten
was the hour of retiring “at farthest”; any infringement of the rule
would be followed by the deprivation of all freedom, and double irons
for the offenders. Except Captain Silk, however, all acquiesced in the
order. He alone, “with his usual impudence, bullied the keeper, and made
many unbecoming reflections upon the Lord Mayor and sheriffs.” Nor did
insubordination end here. A day or two later the Lord Mayor’s notice,
which had been posted up in the various press-yard rooms, was torn down
by the rebels in contempt of authority.
A fresh and more serious riot soon occurred in the streets, on the
occasion of the thanksgiving on the anniversary of Preston fight.
Several visitors came to the rebels with rue and thyme in their hats and
bosoms in contempt of the day; but the new keepers made bold to strip
them of their badges and strew the floors with them, “as more worthy to
be trodden underfoot than be worn by way of insult on that glorious
day.” About midnight brickbats were thrown from the neighbouring houses
upon the soldiers on guard; and the guard in retaliation fired up at the
places whence came the attack. Mr. Carleton Smith, whose turn it was to
sit up, feared some attempt was being made to break the gaol, and
“leaping out to know the occasion of the firing, searched several of the
houses; in doing which he was like to have been shot by a ball which
came up to the room where he was.” But the loyalty of the rebels to
their cause was not to be checked. It broke out again on the 10th June,
the anniversary of the Pretender’s birth. “Captain Booth, whose window
looked into Phœnix Court, was so insolent as to put out a great bunch
of white roses at his window,” and several visitors of both sexes came
wearing the same rebellious badges. But again the keepers pulled them
out and threw them on the floor.
In all these disturbances Captain Silk was a ringleader. He is
continually ready to make a noise. Now he swears revenge upon the keeper
for not allowing supper to be carried in to him and his “conrogues”
after 10 P.M.; now he incites other prisoners to riot. “They are for the
most part very drunk and rude, so that it was with great difficulty that
they were got to their rooms by one o’clock in the morning.” Next day
Captain Silk continues his insolence. He threatens Mr. Smith for
refusing to pass in visitors after regulated hours. Again he and his
companions are drunk and insolent, and cannot be got to their rooms till
the same late hour. A night or two later they crowded about the doors
when they were opened, cursing and assaulting the person who rang the
night-bell. Captain Silk, as before, encouraged them, and to provoke
them further, when the bell sounded cried out, “Get up, ye slaves, and
go.”
Sadder moments soon supervened. The trials were proceeding, and already
the law had condemned several. Among the first to suffer were Colonel
Oxborough and Mr. Gascoigne: the latter was offered his pardon on
conditions which he rejected, and both began to make great preparations
for “their great change.” Colonel Oxborough, who lay in the condemned
hold, behaved with an astonishing serenity of mind; and when his friends
expressed their concern in tears, he gravely rebuked them, showing an
easiness very unaccustomed in the bravest minds under such a sentence.
Next an order of the court came down for the execution of twenty-four
more who had been condemned, and “universal sorrow” prevailed in the
gaol. Parson Paul,[98] one of the number, was “so dejected he could not
eat;” most of the other prisoners retired to their apartments to vent
their grief, and a vast number of their friends in tears came to condole
with them. After this all were busy with petitions to the court. Some
were immediately successful. Handsome young Archibald Bolair was
discharged, “at which Lady Faulconbridge, his supposed benefactress,
went out with a smiling countenance.” Next night he returned in his kilt
to visit his friends, but was denied entrance. That same midnight there
were great shouts of joy in the prison: a reprieve had come down for all
but Parson Paul and Justice Hall,[99] both of whom were led next day to
Tyburn. Neither would admit the ministrations of the Ordinary, to whom
they “behaved rudely,” and they were attended at the place of execution
by priests of their own stamp in a lay habit. They (the condemned) were
hardened to the highest degree, says their implacable opponent, and gave
free vent to their treason in seditious speeches at the gallows.
Great consternation prevailed after these executions. It was greatly
increased by the known displeasure of the Government at the demeanour of
some of the condemned at Tyburn. But the king (George I.) was now gone
on a visit to Hanover; and the Prince of Wales, as regent, was pleased
to put an end to the further effusion of blood. Rumours of an Act of
Indemnity were spread abroad, and abundance of visitors came to
congratulate the prisoners on their approaching release. But the happy
day being still postponed, the Jacobites became turbulent once more; Mr.
Pitt, the old governor, who had been tried for neglect in allowing Mr.
Forster and others to escape, had been acquitted, upon which the Lord
Mayor and sheriffs recalled Messrs. Carleton Smith and Russell. The
latter delivered up their charge, “having performed it so well that not
one prisoner had escaped.” But Mr. Pitt was again unfortunate; and
suffering another man (Flint) to escape, the court of aldermen resolved
to reinstate Smith and Russell. This gave great dudgeon to the rebels in
the press-yard, who soon proved very refractory, refusing to be locked
up at the proper time. Then they made bitter reflections on the advice
given to the new keepers in the ‘Flying Post,’ a Whiggish organ, who
were, as the author of the ‘Secret History’ observes sarcastically, “so
inhuman, that they would let none of the rebels make their escape,
either in the habits of women, footmen, or parsons.” It was difficult
for the keepers not to give cause of offence. Their prisoners were angry
with them because they would not sit down and drink with them, “as the
old ones used to do;” even upon the bribe, offered when the indemnity
loomed large, of swallowing a bumper to King George. Captain Silk was
troublesome as ever. One Sunday he cursed and swore prodigiously because
the doors had been shut during divine service, and his roaring
companions could not have access to him. Another time the prisoners
insulted the keepers, asking them why they carried arms? The Jacobites
declared they could not endure the sight since the battle of Preston.
Just about now the keepers were informed that the rebels intended to do
them a mischief--a threat which did not deter them, however, from
strictly performing their duty.
Another prisoner added greatly to the trials of the keepers about this
period. This was Mr. Freeman, who was committed for firing a pistol in
the playhouse when the prince was there. Freeman was continually
intoxicated when in gaol. He was also very mischievous, and kept a
burning candle by him most part of the night, to the great danger of the
prison, especially when in his mad freaks. “He is a lusty, strong,
raw-boned man, has a stern, dogged look, as of an obstinate temper when
vexed, but fawning and treacherous when pleased.” In a day or two
Freeman showed the cloven foot. He flew into a violent passion, and beat
one of the female servants of the prison, “shutting the door against the
keepers, after he had wounded one of them with a fork which he held in
one hand, having a knife and pistol in the other.” He was overpowered,
and carried to the condemned hold, where he was put in irons. His
villainous designs there appeared by his setting his handkerchief on
fire, and concealing it in his hat near his bed, and it was suspected
that he wished to set the gaol on fire, so that the prisoners might have
the opportunity to escape. A day later Mr. Freeman “regretted that he
had not murdered his keeper in the last scuffle;” and the same day Mr.
Menzies and Mr. Nairn did honestly tell the keepers that the prisoners
meant to injure them, Freeman’s disturbance having been raised “chiefly
to that end, and that the female servant he only pretended to assault,
so as to make her cry out murder before she was in the least hurt.”
Royal clemency was still delayed, and the advancing summer was intensely
hot. The close confinement of so many persons in a limited space began
to tell seriously on the prisoners. A spotted fever,[100] which had
before shown itself with evil effects, reappeared. It had proved fatal
to Mr. Pitcairn the previous August, and in the winter Mr. Butler had
died of the same. Now it carried off Mr. Kellet, Sir Francis Anderson’s
man. Mr. Thornton was also attacked, but through the care of his
doctors recovered. Next month (June) Mr. David Drummond died, and Mr.
Ratcliffe was indisposed. It was generally feared that the distemper
would become contagious; whereupon some of the principal inmates, among
them Mr. Ratcliffe, the two Mr. Widdingtons, Mr. Murray, and Mr. Seaton,
“who is styled by them the Earl of Dumferline,” petitioned the Prince
Regent and council for enlargement to more commodious prisons. The
king’s physicians were accordingly despatched to the prison to inquire
into its sanitary condition. Their report was that no contagious
distemper existed. The matter was therefore ordered to stand until his
Majesty’s pleasure should be known at his arrival from Hanover. George
I. soon afterwards returned, and signified his orders for an Act of
Grace, which duly passed both Houses of Parliament.
The news of an amnesty was joyfully received in the press-yard. One of
the first acts of the prisoners so soon to be set free was to get in a
poor fiddler, “whom they set to play tunes adapted to their treasonable
ballads;.... but this was so shocking to the keepers that they turned
the fiddler out.” Next the prisoners had a badger brought in, and baited
him with dogs. Other already pardoned rebels came and paid ceremonious
visits, such as Mr. Townley, who appeared with much pomp and splendour
after his discharge from the Marshalsea. Several clergymen also visited;
and a noted common council man, whose friends stood a bowl of punch that
night in Captain Silk’s room. The State prisoners were soon “very busy
in getting new rigging, and sending away their boxes and trunks; so that
they looked like so many people removing from their lodgings and houses
on quarter-day.” On July 4th a member of Parliament came to assure Mr.
Grierson that the Act of Indemnity would surely pass in a few days. This
occasioned great joy. A fortnight later the pardon was promulgated, and
all the prisoners remaining were taken to Westminster to plead the Act,
“where many were so very ungrateful that they refused to kneel or speak
out in asking the king’s pardon till they were forced to it.”[101]
According to this last-quoted writer, the rebels in Newgate were not of
exemplary character. “Their daily practice in prison was profane
swearing, drunkenness, gluttony, gaming, and lasciviousness.” That such
was permitted speaks volumes as to the shameful negligence of prison
rule in those unsettled times.
There were other rebel prisoners, who do not seem to have benefited by
this act of grace, and who remained much longer in prison. It is
recorded in the ‘Weekly Journal’ of January 24th, 1727, that the King
(George I.) had pardoned another batch of Jacobites, who had been
capitally convicted in the first year of his reign for levying war
against him. The pardoned traitors were Robert Stuart, of Appin;
Alexander Macdonald, of Glencoe; Grant, of Glenmorrison; Maclimmin, of
that Ilk; Mackenzie, of Fairburn; Mackenzie, of Dachmalnack; Chisholm,
of Shatglass; Mackenzie, of Ballumakie; MacDougal, of Lorne; and two
others, more notable than all the rest, “James, commonly called Lord,
Ogilvie,” and “Robert Campbell, _alias_ Macgregor, commonly called Rob
Roy.” They had been under durance in London, for it is added that “on
Tuesday last they were carried from _Newgate_ to _Gravesend_, to be put
on ship-board for transportation to Barbadoes.” Rob Roy marching
handcuffed to Lord Ogilvie through the London streets from Newgate to
the prison barge at Blackfriars, and thence to Gravesend, is an incident
that has escaped the notice of Walter Scott, and all of Rob’s
biographers. The barge-load of Highland chiefs, and of some thieves,
seems, however, to have been pardoned, and allowed to return home.
Before leaving the press-yard some reference must be made to certain
political “suspects” who were lodged therein for terms varying from
nineteen to forty years. Their case is remarkable, as being the last
instance of the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act in England, with the
full knowledge and sanction of Parliament, and in spite of repeated
strongly-urged petitions from the prisoners for release. Their names
were John Bernardi, Robert Cassilis, Robert Meldrum, Robert Blackburne,
and James Chambers. Of these, the first-named, Major Bernardi, is the
old officer referred to by the writer of the ‘History of the
Press-Yard.’[102] Bernardi has told his own story in a volume penned in
Newgate, and “printed by J. Newcomb, in the Strand, for the benefit of
the author, 1729.” Macaulay is disposed to discredit the version given
by Bernardi, although there is a certain air of truthfulness in the
prisoner’s narrative. Bernardi begins at the beginning. He was of
Italian extraction, he tells us. His ancestors had been in the
diplomatic service. Count Philip de Bernardi, his great-grandfather,
came to England with a Genoese embassy. Francis Bernardi, son of the
former, and father of Major John, was also accredited to Charles II. on
the restoration, but when replaced as resident, being English born, he
preferred to live and die in the land of his birth. According to his
son, he was a stern parent, ready to award him penal treatment, with
imprisonment for trifles, “in a little dark room or dungeon allowing him
only bread and small beer when so confined.” By-and-by John ran away
from home, and through the favour of Lady Fisher was employed as a
“listed soldier” in a company at Portsmouth when barely fifteen years of
age. A year or two later his god-father, Colonel Anselme, took him to
the Low Countries, where by gallant conduct in the wars he gained an
ensigncy from the Prince of Orange. At the siege of Maestrict he lost an
eye, and was badly wounded in the arm. When scarcely twenty he was
promoted to a lieutenancy, and eight years later obtained a company in
Colonel Monk’s regiment. He was now, by his own account, arrived “at a
high pitch of fortune.” He was a captain at twenty-seven in an
established service, was personally well known to the Prince of Orange
(afterwards William III.), had married well, and was, with his wife’s
fortune, in the receipt of “a considerable income.”
James II., on coming to the throne, summoned home all English officers
in the service of the States. Among the few who obeyed was Major
Bernardi, and he then gave up, as he says, a certainty for an
uncertainty. Very soon his former chief, the Prince of Orange, replaced
James upon the throne, and Bernardi, unfortunately for himself,
thereafter espoused the wrong side. He refused to sign the “association
put about by General Kirk,” under which all officers bound themselves to
stand by William “against all persons whomsoever,” and proceeded to
France to throw in his lot with the exiled king. When James embarked for
Ireland, Bernardi followed in command of a party of newly-organized
adherents. He was at several of the engagements in that island, and was
presently commissioned Major. After that he went to the Highlands with
Seaforth Mackenzie on a special mission, and on his return had the
honour of dining at the same table with the king. A second mission to
Scotland followed, after which Bernardi made his way south, and escaping
great perils by the way, reached London, meaning, when he had disposed
of horses and effect, to cross over to Flanders. At Colchester, however,
from which he hoped to reach easily a port of embarkation, he was seized
and committed on suspicion, first to the town gaol, then to that of
Chelmsford. After being much harassed he at length obtained his release,
only to be soon involved in still greater trouble.
To his great misfortune he now fell in with one Captain Rookwood. It was
about the time of the discovery of the assassination plot, of which
Major Bernardi declares that he was in absolute ignorance till he heard
of it like the rest of the world. He was by chance in the company of
Captain Rookwood at a tavern, and was with him arrested on suspicion of
being “evil-minded men.” While in the Compter Rookwood incautiously
revealed his own identity, and was lost. Rookwood seems at the same time
to have unintentionally betrayed Bernardi, whose name had, it appears,
and in spite of his protestations of perfect innocence, been included in
a proclamation. The inference is that the Government was in the
possession of certain information that Bernardi was mixed up in the
plot.[103] Both men were carried before the Council, and committed close
prisoners to Newgate, “loaded with heavy irons, and put into separate
dismal, dark, and stinking apartments.” Rookwood was speedily condemned
and executed at Tyburn. Bernardi remained in prison without trial, until
after Sir John Fenwick had suffered. Then with his fellow-prisoners he
was taken to the Old Bailey to be bailed out, but at the instance of the
Treasury solicitor, who “whispered the Judges upon the Bench,” they
were relegated to Newgate, and a special Act passed rapidly through the
House to keep them for another twelve-month on the plea of waiting for
further evidence against them. A second Act was passed prolonging the
imprisonment for another year; then a third, to confine them during the
king’s pleasure. On the death of the king (William III.), a fresh Act
extended the imprisonment during the reign of Queen Anne. During this
long lapse of time repeated applications were made to Judges, but the
release of the prisoners was always bitterly opposed by the law
officers. Bernardi’s doctors certified that imprisonment was killing
him; he suffered from fits and the constant trouble of an old wound.
Nevertheless he lived on; and when in his sixty-eighth year he married,
in Newgate, a second, virtuous, kind, and loving wife, who proved “a
true help-meet,” supporting him by her good management, and keeping his
heart from breaking in the “English Bastille.” Bernardi had ten children
born in Newgate of this second wife. The imprisonment continued through
the reigns of George I. and II. Frequent petitions were unheeded, and
finally Bernardi died in Newgate in 1736, the last survivor, after forty
years’ incarceration, and aged eighty-two.