TRANSPORTATION
Margaret returned to Ipswich in a very despondent state of mind; more
so, to all appearance, than if her sentence had not been changed from
death to transportation. Her feelings on this point are strikingly
evinced in the following letter, which she wrote to her mistress soon
after her return to gaol:--
"IPSWICH GAOL, August 9th, 1800.
"HONOURED MADAM,
"I am returned from Bury, and I regret to say that I am not to die
yet. That day is put off--perhaps that I may be swallowed up by the
sea, or be eaten by the savages of Botany Bay. I am to look forward
to years of degraded slavery, and to be sent away from my country
and my friends. I am so sorrowful, my dear lady, that I require
more of your good advice to learn to live than to learn to die. I
feel, indeed, as if my judge did it to torment me, and if I had the
opportunity, I should certainly tell him so. You told me he would
be severe; he was bitterly so, but it made me feel much less
grateful to him than I did the first time. Then I thought him like
you, dear lady, but I see no traces of that resemblance now. His
words were tormenting, his manners towards me tormenting, and his
change of sentence is tormenting. I would really have rather been
left to die, though by the hand of the public executioner, than be
as I am, soon to be sent out of the country to meet a more
miserable death. If I never see you more, I shall never forget you.
I told the judge that but for your friendship I should not have
been sensible of my sin. He called me a hardened sinner, and said I
was not fit to live. I wonder, then, that he did not suffer me to
die. Dear lady, I feel so very low, that if you do not come and
see me I shall be miserable indeed. Do--oh! pray do, if you can! I
hope you are suffering less from the effects of your sprain, and
that I shall see you. Forgive your poor servant's boldness and
seeming selfishness. I pray earnestly for you and your dear family.
Oh that I could see the dear Cliff again! So happy was I when I
first lived there, and so should I be now, could I ever hope to see
you there again. To be your servant would be something worth living
for; but to be a slave in a foreign land! Oh! my dear lady! death
would be preferable to
"Your poor servant,
"MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
"To MRS. COBBOLD, Cliff, Ipswich."
Her letter was dated on Saturday, the 9th August. It may be seen in the
_Ipswich Journal_ of the 16th of August, A. D. 1800, that the Lord Chief
Baron paid a visit to the Ipswich gaol on Tuesday, 12th of August.
He arrived on the morning of that day in his carriage, and was not
personally known to the turnkey. He told the man that he came purposely
to inspect the gaol, and wished particularly to see the spot where
Margaret Catchpole effected her escape.
"Did you fill the office of turnkey at the time?" inquired the visitor.
"I did, sir," replied the man.
"Then you had a very narrow escape; for, had I been the judge to have
tried you, I should have been much inclined to have thought you guilty
of connivance in this matter."
"Then I am very glad, sir, that you are not a judge."
The Lord Chief Baron did not tell him at the moment who he was.
The turnkey was quite ready to show him the way in which the escape had
been made. He set up the frame exactly as he found it on the day of
Margaret's adventure, and showed him the very crotch with which she had
fixed the line on the _chevaux de frise_. The broken spike on the
roller was pointed out, and he informed the judge of the trousers and
smock-frock which the prisoner had manufactured out of the sheets of her
bed. After having examined minutely the place and the frame, and having
heard the full report of the turnkey, he again said--
"What an artful woman she must be to do this, and to be able to deceive
you in the sound of her voice from the adjoining cell!"
"Aye, sir; and had she not confessed this, I should have been puzzled,
up to this hour, to account for her getting out of her cell, as I swore
that I heard her answer from within, before I locked the door."
"She must be a clever person."
"Yes, sir, I believe she is. She owes a very great deal to a lady in
this town, who has taken great pains with her."
"So I have heard," said the stranger. "I would give something to see
that lady. I understand she is the wife of the gentleman from whom she
stole the horse."
"I wish the lady might call while you are here, sir. It is not unlikely
that she may. Pray, sir, were you in court at the time of her trial?"
"Yes, I was."
"Then, perhaps, sir, you could tell us if it be true that she answered
the judge who addressed her in such a manner as to confuse him. Our
folks say that he was completely set, and felt so much surprised as to
be put out by her speech. I do not, of course, know if it be so, but I
heard two of our visiting magistrates talking about it the other day,
and they seemed to say as much as if it was so."
"It did not strike me to be exactly so. The judge was certainly
surprised at what she said, but I do not think he was angry with the
prisoner. Is the woman in her cell at this time?"
"Yes, she is, sir."
"Will you tell Mr. Ripshaw that I should like to examine all the cells
of the prison?"
"Mr. Ripshaw is gone with two prisoners to Portsmouth, sir; but Mrs.
Ripshaw is within, and I can show you the cells."
The Lord Chief Baron followed the turnkey to the door of the governor's
house, which was in the centre of the gaol. At this moment the chaplain,
the Rev. Mr. Sharp, came to pay his visit to the prisoners. The
gentlemen were shown into the parlour, where Mrs. Ripshaw sat, busily
engaged at some of the gaol accounts.
The Lord Chief Baron presented his card to the chaplain, who immediately
explained to Mrs. Ripshaw who it was.
"I am come purposely to inspect the gaol, Mrs. Ripshaw, and I wish to be
quite incog. at present. I have already examined the spot where that
extraordinary woman, Margaret Catchpole, effected her escape; and if
you, sir," addressing himself to the chaplain, "are going to visit her,
and have no objection to my accompanying you, I should like to be
brought in as your friend. You need not address me, but I will join you
in your duties. I wish to see this singular woman, if possible, without
her recognizing me."
"She is, indeed, my lord," replied the chaplain, "a most extraordinary
person. I have found her, up to this second trial, not only tractable,
but intelligent and attentive in the highest degree; but since her
return from Bury, she is disappointed and dissatisfied."
"With what?"
"With her reprieve for transportation."
"With her reprieve! Does the woman really prefer death to life?"
"Your lordship will be the best judge of that by the tenor of our
conversation, if she should not recognize your lordship. And should she
do so, she would not scruple to tell you plainly her opinion."
"I do not think that she can possibly recognize me, if I do not speak to
her, and I shall keep strict silence, if I can."
What a strange alteration do robes and wigs make in the appearance of
men of the law! Who could recognize the Lord Chief Baron of our courts
of law without the robes of his office? Counsel are not recognized even
by their clients when they first see them in their rooms without their
wigs and gowns. No wonder, then, that Margaret Catchpole should take her
judge for some brother clergyman or friend of the chaplain's, when he
entered the cell, and seated himself upon a chair, which the turnkey
placed there for him.
"Well, Margaret," said the chaplain, "I hope you are a little more
reconciled to your prospects than you were when I saw you last."
"I wish I could say I am, sir; but my prospects look very gloomy, and I
feel a great deal more anguish than if I were going to be executed."
"You ought not to do so, Margaret; I consider it a great mercy that your
life is spared."
"Spared! For what, sir? To drag on a wretched life as a felon, and to
live and die, no one knows how or cares, and then to lie in a felon's
grave in a distant land! Here my body would at least have soon rested
beside my friends and relatives. My sufferings would have been short,
and I think I should have been happy. Oh, sir! pray forgive my poor
broken heart; it will give utterance to the language of lamentation. Oh!
that cruel judge! He might have let me die, especially as the bitterness
of death had already passed over me. But he was angry and displeased at
me for speaking, though he asked me if I had anything to say! So he
resolved that I should suffer the most excruciating torture by killing
me by inches in a foreign land! Is this mercy, Mr. Sharp?"
"You look upon this in an unchristian and too gloomy a light. You here
attribute motives to your judge of a very improper kind; such as I am
fully persuaded never entered his mind, and never were inmates of his
breast. I am persuaded his thoughts toward you were those of pity as
well as mercy, and that your change of sentence was meant for your good
and that of others. You have no right to judge of his motives in so
unchristian a light."
"My dear sir, again I say, pardon my speech. I speak as I feel. Perhaps,
with your help, I may feel differently, but I should then speak
differently. Could you, or this gentleman, feel as I do, and were either
of you placed in my situation, you would think and argue very
differently to what you now do. You sit there, both of you, at liberty
to move from this place to the happy associations of kindred, friends,
and home. I grant you, a return to their society sweetens life, and
teaches you to bear your earthly visitations, whatever they may be,
patiently. But let me ask you how you would, either of you, like now to
be afflicted with a long, lingering, painful, bodily disease, which
permitted you only a few moments' rest, and those troubled and broken,
and disturbed by horrid dreams; that, when you awoke each day, it was
only to a sense of increased pain? How would you like years of such
increased agony? Tell me, would you not prefer a happier, shorter, and
speedier termination of your sufferings than that long distant one which
must come at last after years of weariness and pain? Yet you find fault
with me because I would rather die now than live many years in all the
horrors of slavery, and then die without a friend near me!"
"Still I think you wrong, Margaret. You seem to argue as if we had a
choice of our own in these matters, and forget that it must be God's
will, and not our own, to which we must submit."
"Is it God's will, or is it man's will, that I should lead a life of
misery?"
"This question almost makes me think you impious, Margaret. It is God's
will that you should live, and I hope for some good: at all events, it
is for some wise purpose of His own, either that you may become an
instrument of His righteousness or mercy in His hands, or that you may
be an example to others. As to the misery you talk of, that will depend
much upon your own future individual conduct and character. I have
heard that some receive pardon in that country for their good conduct,
and they settle in the land; and instead of being slaves, they become
useful members of society."
"That may perhaps be the case with some, sir; but I am looking at my own
present state, and I cannot believe that my judge had any such mercy in
his view when he changed my sentence from present momentary suffering to
such future wretchedness."
"Of that you can know nothing, neither ought you to take your present
state as any other than that of God's decree by His agent, the judge.
How can you ascertain the motives of any man's heart? I do firmly
believe that your judge decided most mercifully and righteously in your
case. He might really think that if you were removed from this country,
you might be instrumental in doing much good. He might hope that, under
different circumstances of life, from the very natural force of your
character taking another bias, you might become a blessing to yourself
and others."
"And so, because I yielded to temptation when I had so many good friends
around me, he would throw me into the very midst of temptation, where I
have not one friend to help me. Oh! Mr. Sharp, would it not be far
better to choose present release, when such kind friends are near me,
than future death, when no comforter or friend can be near?"
"And is not your God near you, Margaret, in every place, unless you
drive Him away by your wickedness? But how can you tell that He may not
raise up some benevolent friend to help you in that country to which you
are going? I hope for the best. At all events, you must cherish better
feelings towards your judge than those you now possess, or your state
will be dreadful indeed wherever you may be. You seem to have forgotten
all the Christian lessons which your dear mistress and I have taken such
pains to teach you."
"I would not be ungrateful, sir, though I may now appear, as I am, so
unhappy. I will try by prayer to conquer the prejudice you speak of. I
do suffer such extreme horror in my mind from my view of the future,
that there is no rest for me by night or day. I see nothing but chains
and darkness. I think sometimes of the long, long journey from my native
land, of the dangers of the sea, of the companions with whom I may be
mixed. I start sometimes in my dreams, and fancy a great shark dashing
at me in the waters. Another time I see the native cannibals ready to
devour me. Then I think of home, of you, sir, of dear Dr. Stebbing, of
my uncle and aunt, and of my dearest mistress, and I find my
prison-pillow is wet with my nightly tears."
The tears started in more eyes than her own, as she spoke, in her
touching simplicity, of these acute feelings. She suffered intensely;
and it took many months of rational and devout conversation, on the part
of both her mistress and this worthy man, to eradicate those bitter
seeds of despair, and to sow those of cheerfulness and hope. After
directing Margaret's mind to Christian duties, the chaplain and the
judge left her cell. They conversed some time upon her state of mind and
future prospects. The judge declared that he thought her one of the most
sensitive persons he had ever seen, with a mind capable of the highest
cultivation. He left five guineas with the chaplain to be laid out for
her benefit. He stated that she would not, in all probability, leave
England till the next summer, and hoped to hear a better account of her
some future day. Margaret was not informed of the person who had visited
her that day with the chaplain, until she had learned to look upon him
and herself in a very different light.
The Lord Chief Baron visited all the cells of the prison, and expressed
his approbation of the cleanliness and neatness of the whole place. As
he was going away, he told the turnkey that he was the very judge who
had tried the female prisoner for breaking out of gaol. The reader may
imagine how frightened the poor fellow was at his late boldness of
speech. The judge observed his embarrassment, and told him that he had
spoken nothing improper; that he had done his duty, and deserved his
thanks.
"You may tell your master," he added, "that I am so well satisfied with
the appearance of all things under his care, that when I return to town
I shall not fail to give a favourable report of the state of the gaol
and of his discipline." He made the turnkey a present, and left the
gaol.
It was not until May, 1801, that Margaret Catchpole was informed of the
day of her departure for Botany Bay. She had been instructed in many
things relating to the country to which she was going, and her kind
mistress had purchased an assortment of useful articles for her future
employment. Her mind had been gradually divested of its miserable
horrors, and became fortified for the occasion. It will be seen,
however, that as the near approach of the day came, she dreaded and
lamented it bitterly. On the 25th of May, 1801, Mrs. Cobbold received
the following note from her:--
"IPSWICH GAOL, May 25th, 1801.
"DEAR AND HONOURED MADAM,
"I am sorry to have to inform you of the bad news. I am going away
on Wednesday next, or Thursday at the latest, so I have taken the
liberty of troubling you with these few lines. It will be the last
time I shall ever trouble you from this place of sorrowful, yet,
comparatively with the future, blessed captivity. My grief is very
great, now that I am really on the eve of banishment from my own
country and from all my dearest friends for ever. It was hard for
me ever to think of it. Oh! what must it be to endure it! Honoured
madam, it would give me some happiness to see you once more, on the
Tuesday previous to my leaving England for ever, if you will not
think this request of mine too troublesome. I know your kind heart.
I would spare you any anxiety about so unworthy a person as
myself, but I must entreat your goodness to consider me in this my
severest misery. Have pity upon me! Oh! do come! Only let me see
your dear face once more, and it will ever be a comfort and
satisfaction to your poor unhappy servant,
"MARGARET CATCHPOLE.
"To MRS. COBBOLD, Cliff, Ipswich."
On Tuesday, the 26th of May, this benevolent lady paid poor Margaret her
last visit. She felt that it would be the last time she should ever see
her in this world. It was a painful interview, and one that she would
have spared herself, had it not been for the hope of comforting the mind
of her disconsolate servant. She found her seated upon the chest which
she had sent her from the Cliff a few days before. Her eyes were swollen
with weeping; and, as she rose to meet her beloved mistress, she
trembled and tottered from the weakness of agitation. Her mistress
gently seated her again, and took her seat beside her.
"Oh! my dear lady!" she began, "my time is come, and I feel just as if
my heart would burst. Surely this must be worse than death!"
"Do not say so, Margaret. Remember all the advice I have given you, and
I have no doubt that you will find yourself rewarded with different
treatment to that which you expect."
"But I shall never see you nor any of my dear friends again. This is my
sorrow."
"But we shall hear from you often, Margaret."
"And shall I hear from you, dear lady? Will you remember me? Will you
not forget your poor servant? Oh! she will never forget you, never cease
to bless you!"
"I will write to you, Margaret, as soon as I hear of your arrival."
"Bless you, dear lady! God bless you! But when I look at you, and think
of your dear face, it is like the sun for ever hidden from my sight
when you leave me."
"The same sun, Margaret, will shine upon us both. He will visit you
while I am asleep, and me when you are at rest. The same God who causes
him to shine upon us all will be, as he is, alike merciful to us both,
though we live in different lands. Let me entreat you, as my last solemn
injunction, never to forget your duty to Him. Read your Bible whenever
you can. You will have much time and opportunity upon your voyage, and I
hope you will employ them to the best purposes. You will find in your
chest many good books. They will be a great source of comfort to you."
"Oh! that I will, dear lady! and when I think of you who gave them to
me, and of the dear friends who have visited me, and of that good lady
you introduced to my cell, Mrs. Sleorgin, who brought me yesterday this
packet of books. Oh! how dearly shall I desire to see you and them!"
"Think, too, Margaret, what pleasure it will give us all to hear that
you are doing well, that all the instructions of your kind friends have
not failed. You will be able to add greatly to my comfort by this. You
will also add to my knowledge many things of which I have at present
very imperfect information. You will inform me of the state of that new
country. Surely this will give you some pleasure, and profit me also."
"Dear lady! you are so good! You make me almost wish to live, if only
for the pleasure of serving you. If it were but permitted me to come to
England once more, I do think my journey would seem nothing to me. It
looks such a dreary prospect to be deprived of all whom we love, that I
feel faint at the idea of loneliness in a foreign land."
"Exercise your faith, Margaret, and you will never be alone. All lands
will be pleasant to you."
"None so pleasant as my own: but I will try, I do try, I will hope. You
are so kind to me, my dear mistress! Give my duty to my good master; my
love to all the dear, dear children. Oh! forgive me, my dear lady! I
cannot help crying; tears do me good."
Those friends (for so, in spite of the difference in their station and
their character, we must venture to call them) parted from each other
for the last time on earth; but they lived to correspond, by letter, for
many years after, and both felt an increased interest for each other's
happiness.
The hour of Margaret's departure arrived. The worthy chaplain was the
last person whom Margaret saw in the cell of her prison. Her uncle and
aunt Leader saw her the day before. The worthy chaplain presented her
with the remainder of the judge's present. She had long learned to look
upon his sentence in a different light to that in which she had once
viewed it; and now, with feelings greatly subdued, she knelt with the
good chaplain, and prayed earnestly that she might never forget the
lessons he had given her. She prayed fervently for pardon for all her
sins, and that she might for ever leave them behind her, and thenceforth
lead a new and better life. Then, turning to Mr. Sharp, she said--
"One favour more, sir: your blessing."
"May God bless you, Margaret," said the good chaplain, "and make you,
for the remainder of your days, an instrument of good, to His own glory
and the benefit of your fellow-creatures! Amen. Farewell."
On Wednesday, May 27, Mr. Ripshaw left Ipswich with three female
prisoners in his charge, Margaret Catchpole, Elizabeth Killet, and
Elizabeth Barker. He took them to Portsmouth, and saw them safe on board
the convict-ship, bound for Botany Bay.
Margaret had not left the New Gaol, two hours before the turnkey was
summoned to the lodge, and opened the door to a tall, thin man, dressed
in the poorest garb, who with a voice soft and gentle, meek and
melancholy, requested to see Margaret Catchpole.
"She is just departed with the governor for Portsmouth. Who are you?"
"I am her brother. My misfortunes are indeed heavy: I am just returned
from India. I find my father gone, my brothers gone, and this my only
sister, worse than all! Oh, bitter cup! gone in disgrace from the
country!"
"Pray walk this way. I will introduce you to our chaplain, and some
consolation may be found for you."
The melancholy truth was soon explained. Charles Catchpole, alias Jacob
Dedham, alias Collins Jaun, the spy, whom the reader may recognize as
mentioned in a former part of this history, returned to his native
country literally a beggar. He went out to India, and, upon his arrival
in that country, his friend, Lord Cornwallis, had resigned his high
office, and returned to England. The account he gave of himself was
singularly eventful. He assumed the appearance of a native chief, joined
some of the roving tribes of warlike adventurers, and became a
conspicuous character. He fell in love with a nabob's daughter, and
married her according to the national customs and ceremonies; but his
ill-assorted match did not long prosper. His origin and connexion with
the English were discovered, and the spy had to fly the country for his
life. He escaped, gained his passage home, and had spent his last
shilling in the very public-house at St. Mary Elms where he received his
first as an enlisted recruit. His case was that day mentioned to several
individuals, amongst others to Edward Bacon, Esq., who had spent many
years in India, who pronounced him no impostor. He employed him many
days in taking a view of Ipswich and its environs, which he did with
extraordinary accuracy, from Savage's windmill on Stoke Hills. This view
was presented by that gentleman to the author of these pages, and it
presents all the striking accuracy and patient persevering
characteristics of a self-taught artist.
By his own industry, and the generosity of others, he gained a few
pounds, with which he determined to settle in one of the colonies. He
obtained a passage to the Cape of Good Hope; but the poor fellow met
with a severe accident in falling down the hold of the vessel, broke his
back, and died upon the passage.
* * * * *
Thus ended the career of Margaret Catchpole in England, where her
virtues will long be remembered, together with her crimes. What remains
of her history will serve to show what fruits may be gathered from a
faithful spirit, a good heart, a high courage, and a strong
understanding, when disciplined in the school of adversity, and under
the guidance of good principles, seasonably instilled by kind and
judicious monitors. It will be seen that her chief temptation having
been mercifully removed, a true repentance, and an entire alteration of
life and character, entitled her to the full forgiveness, and even
approbation, of her fellow-creatures.