The noise of this disturbance did not fail to reach the interior of
the prison. In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward
in which Jack Sheppard was confined.
The night his execution was therefore passed in a most anxious state
of mind; nor was his uneasiness allayed by the appearance of Jonathan
Wild, who, after he had been driven from the roof of the jail,
repaired to the Middle Stone Ward in a fit of ungovernable passion,
to vent his rage upon the prisoner, whom he looked upon as the cause
of the present calamity. Such was his fury, that if he had not been
restrained by the presence of the two turnkeys, he might perhaps have
anticipated the course of justice, by laying violent hands upon his
victim.
After venting his wrath in the wildest manner, and uttering the most
dreadful execrations, Jonathan retired to another part of the prison,
where he passed the night in consultation with the governor, as to
the best means of conveying the prisoner securely to Tyburn. Mr. Pitt
endeavoured to dissuade him from attending in person, representing
the great risk he would incur from the mob, which was certain to be
assembled. But Jonathan was not to be deterred.
“I have sworn to see him hanged,” he said, “and nothing shall keep me
away--nothing, by----.”
By Wild's advice, the usual constabulary force was greatly augmented.
Messengers were despatched to all the constables and head-boroughs to
be in attendance,--to the sheriffs to have an extraordinary number of
their officers in attendance,--and to the Savoy, to obtain the escort
of a troop of grenadier-guards. In short, more preparations were made
than if a state criminal was about to be executed.
The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned.
It was a dull, foggy day, and the atmosphere was so thick and heavy,
that, at eight o'clock, the curious who arrived near the prison could
scarcely discern the tower of St. Sepulchre's church.
By and by the tramp of horses' feet was heard slowly ascending Snow
Hill, and presently a troop of grenadier guards rode into the area
facing Newgate. These were presently joined by a regiment of foot.
A large body of the constables of Westminster next made their
appearance, the chief of whom entered the Lodge, where they were
speedily joined by the civic authorities. At nine o'clock, the
sheriffs arrived, followed by their officers and javelin-men.
Meantime, the Stone Hall was crowded by all the inmates of the jail,
debtors, felons, turnkeys, and officers who could obtain permission
to witness the ceremony of the prisoner's irons being struck off.
Caliban, who, through the interest of Mr. Ireton, was appointed
to the office, stood with a hammer in one hand, and a punch in the
other, near the great stone block, ready to fulfil his duty. Close
behind him stood the tall gaunt figure of Marvel, with his large bony
hands, his scraggy neck, and ill-favoured countenance. Next to the
executioner stood his wife--the former Mrs. Spurling. Mrs. Marvel
held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress.
But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed
since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her
grief.
At this moment, the bell of Newgate began to toll, and was answered
by another bell from St. Sepulchre's. The great door of the Stone
Hall was thrown open, and the sheriffs, preceded by the javelin-men,
entered the room. They were followed by Jonathan, who carried a stout
stick under his arm, and planted himself near the stone. Not a word
was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned
throughout.
Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with
the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room.
Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour
dignified. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle
quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. On the
contrary, it was impossible to look at him without perceiving that
his resolution was unshaken.
Advancing with a slow firm step to the stone-block he placed his left
foot upon it, drew himself up to his full height, and fixed a look so
stern upon Jonathan, that the thief-taker quailed before it.
[Illustration: 329]
The black, meantime, began to ply his hammer, and speedily unriveted
the chains. The first stroke appeared to arouse all the vindictive
passions of Jonathan. Fixing a ferocious and exulting look upon Jack
Sheppard, he exclaimed.
“At length, my vengeance is complete.”
“Wretch!” cried Jack, raising his hand in a menacing manner, “your
triumph will be short-lived. Before a year has expired, you will
share the same fate.”
“If I do, I care not,” rejoined Wild; “I shall have lived to see you
hanged.”
“O Jack, dear, dear Jack!” cried Mrs. Marvel, who was now quite
dissolved in tears, “I shall never survive this scene.”
“Hold your tongue, hussy!” cried her husband gruffly. “Women ought
never to show themselves on these occasions, unless they can behave
themselves properly.”
“Farewell, Jack,” cried twenty voices.
Sheppard looked round, and exchanged kindly glances with several of
those who addressed him.
“My limbs feel so light, now that my irons are removed,” he observed
with a smile, “that I am half inclined to dance.”
“You'll dance upon nothing, presently,” rejoined Jonathan, brutally.
“Farewell for ever,” said Jack, extending his hand to Mrs. Marvel.
“Farewell!” blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand
to her lips. “Here are a pair of gloves and a nosegay for you. Oh
dear!--oh dear! Be careful of him,” she added to her husband, “and
get it over quickly, or never expect to see me again.”
“Peace, fool!” cried Marvel, angrily. “Do you think I don't know my
own business?”
Austin and Langley then advanced to the prisoner, and, twinning their
arms round his, led him down to the Lodge, whither he was followed by
the sheriffs, the ordinary, Wild, and the other officials.
Meantime, every preparation had been made outside for his departure.
At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart with a
powerful black horse harnessed to it. At the head of the cart was
placed the coffin. On the right were several mounted grenadiers: on
the left, some half dozen javelin-men. Soldiers were stationed at
different points of the street to keep off the mob, and others were
riding backwards and forwards to maintain an open space for the
passage of the procession.
The assemblage which was gathered together was almost countless.
Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its
occupants. The wall of St. Sepulchre's church was covered--so was
the tower. The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as
Smithfield. No one was allowed to pass along Newgate Street, which
was barricaded and protected by a strong constabulary force.
The first person who issued from the Lodge was Mr. Marvel, who
proceeded to the cart, and took his seat upon the coffin. The hangman
is always an object of peculiar detestation to the mob, a tremendous
hooting hailed his appearance, and both staves and swords were
required to preserve order.
A deep silence, however, now prevailed, broken only by the tolling of
the bells of Newgate and St. Sepulchre's. The mighty concourse became
for a moment still. Suddenly, such a shout as has seldom smitten
human ears rent the air. “He comes!” cried a thousand voices, and the
shout ascended to Smithfield, descended to Snow Hill, and told those
who were assembled on Holborn Hill that Sheppard had left the prison.
Between the two officers, with their arms linked in his, Jack
Sheppard was conducted to the cart. He looked around, and as he heard
that deafening shout,--as he felt the influence of those thousand
eyes fixed upon him,--as he listened to the cheers, all his
misgivings--if he had any--vanished, and he felt more as if he were
marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death.
Jack had no sooner taken his place in the cart, than he was followed
by the ordinary, who seated himself beside him, and, opening the book
of prayer, began to read aloud. Excited by the scene, Jack, however,
could pay little attention to the good man's discourse, and was lost
in a whirl of tumultuous emotions.
The calvacade was now put slowly in motion. The horse-soldiers
wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart.
Then came the javelin-men, walking four abreast, and lastly, a long
line of constables, marching in the same order.
The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful
groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. This
was occasioned by Jonathan Wild, who was seen to mount his horse and
join the train. Jonathan, however, paid no sort of attention to this
demonstration of hatred. He had buckled on his hanger, and had two
brace of pistols in his belt, as well as others in this holsters.
By this time, the procession had reached the west end of the wall of
St. Sepulchre's church, where, in compliance with an old custom,
it halted. By the will of Mr. Robert Dow, merchant tailor, it was
appointed that the sexton of St. Sepulchre's should pronounce a
solemn exhortation upon every criminal on his way to Tyburn, for
which office he was to receive a small stipend. As soon as the
cavalcade stopped, the sexton advanced, and, ringing a handbell,
pronounced the following admonition.
“_All good people pray heartily unto God for this poor sinner, who is
now going to take his death, for whom this great bell doth toll_.
“_You who are condemned to die, repent with lamentable tears. Ask
mercy of the Lord for the salvation of your own soul, through the
merits of the death and passion of Jesus Christ, who now sits at the
right hand of God, to make intercession for you, if you penitently
return to him. The Lord have mercy upon you_!”
This ceremony concluded, the calvacade was again put in motion.
Slowly descending Snow Hill, the train passed on its way, attended by
the same stunning vociferations, cheers, yells, and outcries, which
had accompanied it on starting from Newgate. The guards had great
difficulty in preserving a clear passage without resorting to severe
measures, for the tide, which poured upon them behind, around, in
front, and at all sides, was almost irresistible. The houses on Snow
Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. Every window, from
the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were
covered with spectators. Words of encouragement and sympathy were
addressed to Jack, who, as he looked around, beheld many a friendly
glance fixed upon him.
In this way, they reached Holborn Bridge. Here a little delay
occurred. The passage was so narrow that there was only sufficient
room for the cart to pass, with a single line of foot-soldiers on one
side; and, as the walls of the bridge were covered with spectators,
it was not deemed prudent to cross it till these persons were
dislodged.
While this was effected, intelligence was brought that a formidable
mob was pouring down Field Lane, the end of which was barricaded. The
advanced guard rode on to drive away any opposition, while the main
body of the procession crossed the bridge, and slowly toiled up
Holborn Hill.
The entrance of Shoe Lane, and the whole line of the wall of St.
Andrew's church, the bell of which was tolling, was covered with
spectators. Upon the steps leading to the gates of the church
stood two persons whom Jack instantly recognised. These were his
mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. As soon as the latter
beheld him, she uttered a loud scream, and fainted. She was caught by
some of the bystanders, who offered by her every assistance in their
power. As to Mrs. Maggot, whose nerves were more firmly strung, she
contented herself with waving her hand affectionately to her lover,
and encouraging him by her gestures.
While this was taking place, another and more serious interruption
occurred. The advanced guard had endeavoured to disperse the mob in
Field Lane, but were not prepared to meet with the resistance they
encountered. The pavement had been hastily picked up, and heaped
across the end of the street, upon which planks, barrels, and other
barricades, were laid. Most of the mob were armed with pikes, staves,
swords, muskets, and other weapons, and offered a most desperate
resistance to the soldiery, whom they drove back with a shower of
paving-stones.
The arrival of the cart at the end of Field Lane, appeared the
signal for an attempt at rescue. With a loud shout, and headed by a
powerfully-built man, with a face as black as that of a mulatto,
and armed with a cutlass, the rabble leapt over the barricades,
and rushed towards the vehicle. An immediate halt took place. The
soldiers surrounded the cart, drew their swords, and by striking the
rioters first with the blunt edge of their blades, and afterwards
with the sharp points, succeeded in driving them back.
Amid this skirmish Jonathan greatly distinguished himself. Drawing
his hanger he rode amongst the crowd, trampled upon those most
in advance, and made an attempt to seize their leader, in whom he
recognised Blueskin.
Baffled in their attempt, the mob uttered a roar, such as only a
thousand angry voices can utter, and discharged a volley of missiles
at the soldiery. Stones and brickbats were showered on all sides, and
Mr. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead
dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face.
At length, however, by dealing blows right and left with their
swords, and even inflicting severe cuts on the foremost of the
rabble, the soldiers managed to gain a clear course, and to drive
back the assailants; who, as they retreated behind the barricades,
shouted in tones of defiance, “To Tyburn! to Tyburn!”
The object of all this tumult, meanwhile, never altered his position,
but sat back in the cart, as if resolved not to make even a struggle
to regain his liberty.
The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along
Holborn. Like a river swollen by many currents, it gathered force
from the various avenues that poured their streams into it. Fetter
Lane, on the left, Gray's Inn, on the right, added their supplies. On
all hands Jack was cheered, and Jonathan hooted.
[Illustration: 346]
At length, the train approached St. Giles's. Here, according to
another old custom, already alluded to, a criminal taken to execution
was allowed to halt at a tavern, called the Crown, and take a draught
from St. Giles's bowl, “as his last refreshment on earth.” At the
door of this tavern, which was situated on the left of the street,
not more than a hundred yards distant from the church, the bell of
which began to toll as soon as the procession came in sight, the cart
drew up, and the whole cavalcade halted. A wooden balcony in one of
the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom
appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of
commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration
of his appearance. Every window in the public house was filled with
guests; and, as in the case of St. Andrew's, the churchyard wall of
St. Giles's was lined with spectators.
A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the
occasion. The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character.
Many of the soldiers dismounted, and called for drink. Their example
was immediately imitated by the officers, constables, javelin men,
and other attendants; and nothing was to be heard but shouts of
laughter and jesting,--nothing seen but the passing of glasses,
and the emptying of foaming jugs. Mr. Marvel, who had been a little
discomposed by the treatment he had experienced on Holborn Hill, very
composedly filled and lighted his pipe.
One group at the door attracted Jack's attention, inasmuch as it
was composed of several of his old acquaintances--Mr. Kneebone, Van
Galgebrok, and Baptist Kettleby--all of whom greeted him cordially.
Besides these, there was a sturdy-looking fellow, whom he instantly
recognised as the honest blacksmith who had freed him from his irons
at Tottenham.
“I am here, you see,” said the smith.
“So I perceive,” replied Jack.
At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout
personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house,
bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to
Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. Raising the bowl in his right
hand, Jack glanced towards the balcony, in which the group of ladies
were seated, and begged to drink their healths; he then turned to
Kneebone and the others, who extended their hands towards him,
and raised it to his lips. Just as he was about to drain it, he
encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused.
“I leave this bowl for you,” he cried, returning it to the landlord
untasted.
“Your father said so before you,” replied Jonathan, malignantly; “and
yet it has tarried thus long.”
“You will call for it before six months are passed,” rejoined Jack,
sternly.
Once again the cavalcade was in motion, and winding its way by St.
Giles's church, the bell of which continued tolling all the time,
passed the pound, and entered Oxford Road, or, as it was then not
unfrequently termed, Tyburn Road. After passing Tottenham Court Road,
very few houses were to be seen on the right hand, opposite Wardour
Street it was open country.
The crowd now dispersed amongst the fields, and thousands of persons
were seen hurrying towards Tyburn as fast as their legs could carry
them, leaping over hedges, and breaking down every impediment in
their course.
Besides those who conducted themselves more peaceably, the conductors
of the procession noticed with considerable uneasiness, large bands
of men armed with staves, bludgeons, and other weapons, who were
flying across the field in the same direction. As it was feared that
some mischief would ensue, Wild volunteered, if he were allowed a
small body of men, to ride forward to Tyburn, and keep the ground
clear until the arrival of the prisoner.
This suggestion being approved, was instantly acted upon, and the
thief-taker, accompanied by a body of the grenadiers, rode forward.
The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused
for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house
called the City of Oxford.
Scarcely had it come to a halt, when a stalwart man shouldered his
way, in spite of their opposition, through the lines of soldiery to
the cart, and offered his large horny hand to the prisoner.
“I told you I would call to bid you farewell, Mr. Figg,” said Jack.
“So you did,” replied the prize-fighter. “Sorry you're obliged
to keep your word. Heard of your last escape. Hoped you'd not be
retaken. Never sent for the shirt.”
“I didn't want it,” replied Jack; “but who are those gentlemen?”
“Friends of yours,” replied Figg; “come to see you;--Sir James
Thornhill, Mr. Hogarth, and Mr. Gay. They send you every good wish.”
“Offer them my hearty thanks,” replied Jack, waving his hand to the
group, all of whom returned the salutation. “And now, farewell, Mr.
Figg! In a few minutes, all will be over.”
Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,--for
the stout prize-fighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's
heart,--and the procession again set forward.