“A FULL VINDICATION”
Such was the heading of the article that riveted the attention of Lilith
and that read as follows:
“A deplorable instance of the conviction of an innocent man, under false
circumstantial evidence, of a crime that first consigned him to the
scaffold, and afterward, by the commutation of his sentence, sent him to
penal servitude for life, has lately come to light. Many of our readers
will remember the case of John Weston, the young man who was convicted,
eighteen years ago, of the robbery of the mail coach running between
Orton and Stockbridge, Yorkshire, and the murder of a passenger. The
young prisoner declared his innocence to the last, but through the
overwhelming circumstantial evidence he was convicted and condemned to
death. Great efforts were made in his behalf, and finally, upon account
of his youth and previous good character, his sentence was commuted to
transportation, with penal servitude for life. He was sent to Tasmania,
where it is believed he died soon after his arrival at Port Arthur.
“But that John Weston was entirely guiltless of the crime for which he
suffered is made quite clear by the ante-mortem confession of a convict
named Thomas Estel, who died yesterday in the infirmary of Portland
prison.
“This man, convicted of forgery one year ago, was almost immediately
after his commitment to Portland discovered to be in a consumption, and
assigned to the infirmary, where, after languishing for nearly twelve
months, he died yesterday.
“His ante-mortem confession, made in the presence of the prison
chaplain, the governor of the jail, and a justice of the peace, is as
follows:
“I, Thomas Estel, of the city of Carlisle, being sound of mind, though
very infirm of body, and believing myself to be about to appear before
the tribunal of my Eternal Judge to give an account of the deeds done in
the flesh, do now make this my last statement and confession, concerning
a crime committed on the Orton and Stockbridge road, on the night of
November the 13th, 18—, the robbery of the mail coach and the murder of
a passenger at that time and place.
“And these were the circumstances under which the deed was done:
“There was a young gentleman of the West Riding, a little wildish in his
ways—young Mr. James Hawkhurst, nephew and heir to Squire Hawkhurst, of
Hawkhurst.
“This uncle had made a will, disinheriting him, leaving all his property
to hospitals, which he had no right to do, seeing that, although the
estates were not entailed, yet they were the Hawkhurst family estates,
and should have gone to the heir-at-law, young James Hawkhurst.
“This wicked will was understood to be in the hands of the family
solicitor, one John Keitch, of Carlisle.
“Old Squire Hawkhurst lay dying at Hawkhurst Hall, and the vicar wrote
to the solicitor to come down to the Hall, and to bring the will along
with him.
“The solicitor wrote back that he should come down by the late train to
Stockbridge and arrive by the mail coach at Orton on the night of that
13th day of November.
“Now, the disinherited heir, young Mr. James, was drinking with a lot of
us wild young blades at the Tawny Lion public house at Orton. And he
told us all about it. We talked about the injustice of the old squire in
having robbed young Mr. James of his inheritance in order to give it to
hospitals. And we argued this way: that as the squire had not made the
fortune himself, but had received the estate from a long line of
forefathers, so it was his bounden duty, in common honesty, to pass it
along to their descendants, and that if it were not for the existence of
that wicked will, the last of the line, the young squire, would enjoy
his own, because he was next of kin, and heir-at-law.
“We all loved the young squire, because he made himself one of us and
had no pride, and we knew that was the chief reason why the old squire
disinherited him. So he was in a measure suffering for us.
“After a little while Mr. James left us, but we all kept drinking and
arguing and getting ourselves up more and more into a mad excitement,
until one of us—I do not remember now which it really was—proposed that
we should all go in a body and stop the coach that ran between
Stockbridge railway station and Orton, and take that will away from the
lawyer and destroy it, so that our young squire might enjoy his own.
“We were all mad drunk, or we would have remembered that our proposed
adventure was really highway robbery—a felony punishable, it might be,
with transportation for life—instead of being the brave, heroic exploit
we in our madness believed it to be.
“We, five in number—no matter who the others were—I confess only my own
part—procured masks and fire-arms, and on the night in question we
started out on our adventure.
“On the road we met young Joseph Wyvil, who had just come from Scotland,
to which he had run away to marry his sweetheart. He did not belong to
our part of the world, though he was known to most of us. He was a wild
one, up to any sort of fun, ready for any sort of frolic, but not bad.
“He gave us good e’en, and asked us, ‘Where away?’ And we told him we
were going on a glorious lark, and asked him to come along with us, but
we would not tell him, no, nor give him a hint of what our adventure was
to be.
“First he said he could not, that ‘Lil’—that was his wife—was expecting
him; but at last he consented.
“I do think it was curiosity more than anything else that made him join
us! Poor fellow! I have had many a heartache for him. He kept on asking
us in his smiling way where we were going? What we were going to do?
“But we only laughed and told him to come and see. And his curiosity was
worked up to such a high pitch that he did come to see.
“We reached at last a favorable part of the road for our enterprise. Not
one of us thought it would end as badly as it did. We only wanted to
destroy the wicked old squire’s will.
“We got to the place where we meant to stop the coach.
“It was where the road went down into a deep-wooded hollow. There were
thick, heavy woods on each side. It was as dark as pitch.
“We halted and stretched a strong thick rope, three times doubled,
across the road, tying the opposite ends to the trunks of trees.
“And then we waited for the coach.
“That poor Joe Wyvil kept on asking us what we were up to.
“And we telling him to wait and see.
“And his curiosity was so intense that he did wait and see, though all
the time he kept blaming himself and saying that ‘Lil’ would be looking
for him and wondering why he did not come.
“Ah, poor boy! And poor girl! He never went back to ‘Lil.’ ‘Lil’ was
doomed to look and wonder, and wonder in vain. He waited to see what we
were up to. Waited to his own ruin.
“Ah, yes! the fate of that poor, rollicking, good-natured young Joe has
set heavier on my conscience than the death of that old scoundrel of a
lawyer; for his death was an accident, after all, though, as it occurred
while we were trying to get at the wicked will, it was construed murder.
“We waited there for the coach longer than we expected to have done. It
was behind time. I asked in a whisper if anybody had a watch.
“Joe said that he had one. He took it out, and I struck a match and
looked at the hour. It had gone eleven. Joe started up and said he must
go, or ‘Lil’ would think ‘he was never coming home.’ Seems to me we
sometimes utter prophecies unawares.
“Joe was really going that time, but almost at the same moment the sound
of wheels was heard and the light of the lantern was seen.
“Several of us spoke out at once, telling him to sit down quietly and
wait five minutes and then he might go. He dropped down again on his
seat beside the road.
“The coach came on very fast, as if to make up for lost time, the light
of the lantern shining like two fiery eyes through the darkness of the
night in the narrow, wooded road.
“On it came at full speed, the leaders stepping high, until suddenly
they struck the barrier of ropes we had stretched across the road,
reared, plunged, overturned the coach, extinguished the lanterns, and
all was instant confusion, men swearing, women shrieking, horses
struggling.
“This was much worse than we had intended. We wished to stop the coach
and get the wicked will, not to upset it at the risk of the passengers’
lives.
“We immediately surrounded the wreck.
“I struck a match, and keeping the black crape well over my face,
leaving only one eye uncovered, I peered into face after face of the
fallen passengers, until I found my man, the lawyer from Carlisle, with
the old squire’s wicked will in his possession.
“‘Hand out that beastly will and you shall not be hurt; but if you
don’t——’
“He instantly drew a pistol, aimed it at my head and cocked it.
“I struck the weapon up with a swift stroke of my hand.
“Heaven knows I never meant to harm the man, but the pistol went off,
and he fell, shot through the brain, as I afterwards learned. I did not
know it then. I was mad with drink, I repeat, and what little mental
power I had left was occupied with the will. I got it! It was safe in my
hands. I hid it in my bosom.
“I hardly noted the increased confusion that was all around me, until
one of my companions took me by the arm and whispered, hurriedly:
“‘Are you dead? What’s the matter with you? There’s murder done! The
posse is upon us! Run!’
“It was true. The terrible noise had been heard even from that lonely
road, the alarm had been given, and the constabulary force of the
neighborhood, with all the stragglers that could be picked up at that
hour, were coming.
“We made off into the thick woods that bordered the road, and made good
our escape into the woods that bordered the road on either side—every
one of us, except that poor boy who had nothing to do with the crime.
“I got off to America; for being the most deeply in for it, I knew I
must put the broad ocean between me and my native land.
“I led a wandering life over there—that of honest work sometimes, that
of doubtful speculation often; was a billiard marker in Chicago, a
bar-tender in San Francisco, a digger in the silver mines of Colorado.
“It was years before I heard what had become of my comrades in that
fatal night’s adventure. I feared that some of them had been caught,
tried and sent to penal servitude; but I never once imagined that any
harm could have come to young Wyvil, who was not in it at all, and only
happened to be in our company by accident, and somewhat against his
will, and in total ignorance of our intention to stop the coach that
night.
“But one day, about seven years after I had left England, and while I
was in Colorado, I fell in with an old neighbor from Orton. He, too, had
come to seek his fortunes in the new world and had drifted out to the
silver mines.
“It was the first home-face I had seen since I had left the country. It
was a great meeting, I can tell you. I scrutinized Stone’s face to see
if he suspected me of complicity in that highway robbery and murder, and
I was satisfied that he did not.
“I asked after old friends and acquaintances—parents or near relatives I
had none to inquire of.
“He told me of this, that, or the other person, married, dead,
emigrated, or remaining as before.
“Finally I asked, in turn, about the comrades who had been with me on
that fatal night, and learned to my astonishment that they were living
and prospering on their small farms on the great Hawkhurst estate. It
was therefore evident that they had never been suspected.
“His mention of the Hawkhurst estate led me on to inquire who ruled at
Hawkhurst now.
“He replied that the young squire did, of course; that no will had been
found and Mr. James had entered into possession as next of kin and
heir-at-law, and everybody was satisfied.
“So far our mad adventure had been successful, at least. The heir
enjoyed his own and no great harm had been done, except the accidental
death of that old scoundrel, so far as I knew then. And I might have
remained in that happy belief if it had not been for my next question.
“I asked him if anything had ever been found out concerning the parties
who had stopped the mail coach that dark November night.
“He said that the robbery was believed to have been committed by the pit
men, who were on a strike, and known to be a most lawless set, fit for
any sort of violence; but though several of them had been arrested on
suspicion, nothing could be proved, and they had to be released. And as
for young Joe, he was game to the last.
“Young Joe! The name went through my heart like a sword! I trembled when
I asked Stone if he meant Joe Wyvil, and what he had to do with the
affair.
“And then he told me all the terrible truth! that young Wyvil had been
the only one of all the gang who had stopped the mail coach to be
arrested. That the roughs had escaped into the woods, but that he had
been taken ‘red-handed’ on the spot where the lawyer fell.
“I inquired what explanation the unhappy boy had given of his presence
there.
“The man told me that he had given no satisfactory account of himself
whatever—that he had most earnestly asserted his innocence, and his
appearance on the scene of the murder as a mere accident, owing to his
having met a party bent on a ‘spree,’ and joined them. He was game to
the very last.
“With a great sinking of the heart, I next inquired of Stone what had
been the fate of young Wyvil, and I dreaded to hear his answer as if it
had been a sentence of death. And, indeed, in one respect it was a
sentence of death.
“He told me that the youth had been tried for murder, but not under the
name of Wyvil. The name he had given was that of John Weston, and as
there was nobody to contradict him, he being but a stranger to most
people in the neighborhood, as John Weston he was convicted and
condemned to death. But on account of his being a mere boy, with nothing
against him before that, and on some other account, his sentence was
commuted to transportation and penal servitude for life, and that he had
been shot dead while trying to make his escape, or so it was reported.
“So of the crime in which five men had been implicated no one had been
suspected, and no one punished but the innocent boy who knew nothing
about it.
“Finally I asked Stone what had become of ‘Lil,’ the poor boy’s wife.
“He informed me that her brother, another Joseph Wyvil and a cousin of
the prisoner, had come and taken her away, and it was reported that he
had taken her to America.
“This was all my old neighbor had to tell me. And soon after, the
fortunes of war—in the mines—separated us, he going farther up the
country.
“We never met again.
“About two years ago my health began to fail. I was attacked with this
disease of the lungs that had carried off both my parents before they
had reached their fortieth year (consumptives ought never to marry—each
other, anyway). I knew I did not need the doctor to tell me the truth,
and so I did not tempt him to tell me a pious, professional lie. I knew
by family experience that I was booked for the last journey, and just
about how long it might be.
“I was seized with a homesick longing to see once more the English
village in which I was born and brought up, and where my old friends
lived, if any remained.
“So, about eighteen months ago, I sailed for England in one of the
fast-sailing ocean steamers. And when we landed in Liverpool I took the
first express train for Carlisle, got out at the Stockbridge station and
took the same coach, or one exactly like the same coach, that I and my
reckless companions had helped to wreck, that fatal 13th of November,
seventeen years before. I went over the same road at the same hour, and
put up at the Tawny Lion, where the coach stopped, and where we,
reckless young roughs, had laid the plan to recover the wicked will
which had ended in such a tragedy.
“But, oh! the changes in seventeen years! The Tawny Lion had passed into
strangers’ hands. Very few of my old friends were left. I went to see
the young squire at Hawkhurst. Quite a middle-aged squire now, a sedate
magistrate and sub-lieutenant of the county; married and surrounded by a
large family of sons and daughters. He was very glad to see me, although
he could never have suspected that it was to my hand he owed the
destruction of that will which left him to inherit his own, as next of
kin and heir-at-law.
“I did not stay at Orton long. I went up to London; and there, as you
know, I was soon arrested for forgery, tried, convicted, and sentenced
to penal servitude.
“But, gentlemen, as I maintained during my trial, I maintain here, on my
death-bed, I never committed that forgery. What call had I to forge a
check for a miserable five-pound note, when I had a plenty of money made
in the mines?
“No; as I told the judge and jury—though they would not believe me—I now
tell you with my parting breath, I cashed that check to accommodate a
gentleman who was a guest in the same hotel with myself. I gave him five
sovereigns for his forged check, not suspecting it to be forged, and in
a day or two after presented it at the bank for payment, and was nabbed.
“Though I told my tale, I was not for a moment believed. No gentleman
answering to his description could be found. I was the scapegoat, and
here I am. Not so badly off. Not worse than I should be in a hospital. I
have not done a day’s penal servitude, but have had my long illness and
slow passage to the grave soothed and cared for by physician and
chaplain.
“I never meant to be wicked; but when I think of the fate to which I
brought young Joe Wyvil I feel as if I were much better off than I
deserve to be, even though dying in a prison infirmary.
“I thank the officers of this prison, and especially I thank the
chaplain and the doctor for their great goodness to me; and I pray the
Lord to forgive the sins of my youth.
THOMAS ESTEL.”
Thus ended the dying man’s confession, which was duly sworn to,
witnessed, signed and sealed.
A few lines at the end of the article testified, on the authority of the
prison officers, to the uniformly exemplary conduct of Estel while in
confinement, his patience under long and painful illness, his humility,
resignation and gratitude for the least favors.