Transcriber’s Note:
This book was originally published in 100 weekly installments.
The volume number of each issue is provided as a sidenote,
occasionally mid-paragraph. Illustrations that appeared at the
beginning of each issue were moved to the nearest paragraph
break. Additional notes are at the end of the book.
CHARLES PEACE
OR THE
ADVENTURES OF A NOTORIOUS BURGLAR
[Illustration: CHARLES PEACE.]
[Sidenote: No. 1.]
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.
CHARLES PEACE _alias_ JOHN WARD, whose life and adventures form the
subject-matter of our story, has gained for himself a reputation
equal, if not superior, to the lawless ruffians, Jack Sheppard, Dick
Turpin, and others of a similar class. He is a union of various
elements.
In more senses than one he was a local character. Born in Sheffield he
was, in early days, trained according to the customs of the day, and
when about eight or ten years of age was one of the foremost amongst
his companions in any game of audacious fun.
He was always considered a “rough,” even amongst his earlier
associates, and it is said that he was dreaded by the children with
whom he played. At ten years of age he had to assist his father who
was named Joseph Peace, in the earning of the daily bread for the
family.
Mr. Joseph Peace was a man well respected. He was what is known in
Sheffield as a “little master,” but in commercial terms would be
placed as a “file manufacturer.” He had a large family, and amongst
his children was this lad, who has achieved such notoriety in the
world.
Charles Peace, from his very boyhood, was wild. It is said that there
was no adventure to be undertaken in regard to which he had any fear;
neither did he require twice telling when he was requested to lead the
way in any mischievous plot.
Mr. Joseph Peace was a man of religious inclinations, and was a member
of the Wesleyan body. He occupied a house in George-street,
Langsett-road, a thoroughfare which is now known as Gilpin-street.
He had a taste for music, and played the “bass” at the Wesleyan
Chapel, Owlerton. When ten years of age Charles Peace commenced to
take lessons on the violin, his instructor being his father, who
rather prided himself on the way he could play the double-bass.
His son Charles was a diligent pupil, and ultimately, having acquired
a proficiency in the instrument, he started in life as a sort of
successor to Paganini――fiddling most successfully on one string, and
only failing to achieve some distinction because he lacked the
patience which was necessary to make the stage his “field of fame.”
Yet he was always an artist.
If he did not discern for himself a sufficiently splendid career in
art, amateur violinists who lived in the neighbourhood of Greenwich,
Peckham, or Blackheath had sufficient reason to regret Mr. Charles
Peace’s devotion to music.
They found that some undiscovered burglar was abroad who had a good
taste in the selection of fine instruments.
Mr. Peace indeed had a passion for violins; and if he spared a service
of plate sometimes, he was never known to leave a really good fiddle
behind.
He was distinguished, too, by his general cultivation and by his
devotion to the fair sex. As his good fortune grew, so did the number
of inamoratas increase, yet he never seems to have really deserted the
wife whom he married.
In housekeeping his taste was luxurious, and he invariably moved into
more aristocratic neighbourhoods as he prospered in the art and
mystery of burglary. And here comes out the singular phase of his
character.
There is no doubt his fame and fortune as a housebreaker culminated in
the period between the Bannercross murder and his apprehension at
Blackheath; but he appears to have previously enjoyed a reputation as
a cracksman.
How does it happen, then, that he could settle down to the life of a
picture-frame maker at Sheffield?
The circumstances would not be so mysterious if he had not really made
picture-frames; but it appears that he actually worked at the trade.
There is some mystery here which requires to be explained. It is
difficult to believe Peace turned honest in a fit of repentance; he
would, in all probability, have some other object, which has not yet
been made clear.
But, indeed, Peace’s character in Sheffield is altogether in singular
contrast with his character as exhibited elsewhere. His behaviour to
the Dysons, as it was described in Mrs. Dyson’s evidence, was very
much like that of a lunatic.
There appears to have been a singular absence of motive, both for his
general conduct and the murder which he is said to have committed.
Instead of being the ingenious and cautious Charles Peace of the
London burglaries, he is simply an indiscreet and violent criminal.
Equally in contrast was his behaviour on the two occasions when he
appeared in the prisoners’ dock. In London he was whining and
supplicatory; in Sheffield he was reckless and defiant. This change
may, perhaps, be accounted for on the grounds that he had a chance in
one case, and no chance in the other; but other contradictions in his
character are not so easily explained.
Without doubt he was a cunning, bold, and fearless scoundrel of the
old heroic type. The history of his many exploits, of his clever
disguises, of his extraordinary escapes from punishment, and of the
success with which for many years he contrived to live on burglary,
even in these days, when we have a large and well-organised police
force, cannot fail to excite surprise in the minds of every citizen.
His career is almost unique in the annals of crime. Not only the
boldness and skill which he showed in committing his depredations, but
his remarkable success in eluding the vigilance of the police, must be
regarded as being altogether uncommon. Working entirely alone in his
burglarious course, he seemed to command success.
We are told that even dogs felt the influence of his power, and failed
to give any alarm on his approach. As for locks, bolts, and other
means of security, Peace simply laughed at them. If he made up his
mind to get into a house he got into it, and the booty which he
appropriated was exceedingly valuable.
Probably many of the stories which are told of his exploits have only
an element of truth, but the sub-stratum on which they rest is
doubtless constituted of actual facts. Scarcely less remarkable than
his success as a burglar was the skill with which he contrived to
escape detection by the police.
Although he had been living openly in London, walking even into
Scotland-yard itself, he was not recognised as Mr. Dyson’s murderer;
and his eventual detection was owing to the accident of his capture at
Blackheath.
Peace certainly possessed remarkable ability in effecting an almost
impenetrable disguise. He has boasted of his contempt for the police,
and his confidence seems to have been abundantly justified.
The history of his life presents a combination of passion, craft,
cruelty, great spite, and audacity, such as is rarely to be found in
any single being.
But Peace has boasted of his ability to deceive the most astute
constable or detective. As a proof of this we quote the following
personal narrative of one of his old pals. We give it in the words of
the narrator:――
“Once on a time, no matter where, no matter when, Charley
Peace told me the whole story of his life after that little
indiscretion which resulted in the death of Mr. Dyson, at
Bannercross.
“It is a narrative of events which have never yet been made
known to the public. It presents points of uncommon
interest, for everybody has wanted to know how he escaped on
that fatal night――how he was disguised, where he went, and
how he has lived, down to the days when he reappeared at
Peckham, and spent his days and nights after the manner now
familiar to the public through the special commissioner of
the _Independent_.
“I shall not trench on the latter well-known period. But I
shall fill up the blank in his biography with these
autobiographical episodes, for they are almost entirely his
own words. I give to you, Mr. Editor, ample credentials to
convince you that this is a genuine narrative, for I know,
by the way you have stood former tests, that wild horses
will not make you break confidence.
“So nobody need take the trouble to come fishing about
either you or me for further ‘information.’
“Imagine, then, a circle of choice spirits assembled round
Charles Peace, under circumstances calculated to make him
loquacious.
“‘They talk,’ said he, ‘about identifying me! Why I could
dodge any bobby living! I have dodged all the detectives in
London many a time. I have walked past them, looked them
straight in the face; and they have thought I was a
mulatto.’
“Then he asked us if we knew how he did it; and said ‘Just
turn your faces away a minute, and I’ll show you.’
“We turned our heads away, and when we looked again we found
he had completely altered the expression of his countenance,
and so entirely distorted and disfigured it――save the
mark!――that he did not look like the same man.
“He threw out his under jaw, contracted the upper portion of
his face, and appeared to be able so to force the blood up
into his head as to give himself the appearance of a
mulatto.
“Then he laughed heartily at his cleverness; went through
pantomimic gestures that would have done credit to ‘Quilp,’
and again boasted of the many times he had ‘put on that
face,’ and walked past the cute detectives in London and
elsewhere.
“We then made allusion to the clever way in which he dodged
the police and got away from Sheffield on the night of the
murder; and he at once went off into a long story of his
escape, telling it with almost fiendish glee, and
occasionally laughing joyously at his exploits. He said:――
“‘After that affair at Bannercross I went straight over the
field opposite, and through Endcliffe Wood to Crookes, and
round by Sandygate. Then I doubled and came down to
Broomhill, and there I took a cab and was driven down to the
bottom of Church-street.
“‘I got out and walked into Spring-street, to the house of
an old pal. There I doffed my own clothes and disguised
myself. I stopped there a short time, and then I went boldly
through the streets to the railway station, and took train
for Rotherham. I walked from that station down to Masbro’,
where I took a ticket for Beverley.
“‘On reaching Normanton I left the train, retaining my
ticket, and took a ticket for York, where I put up that
night. The next morning I went to Beverley, and then walked
on to Hull.
“‘I got in an eating house near the docks, where I stopped a
considerable time, and did a ‘bit of work’――(meaning, of
course, committed a few robberies).
“‘Then I went to Leeds, and from Leeds to Bradford; and from
Bradford I went to Manchester. I was there a short time and
then I went to Nottingham; and in a lodging house there I
picked up Mrs. Thompson.
“‘Whilst we were together one night, an inspector, who had
heard I was there and suspected I was a “fence,” came and
said to the landlady――“You have got a lodger here――have you
not?” She said, “Yes, he is upstairs.”
“‘He said he wanted to see me, and upstairs he came into our
bedroom. When I saw him I said, “Hullo!” He answered, “Where
do you come from?” and I told him from Tunbridge Wells.
“What is your name?” he asked. “John Ward,” said I. “Well,”
he said, “what trade are you?”
“‘At that I let out and said, “What’s that to you what trade
I am? What do you want to know for?”
“‘He told me he wanted an answer. “Then,” said I, “if you do
I’ll give you one――I am a hawker!” “Oh,” said he, “a hawker.
Have you got any stock?”
“‘I told him my stock and licence were downstairs, and if he
would step down my wife and I would come and show him all.
He was as soft as barm and went down.
“‘I said to Mrs. Thompson, “I must hook it,” and, hastily
dressing myself, I bolted through the window and dropped
into a yard, where I encountered a man, who was surprised to
see me. I told him there was a screw loose, and the bobbies
were after me with a warrant for neglecting my wife and
family. I asked him not to say I had gone that way. He
promised he would not.
“‘To leave the yard I had to go through the passage of a
public-house, and at the door stood the landlady. She was
frightened to see me without stockings or boots on; but when
I told her the same tale as I had told the man in the yard
she said it was all right, and I passed on.
“‘I took refuge in a house not forty yards from that I had
left, and in a short time I got the woman who kept it to go
for my boots, and she brought them.
“‘Soon after that I did a “big silk job” in Nottingham, and
then, finding the place was getting too hot for me, I left
it and went back to Hull. I had made several visits there
before, and had given my wife money to maintain her.’
“Peace then told us how he paid no less than three visits to
Sheffield after the murder, and more than once encountered
one of the most astute and experienced inspectors of the
force, but his disguise was so perfect that he passed
unnoticed.
“Whilst in Sheffield he committed, he said, several
robberies, and he particularly called attention to his
adventures in a house at the corner of Havelock-square. ‘Do
you mean,’ we asked, ‘at Barnascone’s,’ and he said, ‘Yes,
that was the place. The family were out, and there I did
very well. I got several rings, and brooches, and £6 in
gold. The policeman said he saw me, but he didn’t. I saw him
and blocked him, and he never saw me.’
“Peace declared to us that he was in Sheffield when the
inquest was held on Mr. Dyson. Afterwards he returned to
Nottingham, picked up with Mrs. Thompson, and went on to
London with her, where his life and exploits are now matter
of history.
“Peace went on to mention the names of several Sheffield
people whom he met at different periods in London; and that
part of his astonishing story has been confirmed in a
remarkable degree by one of the persons himself.
“More than a quarter of a century ago he worked in Sheffield
with Mr. William Fisher――in those days known as Bill
Fisher――and they remembered each other very well. One day
Mr. Fisher was walking across the Holborn-viaduct, when he
saw the well-remembered figure approaching him.
“Their eyes met, and Mr. Fisher exclaimed――‘That’s Peace!’
He turned to look again, but Peace had disappeared as if by
magic, and was nowhere to be seen. About a week after, Mr.
Fisher was going down the steps leading from Holborn to
Farringdon-street, and about midway he again encountered
Peace.
“Mr. Fisher gave information to the Sheffield police, and
the news was sent to Scotland-yard that Peace was in London.
“‘But what,’ said Peace, ‘was the use of that, when I could
walk under their very noses and not be recognised?’
“Again a demoniacal grin overspread his face, and again he
went through a series of pantomimic gestures, and set us all
laughing.
“It has been conceded that he could be exceedingly good
company when he liked, and we assure you he had our
attention whilst he related these, the most extraordinary
chapters in his history.”
The personal appearance of Peace is thus described by one who paid a
visit to Newgate while the burglar was awaiting his trial. He is a man
about 5 ft. 3 in., with white hair on his head, cut very close, and
bald in front of the head; but the razor had lately done this.
His eyebrows are heavy and overhanging the eyes, which are deeply sunk
in their sockets; a chin standing very prominently――and, as if to make
it more so, the head was thrown back with an air of half
self-assertion, yet half-caution.
The lower part of his cheek-bones protruded more than was their wont
in years gone by; but he had apparently some bruises recently, and had
had his whiskers shaven off since he was last seen at Sheffield.
In addition he wore a pair of large brass-rimmed spectacles. Peace was
professedly a religious man. The neighbourhood thought him so, and
probably he thought so, too; so he associated with the good folk who
congregated in the edifice, but never made himself conspicuous.
He trifled with Fate. She had made him rich in worldly goods, although
they were not his own. Some idea of the magnitude of his operations
may be gathered from the fact that there is evidence in the hands of
the police that would convict him of no less than fifty burglaries.
The property he obtained is valued at several thousand pounds, but the
burglar as a rule does not realise even one-fourth of the value of the
property he appropriates.
The charges of “receivers” in every branch of the profession are of an
unusual character, but it has been asserted upon reliable authority
that he was a burglar years before the events which have made him so
notorious.
It is quite twenty years since he worked at a rolling mill at
Millsands, and it was while following this employment that he broke
his leg. This accident appears to have thoroughly disgusted him with
hard work, and as soon as the injuries were cured he went to
Manchester.
Here he appears to have fallen into bad company, and to have been the
leading spirit of a gang of burglars. In the small hours of the
morning Peace and his confederates were tracked to a lonely house at
Rusholme, and the police succeeded in obtaining an entrance.
After a desperate struggle Peace was secured, and a great quantity of
the stolen property was recovered, but not before the officers had
been severely handled. At Old Trafford he was sent to penal servitude,
but he played the “good boy” and was let out on a ticket-of-leave.
After his Old Trafford sentence he returned to Sheffield and took a
small shop in Kenyon-alley. Here he used to amuse his acquaintances by
showing them the dexterity with which he could pick the most stubborn
lock. He soon resumed his old courses, and made the acquaintance of
Millbank.
The career of the notorious culprit whose doings are chronicled in
this work furnishes the novelist with a moral. It will be clearly
demonstrated to those who peruse these pages that, sooner or later,
justice overtakes the guilty, and that it is impossible for the most
astute and cunning scoundrel――such as Peace has proved himself to
be――to escape punishment.
A life of crime is always a life of care, for the hearts of the guilty
tremble for the past, for the present, and for the future. The author
of the “Life of Peace” reprobates in the strongest degree that species
of literature whose graduates do their best to cast a dignity upon the
gallows, and strive to shed the splendour of fascinating romance upon
the paths of crime that lead to it――to make genius tributary to
murder, and literature to theft, to dignify not the mean but the
guilty.
Let crime and its perpetrators be depicted as conscience sees them, as
morality brands them; let them stand out in prominent but repulsive
relief. There is yet wanted a picture of crime and its consequences
true to nature and conscience, and it is hoped that the present serial
will, in some measure, supply that want.
The author proposes to present to his readers the felon as he really
is――to describe facts as they were found――to present pure pictures of
guilt and its accompaniments.
He does not desire to make use of artificial colouring, believing that
the interest in the work lies in its reality. The felon appears just
as he is, as crime makes him, and as Newgate receives him――successful,
it may be, for a season, but arrested, condemned, scourged by
conscience, and cut off from society as unfit for its walks.
Of all the members of the family of man few have been so rapidly
forgotten as those who have been swept from the face of the world by
the fiat of the law and the hands of the public executioner. Yet the
guilty and the unfortunate have left biographies behind them that
speak to future generations in awful and impressive tones.
If they were inflictions on the past generation, they may be made
useful in the present age as beacons to the reckless voyager――voices
lifted up from the moral wrecks of the world speaking audibly to
listening men “of righteousness, and temperance, and judgment.”
CHAPTER I.
OAKFIELD FARMHOUSE――THE BURGLARY――DESPERATE ENCOUNTER――VILLAGERS TO
THE RESCUE.
Our first scene opens at a picturesque-looking farmhouse situated on
the outskirts of a pretty little village within a few miles of Hull.
Oakfield Farmhouse――so called from a number of patriarchal oaks
poising their lofty heads in the rear of the establishment――was in the
occupation of two substantial yeomen named respectively John and
Richard Ashbrook, their only sister Maude being mistress of the bright
and cheerful abode.
In the earlier portion of the day our two Yorkshire farmers had been
out on a shooting expedition. They brought back with them two
friends――fellow-sportsmen. They were driven home by the rain, which
fell in torrents, and rendered further sport impracticable.
“I knowed how it would be,” said Richard Ashbrook to his companions.
“These beastly river fogs always bring wet, and the clouds have been
as ‘bengy’ (full of rain) for some time――as bengy as could be.”
When the party reached Oakfield their garments were saturated with
wet, and clung to them like a second skin.
“I have got a fire in the big bedroom――a good blazing fire――for I
guessed how it would be,” said Maude Ashbrook, as she received her
guests at the door. “You’ll all of you have to change your things.
Mercy on us, you are dripping wet, John!” she exclaimed, placing her
hand on her brother’s shoulder.
“Our friends will stop and have a morsel of something to eat and drink
for the matter o’ that,” observed Richard.
“Indeed no――I think not,” said Mr. Jamblin, one of the farmer’s
companions.
“Ah, but he will,” returned the farmer. “None of yer think nots. Come,
friends, get thee in. We don’t intend to part with thee so easily.”
Mr. Jamblin smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and obeyed. The other
friend of the farmer’s, a Mr. Cheadle by name, followed Jamblin.
After dinner had been served, “clean glasses and old corks” were
festively proposed by the host. Some bottles of genuine spirits and a
box of Havannas were placed on the board; an animated discussion on
things agricultural and political followed, while ever and anon
Jamblin and Cheadle would rise from their seats, repair to the window,
and, flattening their noses against the panes thereof, would endeavour
to distinguish a star in the sky, or the first beams of the rising
moon.
But the sky remained black and gloomy, and continual pattering of the
rain was distinctly heard.
“It’s no good, my fine fellows,” observed Richard Ashbrook. “You are
in for it. The rain has set in for good, so you had better make up
your minds to stop where you are. ‘Any port in a storm,’ as my uncle
the captain used to say. Nobody will ever expect you home, such a
night as this.”
“You are very kind, Ashbrook, but――――”
“Oh, bother your buts! I tell you I’ve got a couple of beds for ye.
They are small iron bedsteads, both in the same room; but you don’t
mind roughing it for one night, surely.”
The farmer’s two friends accepted the offer, and prepared themselves
to pass the hours merrily. This they had no difficulty in doing.
Several games of whist were played, after which the host was called
upon for a song. He was not quite in tune, but that did not matter.
The other singers were equally deficient in that respect; but what was
wanting in skill was made up by noise.
Most of the ditties had a good, rattling chorus, which each singer
interpreted according to his own fancy. After sundry libations, and
much protestation of friendship and good-fellowship, the hour arrived
for repose, and the two farmers, their visitors, and Maude betook
themselves to their respective sleeping apartments.
As Richard, who was the last, was about to ascend the stairs, he was
touched gently on the elbow by a tall long-haired young woman, who was
one of the domestics in the establishment.
“Well, Jane, what’s up now, lass?” inquired the farmer.
“Hush, master. This way.” She drew him back towards the entrance to
the kitchen, and said in a low, mysterious tone of voice, “Are the
guns loaded?”
“Two of them are. But what of that?”
“Load the others.”
“Why, dash it――what ails thee, girl?”
“Nothing, master. I can’t tell why, but I feel timmersome like, and
fancy something bad is going to happen.”
“If loading the other guns will do thee any good the remedy is easy
enough,” observed the good-natured farmer, who at once proceeded to
charge the other weapons.
“Thanks, Mr. Richard, thanks!” exclaimed the girl, in a tone of
evident satisfaction.
The farmer repaired to his bedroom, taking the two guns――his own and
his brother’s――with him. At his suggestion his two friends had carried
up their weapons into their bedroom in the earlier portion of the
evening. This might appear a little singular, but John Ashbrook had
playfully observed to Cheadle and Jamblin that there was sometimes a
hare to be seen out of the bedroom window, feeding on the orchard
grass of a morning.
“And so,” he observed jocosely, “if you see one to-morrow morning you
will of course be able to knock him over.”
“We will do our best should there be one,” said both gentlemen.
In less than half an hour after the party had broken up all the
inmates of Oakfield House were soundly sleeping.
All save one.
This was Jane Ryan, the girl who had exchanged a few parting words
with her master, or, more properly speaking, with one of her masters,
for John and Richard Ashbrook were partners.
A strange sense of coming evil had taken possession of the girl, who
sat moodily and dejected in the kitchen long after the other members
of the household had retired to rest. Jane did not feel disposed to
seek repose; she was restless and disturbed, albeit she was quiet,
moving from place to place in a stealthy way, in direct variance with
her usual manner.
“I cannot sleep,” she murmured; “and so I will e’en keep watch for one
hour or more.”
She put some fresh coals on the kitchen fire, before which she sat for
some time absorbed in thought.
Leaving her there, we will take a survey of the exterior of the house
and its surroundings.
It was two o’clock in the morning. The rain had ceased; the moon was
shining brightly, and covered the fields with a pale, lustrous light;
the stars sparkled in the rain-drops which were hanging from the
leaves, and so clothed the trees with a mantle of diamonds.
All was silent in the fields, for the birds and insects of the night
were torpid till summer came once more.
All was silent in the yard――the cattle sleeping on their beds of
straw, and the fowls upon their wooden perches.
Seen by the pale moonlight the old farmhouse was a picture worthy of
an artist’s pencil.
On the northern side of Oakfield ran a narrow lane, skirted by a dense
mass of foliage, which threw the lane into sombre darkness. The lane
itself rose abruptly as it neared the farm, which stood on the upland.
In this lane the forms of three men might be seen. The first of these
is Charles Peace. Standing facing him is the notorious “cracksman” Ned
Gregson, better known by the name of the “Bristol Badger.” The last of
the three is known as “Cooney;” he is a tinker by trade, but he is a
sort of jackal to rogues of a greater degree than himself.
The three men are in close converse. They had come suddenly to halt,
as if doubtful as to their course of action.
“I tell yer it’s right as the mail,” observed the tinker, in a tone of
confidence. “The farmers have sold their wheat, and there’s a mighty
good ‘swag’ in the house. Only yer see, Ned, old boy, yer must not be
too rash. Be keerful――be very keerful.”
“What do yer mean?” inquired the Badger.
“Well, it’s just this, old man, the farmers――leastways so I heerd at
the ‘Six Bells’――have had two blokes with ’em to-day, a poppin’ at the
blessed birds, bad luck to them; and from what I could gather from
Tim, the two blokes are a stoppin’ there to-night.”
“What matters about that?” said Peace. “We don’t intend to wake the
gentlemen.”
“All right――so much the better,” answered the tinker. “I’m for doing
things in a quiet sort of way, I am.”
The Badger uttered an oath, and his ill-favoured countenance wore an
expression of disgust.
“Do you know where they keep the shiners?” he asked.
“Oh, yes; I think that’ll be all right. I haven’t been in the house to
mend the bell wires without a keeping my eyes open. Ah, ah!”
“Stow that, yer fool!” exclaimed the Badger. “Wait till yer out of the
wood afore yer laugh.”
“All right, Ned, I’m as silent as the grave.”
“When were you at ‘The Bells,’ then?” inquired Peace.
“I had a game of skittles this afternoon.”
“At what time?”
“Between three and four o’clock; or it might be a little later. Can’t
say to half an hour or so.”
“And that’s how you came to know about these two sporting chaps?”
“Right you are. Tim gave me the tip.”
“You haven’t been fool enough to push your inquiries too far?” said
Peace. “Tim, as you call him, might suspect.”
“He suspect?” returned the tinker, indignantly. “Not he. I was as good
as gold.”
“It’s no use making a long palaver about the matter,” ejaculated
Gregson. “Let’s to business.”
The three burglars made direct for Oakfield House. In the space of a
few minutes they were busily at work to effect an entrance, but they
found this by no means so easy a task as they had imagined. The
windows and doors of the habitation were carefully secured, and,
although they knew it not at the time, there was one inmate of the
establishment keenly alive to every movement.
This was Jane Ryan, who was aroused from her lethargic reverie before
the kitchen fire by a sound which was new to her ears.
Jane started and rose from her seat.
“I said something was about to happen,” she murmured, pressing her
hand against her side. “I could have taken a Bible oath of it.”
She paused for a few moments, apparently in doubt as to what course to
take; presently she appeared to have decided upon her line of action.
She glided from the room with long, stealthy, and noiseless steps,
carrying her shoes in her hand.
A sudden surprise awaited her two young masters.
They were awoke from their sleep by a hand placed upon their
shoulders. They stared around them sleepily, as yet not realising the
real state of affairs. It was dark in their bedroom, for the moon was
behind a cloud.
When it gleamed out, they saw Jane Ryan standing before them. Her arms
were naked to the shoulder; her eyes glistened with a strange light.
She held a loaded gun in her hands.
The Ashbrooks were perfectly bewildered when they beheld this strange
apparition awaking them in the silent hours of the night.
“Jane!” exclaimed Richard Ashbrook, suddenly calling to his mind the
warning given him in the earlier part of the night by his faithful and
devoted servant. “Jane――what’s the matter? Speak, girl.”
“Hush!” she murmured, placing her finger on her lips; “make no noise,
or it may be fatal. Listen.”
Both the farmers listened till their ears tingled, but they could hear
nothing.
A thought crossed the minds of both almost simultaneously, that the
girl was (to use the expression they made use of afterwards) off her
head.
The brothers stared at each other in mute astonishment.
“I can’t hear anything,” said John Ashbrook.
“Don’t speak, master, but watch and wait; you will hear,” said Jane,
in a low whisper.
She was standing as if in anxious expectation――one hand raised to her
ear, the other grasping the fowling-piece.
The two Ashbrooks listened again, and as the moonlight ebbed slowly
from the room like a great white wave streaming back towards the sea,
they heard a thin scraping sound, which was unlike anything they had
heard before. This mysterious sound was followed by deep and heavy
blows.
“Are you satisfied now?” said the maid.
“What is it?” they inquired.
She answered in a low, horse voice――
“Robbers, burglars, assassins!”
The two farmers stole hastily but silently from their beds.
Jane immediately left the room.
They at once proceeded to arouse Mr. Cheadle and Jamblin. All this was
done as noiselessly as possible. When the four men were up and
dressed, Maude Ashbrook joined them, declaring that she would not
leave the side of her brothers upon any consideration.
They left the door wide open, and all crouched together in a corner.
The sound of the burglars’ tools soon ceased――a sign that they were
worked by practised hands.
Indeed, no more skilful “cracksmen” existed at this time than Charles
Peace, the Badger, and Cooney――the two first-named men have never been
surpassed.
The farmers and their friends silently awaited the movements of the
robbers, who had without doubt, by this time, effected an entrance
into the house.
The party in the bedroom stood prepared for any emergency――they all
cocked their guns.
“Let us have no firing, except in self-defence,” said Mr. Cheadle.
“There are four able-bodied men here, and it must go hard with us if
we cannot hold our own.”
“I shan’t be at all particular about peppering the scoundrels, whoever
they may be,” returned John Ashbrook. “A set of lawless, midnight
marauders――fellows of their stamp do not deserve pity or
consideration.”
They now heard muffled footsteps in the room beneath them, and
immediately afterwards similar sounds were heard on the stairs.
They began to breathe a little quicker, and grasped their guns more
tightly.
A gleam of light fell across the threshold.
They could see a slipper lying there――one that Maude had dropped.
The burglars had probably perceived this, and thence argued that
people were afoot, for the light disappeared, and they could hear
whisperings outside the door.
The big bedroom, as it was called, was a square chamber, barely
furnished. The two bedsteads had been placed close to the window on
the left-hand side.
Round and about these beds the six besieged persons were crouched or
seated.
The moonlight poured in at the window in such a manner that while the
whole of the opposite side, except one corner, was as light as day,
the little nook by the beds was buried in impenetrable darkness.
The one dark corner on the opposite side was formed by the chimney,
which jutted out some little way into the room.
They listened breathlessly for some moments, till they fancied that
they heard a board creak inside the room close to the door; and at
that moment, as if by magic, a voice issued from the corner of the
chimney.
“We are armed with loaded revolvers; if you come a step nearer we
fire!”
The lurid flash of a pistol flamed within the room, and they heard a
ball strike sharply against the wall.
Maude betrayed their hiding-place with a shriek, and fell fainting in
her brother John’s arms.
A loud report rang in their ears, and the room was filled with a
thick, sulphurous smoke.
By the light of the powder’s flame when the first shot was fired,
there was one who had seen the robber’s face――a face, once seen, not
soon to be forgotten. The dark cavernous eyes of the “Badger” had been
distinctly visible to Jane Ryan, who gave a scream of triumph and
revenge.
It was but momentarily that she had caught sight of the forbidding
features of the miscreant; but it was enough for her purpose.
She levelled her master’s gun at the supposed spot where the robber
was; and as she fired, something fell heavily upon the floor.
A shudder passed over them like a cold wind. They drew their breath
and heard the same whisperings outside the door.
John Ashbrook placed his sister behind himself and his brother. There
was an interval of silence; they began to hope that the burglars had
gone, when presently they perceived something on the opposite wall.
They watched it with fascinated eyes. It was a small, dark shadow,
creeping towards them along the wall.
It was the shadow of a man’s hand.
Then they heard a harsh, rustling sound, as if something was being
dragged along the floor.
The robbers were taking away the dead body of their comrade.
They did not dare to move, for they knew the burglars were armed to a
far greater extent than they were, and exposure might prove fatal.
Ten minutes passed thus; ten minutes of frightful suspense to these
farmers――who were brave but not phlegmatic――who now fought men for the
first time, and fought them in the dark.
They could not possibly tell how many there were of their enemies. To
fire the only three remaining charges they had would have been an act
of madness; they therefore thought it prudent to keep these in reserve
for the grand or final conflict.
But the worst was over, as far as the Oakfield housebreakers were
concerned.
Presently the eager tramp of men’s feet echoed from the road before
the farm, and a dozen rough voices were heard bawling to each other.
The besieged party rushed to the window, and saw in the front of the
house one of the village constabulary force, who was accompanied by a
posse of strong-bodied youths of the immediate neighbourhood. In
addition to these there were shepherds armed with crowbars, stablemen
with their pitchforks, bird-keepers with their rusty fowling-pieces,
woodmen with their billhooks, and a tall relation of Jane Ryan’s with
a substantial kitchen poker.
The reports of the gun and pistol in the dead hour of the night had
aroused the whole neighbourhood.
As may be readily imagined, the strong reinforcement at once dispelled
all anxiety or doubt in the minds of the farmer’s household.
Three men were instantly mounted, and started off in the dark to the
three nearest railway stations. The rest were invited into the kitchen
to wait till daybreak.
There had been an unprecedented number of burglaries committed at
several houses in the neighbourhood within the space of a few
months――hence it was that the rustic population were so keenly alive
when any signal of alarm was given.
To capture the robbers was the wish of everyone assembled at Oakfield
on that eventful night.
With the first streaks of dawn the party congregated in the yard, and
took counsel on the best means of pursuit.
“If they have been carrying a body with them they can’t be very far
off,” said Mr. Jamblin.
“They are lurking about somewhere hard by, I dare say,” said the
police-officer.
“Where’s Jarvis?” cried Will, the carter. “He’d be the boy to find ’em
for us. He’d ketch ’em if they burrowed underground like a rabbit.”
“Would he?” ejaculated the policeman. “He must be a clever chap.”
“Aye, that he be,” returned another rustic.
“Have you got any more of his sort in this neighbourhood?” asked the
officer.
The rustics made no reply.
“Who is this Jarvis you were speaking of?” inquired John Ashbrook.
“Jarvis, sir? Why, him as ’listed some years ago, and fought under
Lord Clyde in the Injies. Arter that they sent him to the other
Injies, where the red men be, and they’ve taught him a power of
strange tricks. He came here wi’ us, but he’s got lost since, or
summat.”
“No, I baint lost, Joe,” said a tall young man, whose left cheek was
one great red scar, and whose face had been bronzed by no English sun.
“Why, sure enough, it is Jarvis!” exclaimed Mr. Ashbrook. “Give us
your hand, lad. Sure enough I shouldn’t ha’ known ye, they’ve knocked
ye about so.”
“Aye, that they have, Master Ashbrook,” returned the soldier. “But
tell us, neighbour, what you can about this night’s business.”
“You shall know all I know,” answered the farmer; who thereupon put
the soldier in possession of all the facts with which the reader is
already acquainted.
When he had finished, the soldier said, “I’ll be bound for it that the
body of the dead or wounded man is not very far from here.”
“You think not?”
“Ah! that I do. We came up so soon that they’d have no time to get far
away with that load upon their backs; and most likely they’ve been
forced to hide it in a slovenly way.”