The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

by Antonia Hodgson

  And for revenge.

  He tapped my arm. ‘Convince me.’

  And so I made my case to a jury of one. I told him that I had broken all ties with Kitty – had not spoken or written to her since she’d visited with Alice’s dress. She knew nothing – he could be sure of it. If she had even suspected Sam she would have told the world by now. Fleet accepted the truth of this. Kitty was not one to stay quiet, even if her life were at risk.

  ‘I have sent a message to the queen. I have every hope she will arrange my pardon. When it comes, most likely I will be sent away on some service. Or transported, I suppose.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Fleet tilted his head from side to side, weighing these possibilities. ‘Or you will hang.’

  I shifted uneasily. I’d heard no more from Budge or his mistress – but the note had counselled patience. ‘If I’m hanged then you will have no need to harm Kitty. You are fond of her, I think. Gabriela says you knew her as a baby.’

  ‘Enough,’ Fleet said, holding up a hand. ‘Enough. Let me think.’ He stared at the ground for a long, agonising pause. Then, with a sudden decisiveness, he tucked away his pipe and held out his hand. I shook it. He rose slowly, hands on his knees. He was getting old for a gang captain. He wouldn’t last much longer, surely. That would be my mission in life, should the pardon come – to outlive James Fleet.

  He banged on the door to attract the guards’ attention. They were playing cards at the far end of the ward and it took a while to rouse them. Fleet, unconcerned, waited with his hands tucked in his pockets. ‘You’re treated well?’

  ‘Tolerably.’

  ‘Need anything?’

  Not from you. Kitty was still paying Eliot’s fees and – I presumed – all the other debts I was accruing in here. I doubted my bill came to more than a couple of guineas. I had lost my appetite in the last few days.

  ‘Should have let the maid swing for it.’

  ‘She’s innocent.’

  ‘So are you. Can’t afford honour in this world, Hawkins. It’ll kill you faster than the plague.’

  Chapter Twenty

  After that the days dragged on inexorably to trial. Gonson helped prepare the case against me and found a long line of outraged citizens to speak against my character. Most of them paid subscription to the Society for the Reformation of Manners.

  There was no clear proof that I had murdered Burden. There were no witnesses to the murder. But I had threatened to kill him in front of a dozen neighbours, many of whom were willing to testify against me. Meanwhile, who could I ask to defend my honour? My father was too weak to travel, and my sister must stay with him. They both sent letters to the court, devastated and sorrowful and speaking of my kind and gentle nature. But what else could be said of me? I was a rake and a gambler, thrown out of the Church because of my scandalous behaviour. Most of my respectable friends had abandoned me years ago, and my new ones had vanished the second Gonson slapped the iron cuffs about my wrists.

  I had two old friends I might have called on, given more time. One was in Scotland, entangled in business he couldn’t leave. He wrote a letter in my defence – at the risk of his own reputation. The other – a friend from Oxford – was travelling on the continent. By the time the news reached him, my troubles would already be over, one way or the other.

  And then there was my oldest friend, Charles – but we had not spoken since my time in the Marshalsea. Charles. I could not think of him. There was only misery and pain there – a black cloth thrown across our friendship for ever.

  Kitty of course remained true, but I could not call upon her.

  I was alone – and it did not suit me. I am a man who likes company, the noisier the better. Sitting alone in my cell day after day weakened my spirit and gnawed the hope from my bones. Yet I found I could not bring myself to speak with the other prisoners nor even venture into the press yard save to stretch my limbs. Buried in my narrow cell, I had become almost numb to my surroundings, as if hibernating from all my troubles. I had also lost my appetite, to the point that Mr Rewse grew concerned and sent a message to Eliot to pay me a visit. He looked tired – perhaps the new baby was keeping him awake. Dorothy had given birth the day after my arrest. More likely it was the strain of defending London’s most notorious villain.

  ‘Are you sick, sir?’ he asked, drawing a chair to my bed. He did not show any signs of pity.

  I lay listlessly upon the mattress, hand flung across my brow. How could I explain that I was grieving for Kitty, when I had pushed her so violently from my life? I knew she came to the gaol every day only to be sent away. She wrote to me each day too – bribing the turnkey to smuggle the letters straight into my hand. Each day I threw them into the fire without reading a word. ‘Tell her this,’ I told the guard as the flames licked the pages. ‘Tell her she wastes her time and her money.’ She had taken to writing messages upon the envelope, large capitals underlined. READ THIS, DAMN YOU! and TOM – YOU MUST LET ME HELP, YOU STUBBORN BASTARD. I loved her for it with all my heart. And tossed her words to the flames again.

  ‘The town has turned against you,’ Eliot said. He handed me a broadsheet he’d found pinned to the wall at Moll’s. It described Burden’s death in horrific detail – the nine stab wounds, the knife plunged into his heart, right to the hilt. Judith’s desolate cries of ‘murder’ echoing in the night air, ‘sending a chill to the soul of all Christianlike men who heard them’. There were sketches too. One showed my arrest, bare-headed and fighting the guards. Another showed the murder itself. The artist had drawn Burden in his bed, fast asleep. I stood over him, blade held high, about to strike. I looked demonic, lips pulled back in a horrible grin.

  I crumpled the paper in my fist and collapsed back upon the bed.

  Eliot leaned closer. ‘Do you not see the danger you are in, Hawkins? For God’s sake, man – what ails you? Why do you not defend yourself?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Are you guilty?’

  I roused myself enough to glare at him. ‘No.’

  He snuffed in irritation. ‘No. Always no and nothing more. It is not enough, sir! Do you wish to hang?’

  I covered my face in my hands. And despite my best efforts, I began to weep.

  When I was recovered I rubbed my face and sat up. Eliot had not tried to comfort me, or offered any words of kindness, but his expression had softened a little. He picked up the crumpled broadsheet and smoothed it across his knee. ‘We must counter this. Give me something to tell the town. Let them hear your defence.’ He hesitated, cleared his throat. ‘Mr Defoe has offered to visit you and write of your story . . .’

  Daniel Defoe. Well, he had written Jack Sheppard’s story – and made a tidy profit from it too.

  ‘He is inclined to believe in your innocence,’ Eliot said. ‘The prosecution’s case is weak. You are being tried by the town, Hawkins. Defoe could turn them about. Remember how the mob protected him when he was in the pillory? He wishes to speak with you and with Kitty—’

  ‘No.’ I sprang to my feet. If Fleet suspected that I’d engaged Daniel Defoe to tell the real story of Burden’s murder, Kitty’s life would be forfeit and so would mine. ‘I forbid it,’ I said fiercely. ‘Do you understand, Eliot? Do not speak further with Mr Defoe, nor to anyone else.’

  Eliot rose from the chair, baffled and frustrated. ‘What ails you, sir? Kitty is convinced of your innocence, and yet you act as if you are guilty.’ He sighed, puffing out his fat cheeks. ‘I have practised law for over thirty years. I know when a man is hiding something. I am your lawyer, sir. I am bound to keep your secrets safe. You must trust me. You must tell me everything – or else I cannot help you.’

  It was tempting. My God, how I longed to unburden myself at last. Holding in the truth was making me ill. My dreams were nightmares and my waking hours were worse. But I couldn’t risk it. What if he told Kitty? What if he even hinted at the truth?

  ‘There is nothing to tell. I am innocent. That is all.’

  Eliot’s shoulders sagged. ‘I will visit again i
n the morning—’

  ‘—No. No more visits, sir. I thank you, but we have no more to discuss.’

  ‘Mr Hawkins! Your trial is set for the day after tomorrow . . .’

  ‘I am quite aware of the date, sir.’

  Eliot frowned. ‘I think you are determined to hang,’ he said, defeated. ‘Well. Eat some supper, at least. And call for a barber, for God’s sake. The jury expects to see a young gentleman on Thursday, not Robinson Crusoe.’

  He left, no doubt cursing me under his breath. And who was I to Eliot, after all? Kitty’s idle, drunken beau, a feckless rake who would squander her fortune if he could only get his hands upon it. He didn’t know the iron core that ran through me. Obstinate. Wilful. My father’s favoured words for me as a child. I could waft happily through life when it suited me, but when I had set my mind upon something I could not yield – ever.

  Still, Eliot’s visit had not been without value. I could not risk selling my story to Mr Defoe, but if I might concoct a way to write it myself in secret, with close instructions for its safekeeping . . . The thick, dank fog of melancholy that had surrounded me ever since I had arrived at Newgate dissolved a little. My future was no longer mine to shape – it rested in the hands of twelve men and one woman. But the past still belonged to me.

  And so the day came for my trial – Thursday 26th February. I took Eliot’s advice and called at dawn for the prison barber. He grumbled when he saw the thick black stubble that covered my scalp and face – I had not been shaved since my arrest. It took him a half-hour and three passes with the blade before he was done, and he charged double the usual fee for his trouble. Once he had left I dressed in my sober black waistcoat and breeches. I had no mirror and could only guess at my appearance. Judging from the way the clothes hung from my frame, I supposed I must be an alarming sight, gaunt and haggard. My eyes felt raw from lack of sleep. Well, there was nothing to be done – and indeed it would appear odd if I bounded bright-eyed into court.

  My hands began to tremble as I wound my cravat and so I paused and sat down upon the bed. I had never felt so alone as in this hour. All my life I had sought the company of others, happy in a large, boisterous crowd. Now there was only silence and a cold cell. My friends were gone or unable to help. My family were many miles away. My sister had written several letters and I had wept over them all, knowing that she if no one else would always believe in my innocence. But how I’d shamed her! How would she ever find a husband now, with such an infamous brother? My dear sister Jane – always so good to me. And here was her reward. I closed my eyes and imagined myself home, walking the old coastal path, the sea sparkling beneath an endless sky. A taste of salt and clean air on my tongue.

  Someone began to play the fiddle in a neighbouring cell and voices filled the air, new words set to an old ballad.

  Tom Hawkins was a parson’s son

  With evil in his heart

  A deed most wicked he has done

  And so he’ll ride the cart.

  He stabbed Jo Burden with his blade

  The blood is on his hands

  A noose old Hooper he has made

  The gentleman will hang.

  The key rattled in the lock and Mr Rewse stepped into the cell, a set of iron chains slung over his shoulder. He had let me live unfettered these past weeks, but now I must be chained again for all the world to see. I rose and let him fix the manacles to my wrists. This is a play, I told myself. Act the part you have been given and you will be spared. They led me through the ward, my fellow prisoners shouting and joking to one another as I passed. I had not tried to win friends in Newgate, keeping to my cell as much as possible. I had not repented, nor had I fallen in with the lower sorts who drank and whored their way to the gallows. Worst of all, I had continued to protest my innocence, which infuriated the good and the wicked alike. So there was no fellow-feeling as I walked through the gaol. They sang my ballad again to send me on my way, while the turnkeys chuckled to themselves.

  I comforted myself with the knowledge that Budge was still endeavouring to secure my release. He had written again, briefly, to say that his mistress would prefer the matter to be resolved at trial and hoped that I would be set free without her aid. I wished that too, in the way one might wish one could fly or pluck gold coins from the air. Wishing would not make it so.

  We took a passage beneath the street, connecting the prison to the Old Bailey. My chains clinked as we walked, the sound echoing through the tunnel. Eliot stood waiting for us at the other end.

  ‘You look ill, sir.’

  ‘You would have me skipping like a spring lamb, I suppose?’

  ‘The King’s Council has called Kitty to testify.’

  I stared at him in horror. He seemed to draw some comfort from my reaction – proof that I was at least decent enough to care for Kitty’s reputation. ‘She wishes to speak in your defence. You may call her as a witness.’

  I shook my head. God knows what she would be prepared to say in order to save me. Eliot sighed, as if he had expected my response. He seemed so dejected that on impulse I clasped his hands. ‘Thank you, sir, for all you have done.’

  He gave an exasperated laugh, as if to say – you have let me do nothing.

  ‘You are a good man, Mr Eliot. And an excellent lawyer.’

  ‘Aye . . .’ He glanced towards the courtroom, where the judge and jury waited. ‘But what sort of a man are you, Hawkins? I fear I cannot tell.’

  And so we entered the court and the world knows what happened next. I will not write of it here. To place myself in that room again, the sweat pouring down my back, mouth dry, barely able to breathe with fear . . . and all about me the rows of spectators, half of them old acquaintances, all craning to get the best view as if this were the theatre and not my life. James Fleet was there, tucked quietly in the shadows, to be sure I behaved.

  And on the front row, Charles Howard, face set throughout in grim, glowering concentration. When at last it was over and the verdict came down, he rose and picked up his hat, pushing past his neighbours to reach the aisle. I passed not two feet from him as the guards led me in chains back to prison. He smiled, teeth bared, but it was his eyes that I remembered, alone in my cell. Those terrible eyes, gleaming in cold triumph.

  Part Five

  . . .the Prisoner was brought to the Bar at 9 in the Morning, a very great and extraordinary Audience present; diverse Gentlemen of Distinction and a Crowd of Ladies. The Prisoner pleaded Not Guilty as at his Arraignment.

  The Council for the Crown open’d the Indictment; setting forth, That the said Thomas Hawkins, gentleman and former Student of Divinity, being a Person of inhuman and cruel Disposition did Assault and Murder the said Joseph Burden in the Unfortunate Victim’s own bed; and that the Prisoner did Stab him nine times with a great Dagger. And that the Prisoner did wound the said Joseph Burden with a fierce cut to the Heart, plunging the Blade to the very hilt and drawing forth great Geysers of Blood, by which the aforementioned soon died.

  The King’s Council proceeded to open, That the Prisoner at the Bar was well known to hold a great Loathing and Hatred of his Neighbour, and had been witnessed upon several occasions threatening to Strike and Murder the Unfortunate Deceas’d.

  The Council continued, That the Prisoner had every means of entering his neighbour’s home, which was upon Russell Street, having constructed a Secret and Ingenious Door between the attics, granting him Access whenever he so Wished. And thus the Prisoner had entered into the home of his Unfortunate Victim and murder’d him in an act most callous and cunning.

  Following this Brutal Act the Prisoner compounded his crime and with Great Wickedness sought to place Suspicion upon innocent parties: Stephen Burden the son of the Deceas’d, Judith Burden who was his Daughter and Ned Weaver, his apprentice. That thus, despite a childhood bless’d with good Fortune and the best of Educations, the Prisoner shew’d himself to be not only a Cold and Pitiless murderer but also a Coward and a Liar, having no decency or honour.
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  To prove the Indictment, the Council for the King called several Witnesses.

  The first was Judith Burden, daughter of the unfortunate deceas’d, who swore that Hawkins had threatened her Father upon several occasions. She depos’d that she had discovered the body of Joseph Burden on the morning of the 12th of January.

  Being asked by the King’s Council, Was he dead? She reply’d Aye, Aye and with a Knife in his Heart. At this she broke down. The Court call’d for a Cordial to ease her Nerves. When she was recover’d the King’s Council asked, And what thoughts came to you when you saw your Father dead? And the witness reply’d that she thought Mr Hawkins had murder’d him, as he had promis’d. At which she broke down again.

  The Prisoner at the Bar ask’d permission to question the Witness but the Court deemed that she was too much Distress’d, and that the Prisoner had question’d her close enough when he was at Liberty, to no avail. This Answer drew great Approval from the Audience gathered.

  Stephen Burden, son of the Deceas’d, deposed that he heard the Prisoner threaten his Father on diverse occasions. That his Father held the strong conviction that Hawkins was a Violent and Dangerous man who frequent’d Brothels and Gaming Houses and consort’d with base Company, and that he was most Vex’d by his arrival in the neighbourhood. Being asked if his Father was afraid of the Prisoner, the Witness replied that he was, mortally afraid.

  Hawkins asked the Witness if he had ever seen him strike his father, or shew any violence towards him. The Witness conceded he had not.

  Hawkins. And did your Father not strike you often, and your sister?