The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Before proceeding to Wych Street, he called at the Lodge to see how matters were going on, and found Mrs. Spurling and Austin at their evening meal, with Caliban in attendance.

  “Well, Mr. Shotbolt,” cried the turnkey, “I’ve good news for you. Mr. Wild has doubled his offer, and the governor has likewise proclaimed a reward of one hundred guineas for Jack’s apprehension.”

  “You don’t say so!” exclaimed Shotbolt.

  “Read that,” rejoined Austin, pointing to the placard. “I ought to tell you that Mr. Wild’s reward is conditional upon Jack’s being taken before to-morrow morning. So I fear there’s little chance of any one getting it.”

  “You think so, eh?” chuckled Shotbolt, who was eagerly perusing the reward, and congratulating himself upon his caution; “you think so — ha! ha! Well, don’t go to bed, that’s all.”

  “What for?” demanded the turnkey.

  “Because the prisoner’s arrival might disturb you — ha! ha!”

  “I’ll lay you twenty guineas you don’t take him to-night,” rejoined Austin.

  “Done!” cried Shotbolt. “Mrs. Spurling, you’re a witness to the bet. Twenty guineas, mind. I shan’t let you off a farthing. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it.”

  “Never count your chickens till they’re hatched,” observed Mrs. Spurling, drily.

  “My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so,” replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. “Get ready your heaviest irons, Austin. I’ll send you word when I catch him.”

  “You’d better send him,” jeered the turnkey.

  “So I will,” rejoined Shotbolt; “so I will. If I don’t, you shall clap me in the Condemned Hold in his stead. Good-bye, for the present — ha! ha!” And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge.

  “I’ll lay my life he’s gone on a fox-and-goose-chase to Mr. Kneebone’s,” remarked Austin, rising to fasten the door.

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Mrs. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. And, while the turnkey was busy with the keys, she whispered to the black, “Follow him, Caliban. Take care he don’t see you, — and bring me word where he goes, and what he does.”

  “Iss, missis,” grinned the black.

  “Be so good as to let Caliban out, Mr. Austin,” continued the tapstress; “he’s only going on an errand.”

  Austin readily complied with her request. As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager.

  Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him. Arrived within a short distance of his destination, he came to a halt, and pointing out a dark court nearly opposite the woollen-draper’s abode, told the chairmen to wait there till they were summoned.

  “I’m a peace-officer,” he added, “about to arrest a notorious criminal. He’ll be brought out at this door, and may probably make some resistance. But you must get him into the chair as fast as you can, and hurry off to Newgate.”

  “And what’ll we get for the job, yer hon’r?” asked the foremost chairman, who, like most of his tribe at the time, was an Irishman.

  “Five guineas. Here’s a couple in hand.”

  “Faix, then we’ll do it in style,” cried the fellow. “Once in this chair, yer hon’r, and I’ll warrant he’ll not get out so aisily as Jack Sheppard did from the New Pris’n.”

  “Hold your tongue, sirrah,” rejoined Shotbolt, not over-pleased by the remark, “and mind what I tell you. Ah! what’s that?” he exclaimed, as some one brushed hastily past him. “If I hadn’t just left him, I could have sworn it was Mrs. Spurling’s sooty imp, Caliban.”

  Having seen the chairmen concealed in the entry, Shotbolt proceeded to Mr. Kneebone’s habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. The summons was instantly answered by a shop-boy.

  “Is your master at home?” inquired the jailer.

  “He is,” replied a portly personage, arrayed in a gorgeous yellow brocade dressing-gown, lined with cherry-coloured satin, and having a crimson velvet cap, surmounted by a gold tassel, on his head. “My name is Kneebone,” added the portly personage, stepping forward. “What do you want with me?”

  “A word in private,” replied the other.

  “Stand aside, Tom,” commanded Kneebone. “Now Sir,” he added, glancing suspiciously at the applicant “your business?”

  “My business is to acquaint you that Jack Sheppard has escaped, Mr. Kneebone,” returned Shotbolt.

  “The deuce he has! Why, it’s only a few hours since I beheld him chained down with half a hundred weight of iron, in the strongest ward at Newgate. It’s almost incredible. Are you sure you’re not misinformed, Sir?”

  “I was in the Lodge at the time,” replied the jailer.

  “Then, of course, you must know. Well, it’s scarcely credible. When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he’d accept it. But, egad! I believe he will.”

  “I’m convinced of it,” replied Shotbolt; “and it was on that very account I came here.” And he proceeded to unfold his scheme to the woollen-draper.

  “Well, Sir,” said Kneebone, when the other concluded, “I shall certainly not oppose his capture, but, at the same time, I’ll lend you no assistance. If he keeps his word, I’ll keep mine. You must wait till supper’s over.”

  “As you please, Sir, — provided you don’t let him off.”

  “That I’ll engage not to do. I’ve another reason for supposing he’ll pay me a visit. I refused to sign a petition in his behalf to the Recorder; not from any ill-will to him, but because it was prepared by a person whom I particularly dislike — Captain Darrell.”

  “A very sufficient reason,” answered the jailer.

  “Tom,” continued Kneebone, calling to the shop-boy, “don’t go home. I may want you. Light the lantern. And, if you hear any odd noise in the parlour, don’t mind it.”

  “Not in the least, Sir,” replied Tom, in a drowsy tone, and with a look seeming to imply that he was too much accustomed to odd noises at night to heed them.

  “Now, step this way, Mr. What’s-your-name?”

  “Shotbolt, Sir,” replied the jailer.

  “Very well, Mr. Slipshod; follow me.” And he led the way to an inner room, in the middle of which stood a table, covered with a large white cloth.

  “Jack Sheppard knows this house, I believe, Sir,” observed Shotbolt.

  “Every inch of it,” replied the woollen-draper. “He ought to do, seeing that he served his apprenticeship in it to Mr. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied. His name is carved upon a beam up stairs.”

  “Indeed!” said Shotbolt. “Where can I hide myself?” he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet.

  “Under the table. The cloth nearly touches the floor. Give me your staff. It’ll be in your way.”

  “Suppose he brings Blueskin, or some other ruffian with him,” hesitated the jailer.

  “Suppose he does. In that case I’ll help you. We shall be equally matched. You’re not afraid, Mr. Shoplatch.”

  “Not in the least,” replied Shotbolt, creeping beneath the table; “there’s my staff. Am I quite hidden?”

  “Not quite; — keep your feet in. Mind you don’t stir till supper’s over. I’ll stamp twice when we’ve done.”

  “I forgot to mention there’s a trifling reward for his capture,” cried Shotbolt, popping his head from under the cloth. “If we take him, I don’t mind giving you a share — say a fourth — provided you lend a helping hand.”

  “Curse your reward!” exclaimed Kneebone, angrily. “Do you take me for a thief-catcher, like Jonathan Wild, that you dare to affront me by such a proposal?”

  “No offence, Sir,” rejoined the jailer, humbly. “I didn’t imagine for a moment that you’d accept it, but I thought it right to ma
ke you the offer.”

  “Be silent, and conceal yourself. I’m about to ring for supper.”

  The woollen-draper’s application to the bell was answered by a very pretty young woman, with dark Jewish features, roguish black eyes, sleek glossy hair, a trim waist, and a remarkably neat figure: the very model, in short, of a bachelor’s housekeeper.

  “Rachel,” said Mr. Kneebone, addressing his comely attendant; “put a few more plates on the table, and bring up whatever there is in the larder. I expect company.”

  “Company!” echoed Rachel; “at this time of night?”

  “Company, child,” repeated Kneebone. “I shall want a bottle or two of sack, and a flask of usquebaugh.”

  “Anything else, Sir?”

  “No: — stay! you’d better not bring up any silver forks or spoons.”

  “Why, surely you don’t think your guests would steal them,” observed Rachel, archly.

  “They shan’t have the opportunity,” replied Kneebone. And, by way of checking his housekeeper’s familiarity, he pointed significantly to the table.

  “Who’s there?” cried Rachel. “I’ll see.” And before she could be prevented, she lifted up the cloth, and disclosed Shotbolt. “Oh, Gemini!” she exclaimed. “A man!”

  “At your service, my dear,” replied the jailer.

  “Now your curiosity’s satisfied, child,” continued Kneebone, “perhaps, you’ll attend to my orders.”

  Not a little perplexed by the mysterious object she had seen, Rachel left the room, and, shortly afterwards returned with the materials of a tolerably good supper; — to wit, a couple of cold fowls, a tongue, the best part of a sirloin of beef, a jar of pickles, and two small dishes of pastry. To these she added the wine and spirits directed, and when all was arranged looked inquisitively at her master.

  “I expect a very extraordinary person to supper, Rachel,” he remarked.

  “The gentleman under the table,” she answered. “He does seem a very extraordinary person.”

  “No; another still more extraordinary.”

  “Indeed! — who is it?”

  “Jack Sheppard.”

  “What! the famous housebreaker. I thought he was in Newgate.”

  “He’s let out for a few hours,” laughed Kneebone; “but he’s going back again after supper.”

  “Oh, dear! how I should like to see him. I’m told he’s so handsome.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t indulge you,” replied her master, a little piqued. “I shall want nothing more. You had better go to bed.”

  “It’s no use going to bed,” answered Rachel. “I shan’t sleep a wink while Jack Sheppard’s in the house.”

  “Keep in your own room, at all events,” rejoined Kneebone.

  “Very well,” said Rachel, with a toss of her pretty head, “very well. I’ll have a peep at him, if I die for it,” she muttered, as she went out.

  Mr. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. Half an hour passed, but Jack did not make his appearance. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. Another long interval elapsed. The watch was again consulted. It was now a quarter past twelve. Mr. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles.

  “I suspect our friend has thought better of it, and won’t come,” he remarked.

  “Have a little patience, Sir,” rejoined the jailer.

  “How are you off there, Shoplatch?” inquired Kneebone. “Rather cramped, eh?”

  “Rather so, Sir,” replied the other, altering his position. “I shall be able to stretch my limbs presently — ha! ha!”

  “Hush!” cried Kneebone, “I hear a noise without. He’s coming.”

  The caution was scarcely uttered, when the door opened, and Jack Sheppard presented himself. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. It has been already intimated that Jack had an excessive passion for finery; and it might have been added, that the chief part of his ill-gotten gains was devoted to the embellishment of his person. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette. His apparel was sumptuous in the extreme, and such as was only worn by persons of the highest distinction. It consisted of a full-dress coat of brown flowered velvet, laced with silver; a waistcoat of white satin, likewise richly embroidered; shoes with red heels, and large diamond buckles; pearl-coloured silk stockings with gold clocks; a muslin cravat, or steen-kirk, as it was termed, edged with the fine point lace; ruffles of the same material, and so ample as almost to hide the tips of his fingers; and a silver-hilted sword. This costume, though somewhat extravagant, displayed his slight, but perfectly-proportioned figure to the greatest advantage. The only departure which he made from the fashion of the period, was in respect to the peruke — an article he could never be induced to wear. In lieu of it, he still adhered to the sleek black crop, which, throughout life, formed a distinguishing feature in his appearance. Ever since the discovery of his relationship to the Trenchard family, a marked change had taken place in Jack’s demeanour and looks, which were so much refined and improved that he could scarcely be recognised as the same person. Having only seen him in the gloom of a dungeon, and loaded with fetters, Kneebone had not noticed this alteration: but he was now greatly struck by it. Advancing towards him, he made him a formal salutation, which was coldly returned.

  “I am expected, I find,” observed Jack, glancing at the well-covered board.

  “You are,” replied Kneebone. “When I heard of your escape, I felt sure I should see you.”

  “You judged rightly,” rejoined Jack; “I never yet broke an engagement with friend or foe — and never will.”

  “A bold resolution,” said the woollen-draper. “You must have made some exertion to keep your present appointment. Few men could have done as much.”

  “Perhaps not,” replied Jack, carelessly. “I would have done more, if necessary.”

  “Well, take a chair,” rejoined Kneebone. “I’ve waited supper, you perceive.”

  “First, let me introduce my friends,” returned Jack, stepping to the door.

  “Friends!” echoed Kneebone, with a look of dismay. “My invitation did not extend to them.”

  Further remonstrance, however, was cut short by the sudden entrance of Mrs. Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called — appropriately enough in this instance, — a wrap-rascal. Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh. The ladies were, as usual, very gaily dressed; and as usual, also, had resorted to art to heighten their attractions —

  From patches, justly placed, they borrow’d graces,

  And with vermilion lacquer’d o’er their faces.

  Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée, — a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue, — which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. Mrs. Maggot was equipped in a light blue riding-habit, trimmed with silver, a hunting-cap and a flaxen peruke, and, instead of a whip, carried a stout cudgel.

  For a moment, Kneebone had hesitated about giving the signal to Shotbolt, but, thinking a more favourable opportunity might occur, he determined not to hazard matters by undue precipitation. Placing chairs, therefore, he invited the ladies to be seated, and, paying a similar attention to Jack, began to help to the various dishes, and otherwise fulfil the duties of a host. While this was going on, Blueskin, seeing no notice whatever taken of him, coughed loudly and repeatedly. But finding his hints totally disregarded, he, at length, swaggered up to the table, and thrust in a chair.

  “Excuse me,” he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. “This tongue looks remarkably nice,” he added, slicing off an immense wedge, “excuse me — ho! ho!”

  “You make yourself at home, I perceive,” observed Kneebone, with a look of ineffable disgust.

  “I generally d
o,” replied Blueskin, pouring out a bumper of sack. “Your health, Kneebone.”

  “Allow me to offer you a glass of usquebaugh, my dear,” said Kneebone, turning from him, and regarding Edgeworth Bess with a stare so impertinent, that even that not over-delicate young lady summoned up a blush.

  “With pleasure, Sir,” replied Edgeworth Bess. “Dear me!” she added, as she pledged the amorous woollen-draper, “what a beautiful ring that is.”

  “Do you think so?” replied Kneebone, taking it off, and placing it on her finger, which he took the opportunity of kissing at the same time; “wear it for my sake.”

  “Oh, dear!” simpered Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to hide her confusion by looking steadfastly at her plate.

  “You don’t eat,” continued Kneebone, addressing Jack, who had remained for some time thoughtful, and pre-occupied with his head upon his hand.

  “The Captain has seldom much appetite,” replied Blueskin, who, having disposed of the fowl, was commencing a vigorous attack upon the sirloin. “I eat for both.”

  “So it seems,” observed the woollen-draper, “and for every one else, too.”

  “I say, Kneebone,” rejoined Blueskin, as he washed down an immense mouthful with another bumper, “do you recollect how nearly Mr. Wild and I were nabbing you in this very room, some nine years ago?”

  “I do,” replied Kneebone; “and now,” he added, aside, “the case is altered. I’m nearly nabbing you.”

  “A good deal has occurred since then, eh, Captain!” said Blueskin, nudging Jack.

  “Much that I would willingly forget. Nothing that I desire to remember,” replied Sheppard, sternly. “On that night, — in this room, — in your presence, Blueskin, — in yours Mr. Kneebone, Mrs. Wood struck me a blow which made me a robber.”