The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Let me have one,” cried a servant maid, running across the street, and in her haste forgetting to shut the door,— “here’s the money. Master and missis have been talking all day long about Jack Sheppard, and I’m dying to read his life.”

  “Here you have it, my dear,” returned the hawker. “Sold again!”

  “If you don’t get back quickly, Lucy,” observed a bystander, “Jack Sheppard will be in the house before you.”

  This sally occasioned a general laugh.

  “If Jack would come to my house, I’d contrive to hide him,” remarked a buxom dame. “Poor fellow! I’m glad he has escaped.”

  “Jack seems to be a great favourite with the fair sex,” observed a smirking grocer’s apprentice.

  “Of course,” rejoined the bystander, who had just spoken, and who was of a cynical turn,— “the greater the rascal, the better they like him.”

  “Here’s a particular account of Jack’s many robberies and escapes,” roared the hawker,— “how he broke into the house of his master, Mr. Wood, at Dollis Hill—”

  “Let me have one,” said a carpenter, who was passing by at the moment,— “Mr. Wood was an old friend of mine — and I recollect seeing Jack when he was bound ‘prentice to him.”

  “A penny, if you please, Sir,” said the hawker.— “Sold again! Here you have the full, true, and particular account of the barbarous murder committed by Jack Sheppard and his associate, Joseph Blake, alias Blueskin, upon the body of Mrs. Wood—”

  “That’s false!” cried a voice behind him.

  The man turned at the exclamation, and so did several of the bystanders; but they could not make out who had uttered it.

  Jack, who had been lingering near the group, now walked on.

  In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. The owner was at the door unhooking a few articles of wearing apparel which he had exposed outside for sale. Amongst other things, he had just brought down an old laced bavaroy, a species of surtout much worn at the period.

  “What do you want for that coat, friend?” asked Jack, as he came up.

  “More than you’ll pay for it, friend,” snuffled the Jew.

  “How do you know that?” rejoined Jack. “Will you take a guinea for it?”

  “Double that sum might tempt me,” replied the Jew; “it’s a nobleman’s coat, upon my shoul!”

  “Here’s the money,” replied Jack, taking the coat.

  “Shall I help you on with it, Sir?” replied the Jew, becoming suddenly respectful.

  “No,” replied Jack.

  “I half suspect this is a highwayman,” thought the Jew; “he’s so ready with his cash. I’ve some other things inside, Sir, which you might wish to buy, — some pistols.”

  Jack was about to comply; but not liking the man’s manner, he walked on.

  Further on, there was a small chandler’s shop, where Jack observed an old woman seated at the counter, attended by a little girl. Seeing provisions in the window, Jack ventured in and bought a loaf. Having secured this, — for he was almost famished, — he said that he had lost a hammer and wished to purchase one. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith.

  Guided by the glare of the forge, which threw a stream of ruddy light across the road, Jack soon found the place of which he was in search. Entering the workshop, he found the blacksmith occupied in heating the tire of a cart wheel. Suspending his labour on Jack’s appearance, the man demanded his business. Making up a similar story to that which he had told the old woman, he said he wanted to purchase a hammer and a file.

  The man looked hard at him.

  “Answer me one question first?” he said; “I half suspect you’re Jack Sheppard.”

  “I am,” replied Jack, without hesitation; for he felt assured from the man’s manner that he might confide in him.

  “You’re a bold fellow, Jack,” rejoined the blacksmith. “But you’ve done well to trust me. I’ll take off your irons — for I guess that’s the reason why you want the hammer and file — on one condition.”

  “What is it?”

  “That you give ’em to me.”

  “Readily.”

  Taking Jack into a shed behind the workshop the smith in a short time freed him from his fetters. He not only did this, but supplied him with an ointment which allayed the swelling of his limbs, and crowned all by furnishing him with a jug of excellent ale.

  “I’m afraid, Jack, you’ll come to the gallows,” observed the smith; “buth if you do, I’ll go to Tyburn to see you. But I’ll never part with your irons.”

  Noticing the draggled condition Jack was in, he then fetched him a bucket of water, with which Jack cleansed himself as well as he could, and thanking the honest smith, who would take nothing for his trouble, left the shop.

  Having made a tolerably good meal upon the loaf, overcome by fatigue, Jack turned into a barn in Stoke Newington, and slept till late in the day, when he awakened much refreshed. The swelling in his limbs had also subsided. It rained heavily all day, so he did not stir forth.

  Towards night, however, he ventured out, and walked on towards London. When he arrived at Hoxton, he found the walls covered with placards offering a reward for his apprehension, and he everywhere appeared to be the general subject of conversation. Prom a knot of idlers at a public-house, he learnt that Jonathan Wild had just ridden past, and that his setters were scouring the country in every direction.

  Entering London, he bent his way towards the west-end; and having some knowledge of a secondhand tailor’s shop in Rupert Street, proceeded thither, and looked out a handsome suit of mourning, with a sword, cloak, and hat, and demanded the price. The man asked twelve guineas, but after a little bargaining, he came down to ten.

  Taking his new purchase under his arm, Jack proceeded to a small tavern in the same street, where, having ordered dinner, he went to a bed-room to attire himself. He had scarcely completed his toilet, when he was startled by a noise at the door, and heard his own name pronounced in no friendly accents. Fortunately, the window was not far from the ground; so opening it gently, he dropped into a backyard, and from thence got into the street.

  Hurrying down the Haymarket, he was arrested by a crowd who were collected round a street-singer. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXVI. HOW JACK SHEPPARD ATTENDED HIS MOTHER’S FUNERAL.

  That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. On the next morning — Sunday — the day on which he expected his mother’s funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road.

  It was a clear, lovely, October morning. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees.

  Jack’s heart was too full to allow him to derive any pleasure from this scene; so he strolled on without raising his eyes till he arrived at Kensal Green. Here he obtained some breakfast, and mounting the hill turned off into the fields on the right. Crossing them, he ascended an eminence, which, from its singular shape, seems to have been the site of a Roman encampment, and which commands a magnificent prospect.

  Leaning upon a gate he looked down into the valley. It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years, — in those fields she had rambled, — at that church she had prayed. And he had destroyed all this. But for him she might hav
e been alive and happy. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears.

  Aroused by the sound of the church bells, he resolved, at whatever risk, to attend Divine service. With this view, he descended the hill and presently found a footpath leading to the church. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened — every wound opened. The path he had selected conducted him to his mother’s humble dwelling. When she occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with creepers — the garden trim and exquisitely kept. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. The glass in the windows was broken — the roof unthatched — the walls dilapidated. Jack turned away with an aching heart. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused.

  As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused. At every step he seemed to be haunted by the ghost of the past. There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance — how it had hardened his heart against his mother’s prayer. “O God!” he exclaimed, “I am severely punished.”

  He had now gained the high road. The villagers were thronging to church. Bounding the corner of a garden wall, he came upon his former place of imprisonment. Some rustic hand had written upon the door “JACK SHEPPARD’S CAGE;” and upon the wall was affixed a large placard describing his person, and offering a reward for his capture. Muffling up his face, Jack turned away; but he had not proceeded many steps when he heard a man reading aloud an account of his escapes from a newspaper.

  Hastening to the church, he entered it by the very door near which his first crime had been committed. His mother’s scream seemed again to ring in his ears, and he was so deeply affected that, fearful of exciting attention, he was about to quit the sacred edifice, when he was stopped by the entrance of Thames, who looked pale as death, with Winifred leaning on his arm. They were followed by Mr. Wood in the deepest mourning.

  Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. The service began. Jack who had not been in a place of worship for many years was powerfully affected. Accidentally raising his eyes, he saw that he was perceived by the family from Dollis Hill, and that he was an object of the deepest interest to them.

  As soon as the service was over, Thames contrived to approach him, and whispered, “Be cautious, — the funeral will take place after evening service.”

  Jack would not hazard a glance at Winifred; but, quitting the church, got into an adjoining meadow, and watched the party slowly ascending the road leading to Dollis Hill. At a turn in the road, he perceived Winifred looking anxiously towards him, and when she discovered him, she waved her hand.

  Returning to the churchyard, he walked round it; and on the western side, near a small yew-tree discovered a new-made grave.

  “Whose grave is this?” he inquired of a man who was standing near it.

  “I can’t say,” answered the fellow; “but I’ll inquire from the sexton, William Morgan. Here, Peter,” he added to a curly-headed lad, who was playing on one of the grassy tombs, “ask your father to step this way.”

  The little urchin set off, and presently returned with the sexton.

  “It’s Mrs. Sheppard’s grave, — the mother of the famous housebreaker,” said Morgan, in answer to Jack’s inquiry;— “and it’s well they let her have Christian burial after all — for they say she destroyed herself for her son. The crowner’s ‘quest sat on her yesterday — and if she hadn’t been proved out of her mind, she would have been buried at four lane-ends.”

  Jack could stand no more. Placing a piece of money in Morgan’s hands, he hurried out of the churchyard.

  “By my soul,” said the sexton, “that’s as like Jack Sheppard as any one I ever seed i’ my born days.”

  Hastening to the Six Bells, Jack ordered some refreshment, and engaged a private room, where he remained till the afternoon absorbed in grief.

  Meantime, a change had taken place in the weather. The day had become suddenly overcast. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. Just then, a carriage drawn by four horses, drove furiously up to the Six Bells; but Jack was too much absorbed to take any notice of it.

  At this moment, the bell began to toll in a peculiar manner, announcing the approach of the corpse. The gate was opened; the coffin brought into the churchyard; and Jack, whose eyes were filled with tears, saw Mr. Wood and Thames pass him, and followed at a foot’s pace behind them.

  Meanwhile, the clergyman, bare-headed and in his surplice, advanced to meet them. Having read the three first verses of the impressive service appointed for the burial of the dead, he returned to the church, whither the coffin was carried through the south-western door, and placed in the centre of the aisle — Mr. Wood and Thames taking their places on either side of it, and Jack at a little distance behind.

  Jack had been touched in the morning, but he was now completely prostrated. In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. His grief was so audible, that it attracted the notice of some of the bystanders, and Thames was obliged to beg him to control it. In doing this, he chanced to raise his eyes and half fancied he beheld, shaded by a pillar at the extremity of the western aisle, the horrible countenance of the thief-taker.

  Before the congregation separated, the clergyman descended from the pulpit; and, followed by the coffin-bearers and mourners, and by Jack at a respectful distance, entered the churchyard.

  The carriage, which it has been mentioned drove up to the Six Bells, contained four persons, — Jonathan Wild, his two janizaries, and his porter, Obadiah Lemon. As soon as they had got out, the vehicle was drawn up at the back of a tree near the cage. Having watched the funeral at some distance, Jonathan fancied he could discern the figure of Jack; but not being quite sure, he entered the church. He was daring enough to have seized and carried him off before the whole congregation, but he preferred waiting.

  Satisfied with his scrutiny, he returned, despatched Abraham and Obadiah to the northwest corner of the church, placed Quilt behind a buttress near the porch, and sheltered himself behind one of the mighty elms.

  The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. A slight rain fell at the time; and a few leaves, caught by the eddies, whirled around. Jonathan mixed with the group, and, sure of his prey, abided his time.

  The clergyman, meanwhile, proceeded with the service, while the coffin was deposited at the brink of the grave.

  Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head.

  A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised. But such was the violence of his grief, — such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. That person advanced towards him.

  “I have killed her,” cried Jack.

  “You have,” rejoined Jonathan, laying a forcible grasp on his shoulder. “You are my prisoner.”

  * * *

  Jack started to his feet; but before he could defend himself, his right arm was grasped by the Jew who had silently approached him.

  “Hell-hounds!” he cried; “release me!”

  At the same moment, Quilt Arnold rushed forward with such haste, that, stumbling over William Morgan, he precipitated him into the grave.

  “Wretch!” cried Jack. “Are you not content with the crimes you have committed, — but you must carry your villany to this point. Look at the po
or victim at your feet.”

  Jonathan made no reply, but ordered his myrmidons to drag the prisoner along.

  Thames, meanwhile, had drawn his sword, and was about to rush upon Jonathan; but he was withheld by Wood.

  “Do not shed more blood,” cried the carpenter.

  Groans and hoots were now raised by the crowd, and there was an evident disposition to rescue. A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face.

  “You shall not pass,” cried several of the crowd.

  “I knew his poor mother, and for her sake I’ll not see this done,” cried John Dump.

  “Slip on the handcuffs,” cried the thief-taker. “And now let’s see who’ll dare to oppose me. I am Jonathan Wild. I have arrested him in the King’s name.”

  A deep indignant groan followed.

  “Let me see the earth thrown over her,” implored Jack; “and take me where you please.”

  “No,” thundered Wild.

  “Allow him that small grace,” cried Wood.

  “No, I tell you,” rejoined Jonathan, shouldering his way out of the crowd.

  “My mother, — my poor mother!” exclaimed Jack.

  But, in spite of his outcries and resistance, he was dragged along by Jonathan and his janizaries.

  At the eastern gate of the churchyard stood the carriage with the steps lowered. The mob pursued the thief-taker and his party all the way, and such missiles as could be collected were hurled at them. They even threatened to cut the traces and take off the wheels from the carriage. The Jew got in first. The prisoner was then thrust in by Quilt. Before Jonathan followed he turned to face his assailants.

  “Back!” he cried fiercely. “I am an officer in the execution of my duty. And he who opposes me in it shall feel the weight of my hand.”

  He then sprung into the coach, the door of which was closed by Obadiah, who mounted the box.