Kitabı oku: «Jack Sheppard. Vol. 2», sayfa 4
CHAPTER XVII. THE NIGHT-CELLAR
After a few minutes’ rapid walking, during which neither party uttered a word, Jonathan Wild and his companion had passed Saint Paul’s, dived down a thoroughfare on the right, and reached Thames Street.
At the period of this history, the main streets of the metropolis were but imperfectly lighted, while the less-frequented avenues were left in total obscurity; but, even at the present time, the maze of courts and alleys into which Wild now plunged, would have perplexed any one, not familiar with their intricacies, to thread them on a dark night. Jonathan, however, was well acquainted with the road. Indeed, it was his boast that he could find his way through any part of London blindfolded; and by this time, it would seem, he had nearly arrived at his destination; for, grasping his companion’s arm, he led him along a narrow entry which did not appear to have an outlet, and came to a halt. Cautioning the knight, if he valued his neck, to tread carefully, Jonathan then descended a steep flight of steps; and, having reached the bottom in safety, he pushed open a door, that swung back on its hinges as soon as it had admitted him; and, followed by Trenchard, entered the night-cellar.
The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. It was long and narrow, with a ceiling supported by huge uncovered rafters, and so low as scarcely to allow a tall man like himself to stand erect beneath it. Notwithstanding the heat of the season,—which was not, however, found particularly inconvenient in this subterranean region,—a large heaped-up fire blazed ruddily in one corner, and lighted up a circle of as villanous countenances as ever flame shone upon.
The guests congregated within the night-cellar were, in fact, little better than thieves; but thieves who confined their depredations almost exclusively to the vessels lying in the pool and docks of the river. They had as many designations as grades. There were game watermen and game lightermen, heavy horsemen and light horsemen, scuffle-hunters, and long-apron men, lumpers, journeymen coopers, mud-larks, badgers, and ratcatchers—a race of dangerous vermin recently, in a great measure, extirpated by the vigilance of the Thames Police, but at this period flourishing in vast numbers. Besides these plunderers, there were others with whom the disposal of their pillage necessarily brought them into contact, and who seldom failed to attend them during their hours of relaxation and festivity;—to wit, dealers in junk, old rags, and marine stores, purchasers of prize-money, crimps, and Jew receivers. The latter formed by far the most knavish-looking and unprepossessing portion of the assemblage. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate.
The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King’s service. This lady was singularly lucky in her matrimonial connections. She had been married four times: three of her husbands died of hempen fevers; and the fourth, having been twice condemned, was saved from the noose by Jonathan Wild, who not only managed to bring him off, but to obtain for him the situation of under-turnkey in Newgate.
On the appearance of the thief-taker, Mrs. Spurling was standing near the fire superintending some culinary preparation; but she no sooner perceived him, than hastily quitting her occupation, she elbowed a way for him and the knight through the crowd, and ushered them, with much ceremony, into an inner room, where they found the objects of their search, Quilt Arnold and Rykhart Van Galgebrok, seated at a small table, quietly smoking. This service rendered, without waiting for any farther order, she withdrew.
Both the janizary and the skipper arose as the others entered the room.
“This is the gentleman,” observed Jonathan, introducing Trenchard to the Hollander, “who is about to intrust his young relation to your care.”
“De gentleman may rely on my showing his relation all de attention in my power,” replied Van Galgebrok, bowing profoundly to the knight; “but if any unforseen accident—such as a slip overboard—should befal de jonker on de voyage, he mushn’t lay de fault entirely on my shoulders—haw! haw!”
“Where is he?” asked Sir Rowland, glancing uneasily around. “I do not see him.”
“De jonker. He’s here,” returned the skipper, pointing significantly downwards. “Bring him out, Quilt.”
So saying, he pushed aside the table, and the janizary stooping down, undrew a bolt and opened a trap-door.
“Come out!” roared Quilt, looking into the aperture. “You’re wanted.”
But as no answer was returned, he trust his arm up to the shoulder into the hole, and with some little difficulty and exertion of strength, drew forth Thames Darrell.
The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm.
“Why didn’t you come out when I called you, you young dog?” cried Quilt in a savage tone.
“Because I knew what you wanted me for!” answered Thames firmly.
“Oh! you did, did you?” said the janizary. “And what do you suppose we mean to do with you, eh?”
“You mean to kill me,” replied Thames, “by my cruel uncle’s command. Ah! there he stands!” he exclaimed as his eye fell for the first time upon Sir Rowland. “Where is my mother?” he added, regarding the knight with a searching glance.
“Your mother is dead,” interposed Wild, scowling.
“Dead!” echoed the boy. “Oh no—no! You say this to terrify me—to try me. But I will not believe you. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. Tell me, Sir,” he added, advancing towards the knight, “tell me has this man spoken falsely?—Tell me my mother is alive, and do what you please with me.”
“Tell him so, and have done with him, Sir Rowland,” observed Jonathan coldly.
“Tell me the truth, I implore you,” cried Thames. “Is she alive?”
“She is not,” replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy’s agonized look.
“Are you answered?” said Jonathan, with a grin worthy of a demon.
“My mother!—my poor mother!” ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. “Shall I never see that sweet face again,—never feel the pressure of those kind hands more—nor listen to that gentle voice! Ah! yes, we shall meet again in Heaven, where I shall speedily join you. Now then,” he added more calmly, “I am ready to die. The only mercy you can show me is to kill me.”
“Then we won’t even show you that mercy,” retorted the thief-taker brutally. “So get up, and leave off whimpering. Your time isn’t come yet.”
“Mr. Wild,” said Trenchard, “I shall proceed no further in this business. Set the boy free.”
“If I disobey you, Sir Rowland,” replied the thief-taker, “you’ll thank me for it hereafter. Gag him,” he added, pushing Thames rudely toward Quilt Arnold, “and convey him to the boat.”
“A word,” cried the boy, as the janizary was preparing to obey his master’s orders. “What has become of Jack Sheppard?”
“Devil knows!” answered Quilt; “but I believe he’s in the hands of Blueskin, so there’s no doubt he’ll soon be on the high-road to Tyburn.”
“Poor Jack!” sighed Thames. “You needn’t gag me,” he added, “I’ll not cry out.”
“We won’t trust you, my youngster,” answered the janizary. And, thrusting a piece of iron into his mouth, he forced him out of the room.
Sir Rowland witnessed these proceedings like one stupified. He neither attempted to prevent his nephew’s departure, nor to follow him.
Jonathan kept his keen eye fixed upon him, as he addressed himself for a moment to the Hollander.
“Is the case of watches on board?” he asked in an under tone.
“Ja,” replied the skipper.
“And the rings?”
“Ja.”
“That’s well. You must dispose of the goldsmith’s note I gave you yesterday, as soon as you arrive at Rotterdam. It’ll be advertised to-morrow.”
“De duivel!” exclaimed Van Galgebrok, “Very well. It shall be done as you direct. But about dat jonker,” he continued, lowering his voice; “have you anything to add consarnin’ him? It’s almosht a pity to put him onder de water.”
“Is the sloop ready to sail?” asked Wild, without noticing the skipper’s remark.
“Ja,” answered Van; “at a minut’s nodish.”
“Here are your despatches,” said Jonathan with a significant look, and giving him a sealed packet. “Open them when you get on board—not before, and act as they direct you.”
“I ondershtand,” replied the skipper, putting his finger to his nose; “it shall be done.”
“Sir Rowland,” said Jonathan, turning to the knight, “will it please you to remain here till I return, or will you accompany us?”
“I will go with you,” answered Trenchard, who, by this time, had regained his composure, and with it all his relentlessness of purpose.
“Come, then,” said Wild, marching towards the door, “we’ve no time to lose.”
Quitting the night-cellar, the trio soon arrived at the riverside. Quilt Arnold was stationed at the stair-head, near which the boat containing the captive boy was moored. A few words passed between him and the thief-taker as the latter came up; after which, all the party—with the exception of Quilt, who was left on shore—embarked within the wherry, which was pushed from the strand and rowed swiftly along the stream—for the tide was in its favour—by a couple of watermen. Though scarcely two hours past midnight, it was perfectly light. The moon had arisen, and everything could be as plainly distinguished as during the day. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. As they approached London Bridge, the thief-taker whispered Van Galgebrok, who acted as steersman, to make for a particular arch—near the Surrey shore. The skipper obeyed, and in another moment, they swept through the narrow lock. While the watermen were contending with the eddies occasioned by the fall below the bridge, Jonathan observed a perceptible shudder run through Trenchard’s frame.
“You remember that starling, Sir Rowland,” he said maliciously, “and what occurred on it, twelve years ago?”
“Too well,” answered the knight, frowning. “Ah! what is that?” he cried, pointing to a dark object floating near them amid the boiling waves, and which presented a frightful resemblance to a human face.
“We’ll see,” returned the thief-taker. And, stretching out his hand, he lifted the dark object from the flood.
It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance.
“It’s the skull of a rebel,” said Jonathan, with marked emphasis on the word, “blown by the wind from a spike on the bridge above us. I don’t know whose brainless head it may be, but it’ll do for my collection.” And he tossed it carelessly into the bottom of the boat.
After this occurence, not a word was exchanged between them until they came in sight of the sloop, which was lying at anchor off Wapping. Arrived at her side, it was soon evident, from the throng of seamen in Dutch dresses that displayed themselves, that her crew were on the alert, and a rope having been thrown down to the skipper, he speedily hoisted himself on deck. Preparations were next made for taking Thames on board. Raising him in his arms, Jonathan passed the rope round his body, and in this way the poor boy was drawn up without difficulty.
While he was swinging in mid air, Thames regarded his uncle with a stern look, and cried in a menacing voice, “We shall meet again.”
“Not in this world,” returned Jonathan. “Weigh anchor, Van!” he shouted to the skipper, “and consult your despatches.”
“Ja—ja,” returned the Hollander. And catching hold of Thames, he quitted the deck.
Shortly afterwards, he re-appeared with the information that the captive was safe below; and giving the necessary directions to his crew, before many minutes had elapsed, the Zeeslang spread her canvass to the first breeze of morning.
By the thief-taker’s command, the boat was then rowed toward a muddy inlet, which has received in more recent times the name of Execution Dock. As soon as she reached this spot, Wild sprang ashore, and was joined by several persons,—among whom was Quilt Arnold, leading a horse by the bridle,—he hastened down the stairs to meet him. A coach was also in attendance, at a little distance.
Sir Rowland, who had continued absorbed in thought, with his eyes fixed upon the sloop, as she made her way slowly down the river, disembarked more leisurely.
“At length I am my own master,” murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand.
“Not so, Sir Rowland,” returned Jonathan; “you are my prisoner.”
“How!” ejaculated Trenchard, starting back and drawing his sword.
“You are arrested for high treason,” rejoined Wild, presenting a pistol at his head, while he drew forth a parchment,—“here is my warrant.”
“Traitor!” cried Sir Rowland—“damned—double-dyed traitor!”
“Away with him,” vociferated Jonathan to his myrmidons, who, having surrounded Trenchard, hurried him off to the coach before he could utter another word,—“first to Mr. Walpole, and then to Newgate. And now, Quilt,” he continued, addressing the janizary, who approached him with the horse, “fly to St. Giles’s round-house, and if, through the agency of that treacherous scoundrel, Terry O’Flaherty, whom I’ve put in my Black List, old Wood should have found his way there, and have been detained by Sharpies as I directed, you may release him. I don’t care how soon he learns that he has lost his adopted son. When I’ve escorted you proud fool to his new quarters, I’ll proceed to the Mint and look after Jack Sheppard.”
With this, he mounted his steed and rode off.
CHAPTER XVIII. HOW JACK SHEPPARD BROKE OUT OF THE CAGE AT WILLESDEN
The heart-piercing scream uttered by Mrs. Sheppard after the commission of the robbery in Willesden church was productive of unfortunate consequences to her son. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him. Startled by the cry, as may be supposed, the attention of the whole congregation was drawn towards the quarter whence it proceeded. Amongst others, a person near the door, roused by the shriek, observed a man make his exit with the utmost precipitation. A boy attempted to follow; but as the suspicions of the lookers-on were roused by the previous circumstances, the younger fugitive was seized and detained. Meanwhile, Mr. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow’s look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. Turning quickly round, in the hope of discovering the thief, he was no less surprised than distressed—for in spite of his faults, the woollen-draper was a good-natured fellow—to perceive Jack Sheppard in custody. The truth at once flashed across his mind. This, then, was the cause of the widow’s wild inexplicable look,—of her sudden shriek! Explaining his suspicious in a whisper to Jack’s captor, who proved to be a church-warden and a constable, by name John Dump,—Mr. Kneebone begged him to take the prisoner into the churchyard. Dump instantly complied, and as soon as Jack was removed from the sacred edifice, his person was searched from head to foot—but without success. Jack submitted to this scrutiny with a very bad grace, and vehemently protested his innocence. In vain did the woollen-draper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. He answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of the matter—had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up. Nor did he content himself with declaring his guiltlessness of the crime imputed to him, but began in his turn to menace his captor and accuser, loading the latter with the bitterest upbraidings. By this time, the churchyard was crowded with spectators, some of whom dispersed in different directions in quest of the other robber. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. Of this man Kneebone resolved to go in pursuit; and leaving Jack in charge of the constable, he proceeded to the small inn,—which bore then, as it bears now, the name of the Six Bells,—where, summoning the hostler, his steed was instantly brought him, and, springing on its back, he rode away at full speed.
Meanwhile, after a consultation between Mr. Dump and the village authorities, it was agreed to lock up the prisoner in the cage. As he was conveyed thither, an incident occurred that produced a considerable impression on the feelings of the youthful offender. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard—where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. At this gate two paths meet. Down that on the right the young culprit was dragged—along that on the left a fainting woman was borne in the arms of several females. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack’s heart severely smote him. He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison.
The cage at Willesden was, and is—for it is still standing—a small round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof, to which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to vagrants and other disorderly persons, are attached. Over these boards the two arms of a guide-post serve to direct the way-farer—on the right hand to the neighbouring villages of Neasdon and Kingsbury, and on the left to the Edgeware Road and the healthy heights of Hampstead. The cage has a strong door, with an iron grating at the top, and further secured by a stout bolt and padlock. It is picturesquely situated beneath a tree on the high road, not far from the little hostel before mentioned, and at no great distance from the church.
For some time after he was locked up in this prison Jack continued in a very dejected state. Deserted by his older companion in iniquity, and instigator to crime, he did not know what might become of him; nor, as we have observed, was the sad spectacle he had just witnessed, without effect. Though within the last two days he had committed several heinous offences, and one of a darker dye than any with which the reader has been made acquainted, his breast was not yet so callous as to be wholly insensible to the stings of conscience. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. When he awoke, it was late in the day; but though he heard voices outside, and now and then caught a glimpse of a face peeping at him through the iron grating over the door, no one entered the prison, or held any communication with him. Feeling rather exhausted, it occurred to him that possibly some provisions might have been left by the constable; and, looking about, he perceived a pitcher of water and a small brown loaf on the floor. He ate of the bread with great appetite, and having drunk as much as he chose of the water, poured the rest on the floor. His hunger satisfied, his spirits began to revive, and with this change of mood all his natural audacity returned. And here he was first visited by that genius which, in his subsequent career, prompted him to so many bold and successful attempts. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. Here was an instrument which might be of the greatest service to him in accomplishing his design. He put it carefully aside, resolved to defer the attempt till night. Time wore on somewhat slowly with the prisoner, who had to control his impatience in the best way he could; but as the shades of evening were darkening, the door was unlocked, and Mr. Dump popped his head into the cage. He brought another small loaf, and a can with which he replenished the pitcher, recommending Jack to be careful, as he would get nothing further till morning. To this Jack replied, that he should be perfectly contented, provided he might have a small allowance of gin. The latter request, though treated with supreme contempt by Mr. Dump, made an impression on some one outside; for not long after the constable departed, Jack heard a tap at the door, and getting up at the summons, he perceived the tube of a pipe inserted between the bars. At once divining the meaning of this ingenious device, he applied his mouth to the tube, and sucked away, while the person outside poured spirit into the bowl. Having drunk as much as he thought prudent, and thanked his unknown friend for his attention, Jack again lay down on the straw, and indulged himself with another nap, intending to get up as soon as it was perfectly dark. The strong potation he had taken, combined with fatigue and anxiety he had previously undergone, made him oversleep himself, and when he awoke it was just beginning to grow light. Cursing himself for his inertness, Jack soon shook off this drowsiness, and set to work in earnest. Availing himself of certain inequalities in the door, he soon managed to climb up to the roof; and securing his feet against a slight projection in the wall, began to use the fork with great effect. Before many minutes elapsed, he had picked a large hole in the plaster, which showered down in a cloud of dust; and breaking off several laths, caught hold of a beam, by which he held with one hand, until with the other he succeeded, not without some difficulty, in forcing out one of the tiles. The rest was easy. In a few minutes more he had made a breach in the roof wide enough to allow him to pass through. Emerging from this aperture, he was about to descend, when he was alarmed by hearing the tramp of horses’ feet swiftly approaching, and had only time to hide himself behind one of the largest sign-boards before alluded to when two horsemen rode up. Instead of passing on, as Jack expected, these persons stopped opposite the cage, when one of them, as he judged from the sound, for he did not dare to look out of his hiding place, dismounted. A noise was next heard, as if some instrument were applied to the door with the intent to force it open, and Jack’s fears were at once dispelled, At first, he had imagined they were officers of justice, come to convey him to a stronger prison: but the voice of one of the parties, which he recognised, convinced him they were his friends.
“Look quick, Blueskin, and be cursed to you!” was growled in the deep tones of Jonathan Wild. “We shall have the whole village upon us while you’re striking the jigger. Use the gilt, man!”
“There’s no need of picklock or crow-bar, here, Mr. Wild,” cried Jack, placing his hat on the right arm of the guide-post, and leaning over the board, “I’ve done the trick myself.”
“Why, what the devil’s this?” vociferated Jonathan, looking up. “Have you broken out of the cage, Jack?”
“Something like it,” replied the lad carelessly.
“Bravo!” cried the thief-taker approvingly.
“Well, that beats all I ever heard of!” roared Blueskin.
“But are you really there?”
“No, I’m here,” answered Jack, leaping down. “I tell you what, Mr. Wild,” he added, laughing, “it must be a stronger prison than Willesden cage that can hold me.”
“Ay, ay,” observed Jonathan, “you’ll give the keepers of his Majesty’s jails some trouble before you’re many years older, I’ll warrant you. But get up behind, Blueskin. Some one may observe us.”
“Come, jump up,” cried Blueskin, mounting his steed, “and I’ll soon wisk you to town. Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot are dying to see you. I thought Bess would have cried her pretty eyes out when she heard you was nabbed. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. Mr. Wild has done his business.”
“Ay—ay,” laughed Jonathan. “The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. He’s now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland Trenchard. So get up, and let’s be off.”
“Before I leave this place, I must see my mother.”
“Nonsense,” returned Jonathan gruffly. “Would you expose yourself to fresh risk? If it hadn’t been for her you wouldn’t have been placed in your late jeopardy.”
“I don’t care for that,” replied Jack. “See her I will. Leave me behind: I’m not afraid. I’ll be at the Cross Shovels in the course of the day.”
“Nay, if you’re bent upon this folly,” observed Wild, who appeared to have his own reasons for humouring the lad, “I shan’t hinder you. Blueskin will take care of the horses, and I’ll go with you.”
So saying, he dismounted; and flinging his bridle to his companion, and ordering him to ride off to a little distance, he followed Jack, who had quitted the main road, and struck into a narrow path opposite the cage. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile.
“There’s the house,” said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Don’t hurry yourself,” said Jonathan, “I’ll wait for you here.”
