Jack Sheppard. Vol. 3

CHAPTER XXII. FAST AND LOOSE

About seven o’clock on the same night, Jonathan Wild’s two janizaries, who had been for some time in attendance in the hall of his dwelling at the Old Bailey, were summoned to the audience-chamber. A long and secret conference then took place between the thief-taker and his myrmidons, after which they were severally dismissed.

Left alone, Jonathan lighted a lamp, and, opening the trap-door, descended the secret stairs. Taking the opposite course from that which he had hitherto pursued when it has been necessary to attend him in his visits to the lower part of his premises, he struck into a narrow passage on the right, which he tracked till he came to a small door, like the approach to a vault. Unlocking it, he entered the chamber, which by no means belied its external appearance.

On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. Holding the lamp over her rigid but beautiful features, Jonathan, with some anxiety, placed his hand upon her breast to ascertain whether the heart still beat. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. Opening her large black eyes, she fixed them upon him for a moment with a mixture of terror and loathing, and then averted her gaze.

“Drink this,” cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. “You’ll feel better after it.”

Mechanically raising the potion to her lips, the poor creature swallowed it without hesitation.

“Is it poison?” she asked.

“No,” replied Jonathan, with a brutal laugh. “I’m not going to get rid of you just yet. It’s gin—a liquor you used to like. You’ll find the benefit of it by and by. You’ve a good deal to go through to-night.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, “are you come to renew your terrible proposals?”

“I’m come to execute my threats,” replied Wild. “To-night you shall be my wedded wife.”

“I will die first,” replied Mrs. Sheppard.

“You may die afterwards as soon as you please,” retorted Jonathan; “but live till then you shall. I’ve sent for the priest.”

“Mercy!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, vainly trying to discover a gleam of compassion in the thief-taker’s inexorable countenance,—“Mercy! mercy!”

“Pshaw!” rejoined Jonathan. “You should be glad to be made an honest woman.”

“Oh! let me die,” groaned the widow. “I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live. But kill me rather than commit this outrage.”

“That wouldn’t answer my purpose,” replied Jonathan, savagely. “I didn’t carry you off from old Wood to kill you, but to wed you.”

“What motive can you have for so vile a deed?” asked Mrs. Sheppard.

“You know my motive well enough,” answered Jonathan. “However, I’ll refresh your memory. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth.”

“My wealth,” replied Mrs. Sheppard. “I have nothing.”

“You are heiress to the Trenchard property,” rejoined Jonathan, “one of the largest estates in Lancashire.”

“Not while Thames Darrell and Sir Rowland live.”

“Sir Rowland is dead,” replied Jonathan, gloomily. “Thames Darrell only waits my mandate to follow him. Before our marriage there will be no life between you and the estates.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard.

“Look here,” cried Jonathan, stooping down and taking hold of a ring in the floor, with which by a great effort he raised up a flag. “In this pit,” he added, pointing to the chasm below, “your brother is buried. Here your nephew will speedily be thrown.”

“Horrible!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, shuddering violently. “But your dreadful projects will recoil on your own head. Heaven will not permit the continuance of such wickedness as you practise.”

“I’ll take my chance,” replied Jonathan, with a sinister smile. “My schemes have succeeded tolerably well hitherto.”

“A day of retribution will assuredly arrive,” rejoined Mrs. Sheppard.

“Till then, I shall remain content,” returned Wild. “And now, Mrs. Sheppard, attend to what I’m about to say to you. Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you.”

“Loved me! You!”

“I loved you,” continued Jonathan, “and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. This discovery made, I hastened back to London to offer you my hand, but found you had married in the mean time a smock-faced, smooth-tongued carpenter named Sheppard. The important secret remained locked in my breast, but I resolved to be avenged. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father.”

“And terribly you have kept your vow,” replied Mrs. Sheppard.

“I have,” replied Jonathan. “But I am now coming to the point which most concerns you. Consent to become my wife, and do not compel me to have recourse to violence to effect my purpose, and I will spare your son.”

Mrs. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul.

“Swear that you will do this,” she cried.

“I swear it,” rejoined Jonathan, readily.

“But what is an oath to you!” cried the widow, distrustfully. “You will not hesitate to break it, if it suits your purpose. I have suffered too much from your treachery. I will not trust you.”

“As you please,” replied Jonathan, sternly. “Recollect you are in my power. Jack’s life hangs on your determination.”

“What shall I do?” cried Mrs. Sheppard, in a voice of agony.

“Save him,” replied Jonathan. “You can do so.”

“Bring him here,—let me see him—let me embrace him—let me be assured that he is safe, and I am yours. I swear it.”

“Hum!” exclaimed Jonathan.

“You hesitate—you are deceiving me.”

“By my soul, no,” replied Jonathan, with affected sincerity. “You shall see him to-morrow.”

“Delay the marriage till then. I will never consent till I see him.”

“You ask impossibilities,” replied Jonathan, sullenly. “All is prepared. The marriage cannot—shall not be delayed. You must be mine to-night.”

“Force shall not make me yours till Jack is free,” replied the widow, resolutely.

“An hour hence, I shall return with the priest,” replied Jonathan, striding towards the door.

And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door.

“An hour hence, I shall be beyond your malice,” said Mrs. Sheppard, sinking backwards upon the pallet.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAST MEETING BETWEEN JACK SHEPPARD AND HIS MOTHER

After escaping from the turner’s house, Jack Sheppard skirted St. Sepulchre’s church, and hurrying down Snow Hill, darted into the first turning on the left. Traversing Angel Court, and Green Arbour Court,—celebrated as one of Goldsmith’s retreats,—he speedily reached Seacoal Lane, and pursuing the same course, which he and Thames had formerly taken, arrived at the yard at the back of Jonathan’s habitation.

A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild’s dwelling into this yard. Before he forced an entrance, Jack tried it, and, to his great surprise and delight, found it unfastened. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. Hearing a noise below, Quilt called out, supposing it occasioned by the Jew. Jack hastily retreated, and taking the first means of concealment that occurred to him, descended the cellar steps.

Quilt, meanwhile, came down, examined the door, and finding it unfastened, locked it with a bitter imprecation on his brother-janizary’s carelessness. This done, he followed the course which Jack had just taken. As he crossed the cellar, he passed so near to Jack who had concealed himself behind a piece of furniture that he almost touched him. It was Jack’s intention to have knocked him down with the iron bar; but he was so struck with the janizary’s looks, that he determined to spare him till he had ascertained his purpose. With this view, he suffered him to pass on.

Quilt’s manner, indeed, was that of a man endeavouring to muster up sufficient resolution for the commission of some desperate crime. He halted,—looked fearfully around,—stopped again, and exclaimed aloud, “I don’t like the job; and yet it must be done, or Mr. Wild will hang me.” With this, he appeared to pluck up his courage, and stepped forward more boldly.

“Some dreadful deed is about to be committed, which I may perhaps prevent,” muttered Jack to himself. “Heaven grant I may not be too late!”

Followed by Jack Sheppard, who kept sufficiently near him to watch his proceedings, and yet not expose himself, Quilt unlocked one or two doors which he left open, and after winding his way along a gloomy passage, arrived at the door of a vault. Here he set down the lamp, and took out a key, and as he did so the expression of his countenance was so atrocious, that Jack felt assured he was not wrong in his suspicions.

By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. The next moment, an exclamation was heard in the voice of Thames. Darting forward at this sound, Jack threw open the door, and beheld Quilt kneeling over Thames, who’se hands and feet were bound with cords, and about to plunge his sword into his breast. A blow from the iron bar instantly stretched the ruffian on the floor. Jack then proceeded to liberate the captive from his bondage.

“Jack!” exclaimed Thames. “Is it you?”

“It is,” replied Sheppard, as he untied the cords. “I might return the question. Were it not for your voice, I don’t think I should know you. You are greatly altered.”

Captivity had, indeed, produced a striking alteration in Thames. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable.

“I have never been out of this horrible dungeon since we last met,” he said; “though how long ago that is, I scarcely know. Night and day have been alike to me.”

“Six weeks have elapsed since that fatal night,” replied Jack. “During the whole of that time I have been a close prisoner in Newgate, whence I have only just escaped.”

“Six weeks!” exclaimed Thames, in a melancholy tone. “It seems like six long months to me.”

“I do not doubt it,” returned Jack; “none but those who have experienced it can understand the miseries of imprisonment.”

“Do not speak of it,” rejoined Thames, with a look of horror. “Let us fly from this frightful place.”

“I will conduct you to the outlet,” replied Jack; “but I cannot leave it till I have ascertained whether my mother also is a prisoner here.”

“I can answer that,” replied Thames. “She is. The monster, Wild, when he visited my dungeon last night, told me, to add to my misery, that she occupied a cell near me.”

“Arm yourself with that ruffian’s weapons,” replied Jack, “and let us search for her.”

Thames complied. But he was so feeble, that it seemed scarcely possible he could offer any effectual resistance in case of an attack.

“Lean on me,” said Jack.

Taking the light, they then proceeded along the passage. There was no other door in it, and Jack therefore struck into another entry which branched off to the right. They had not proceeded far when a low moan was heard.

“She is here,” cried Jack, darting forward.

A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. It was locked. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. He was therefore obliged to use the iron bar, which he did with as much caution as circumstances would permit. At the first blow, Mrs. Sheppard uttered a piercing scream.

“Wretch!” she cried, “you shall not force me to your hateful purpose. I will never wed you. I have a weapon—a knife—and if you attempt to open the door, will plunge it to my heart.”

“Oh God!” exclaimed Jack, paralysed by her cries. “What shall I do? If I persist, I shall destroy her.”

“Get hence,” continued Mrs. Sheppard, with a frenzied laugh. “You shall never behold me alive.”

“Mother!” cried Jack, in a broken voice. “It is your son.”

“It is false,” cried Mrs. Sheppard. “Think not to deceive me, monster. I know my son’s voice too well. He is in Newgate. Hence!”

“Mother! dear mother!” cried Jack, in a voice, the tones of which were altered by his very anxiety to make them distinct, “listen to me. I have broken from prison, and am come to save you.”

“It is not Jack’s voice,” rejoined Mrs. Sheppard. “I am not to be deceived. The knife is at my breast. Stir a foot, and I strike.”

“Oh Heavens!” cried Jack, driven to his wits’ end. “Mother—dear mother! Once again, I beseech you to listen to me. I am come to rescue you from Wild’s violence. I must break open the door. Hold your hand for a moment.”

“You have heard my fixed determination, villain,” cried Mrs. Sheppard. “I know my life is valuable to you, or you would not spare it. But I will disappoint you. Get you gone. Your purposes are defeated.”

“Footsteps are approaching,” cried Thames. “Heed her not. It is but a wild threat.”

“I know not how to act,” exclaimed Jack, almost driven to desperation.

“I hear you plotting with your wicked associates,” cried Mrs. Sheppard. “I have baffled you.”

“Force the door,” said Thames, “or you will be too late.”

“Better she die by her own hand, than by that monster’s,” cried Jack, brandishing the bar. “Mother, I come to you.”

With this, he struck the door a heavy blow.

He listened. There was a deep groan, and the sound of a fall within.

“I have killed her,” exclaimed Jack, dropping the bar,—“by your advice, Thames. Oh God! pardon me.”

“Do not delay,” cried Thames. “She may yet be saved. I am too weak to aid you.”

Jack again seized the bar, and, dashing it furiously against the door, speedily burst it open.

The unfortunate woman was stretched upon the floor, with a bloody knife in her hand.

“Mother!” cried Jack, springing towards her.

“Jack!” she cried, raising her head. “Is it you?”

“It is,” replied her son, “Oh! why would you not listen to me?”

“I was distracted,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, faintly.

“I have killed you,” cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast. “Forgive—forgive me!”

“I have nothing to forgive,” replied Mrs. Sheppard. “I alone am to blame.”

“Can I not carry you where you can obtain help?” cried Jack in a agony of distress.

“It is useless,” replied Mrs. Sheppard: “nothing can save me. I die happy—quite happy in beholding you. Do not remain with me. You may fall into the hands of your enemy. Fly! fly!”

“Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself,” cried Jack, in an agony of tears.

“You have always been, far dearer to me than myself,” replied Mrs. Sheppard. “But I have one last request to make. Let me lie in Willesden churchyard.”

“You shall—you shall,” answered Jack.

“We shall meet again ere long, my son,” cried Mrs. Sheppard, fixing her glazing eyes upon him.

“Oh God! she is dying,” exclaimed Jack in a voice suffocated by emotion. “Forgive me—oh, forgive me!”

“Forgive you—bless you!” she gasped.

A cold shiver ran through her frame, and her gentle spirit passed away for ever.

“Oh, God! that I might die too,” cried Jack, falling on his knees beside her.

After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames addressed him.

“You must not remain here,” he said. “You can render no further service to your poor mother.”

“I can avenge her,” cried Jack in a terrible tone.

“Be ruled by me,” returned Thames. “You will act most in accordance with her wishes, could she dictate them, by compliance. Do not waste time in vain regrets, but let us remove the body, that we may fulfil her last injunctions.”

After some further arguments, Jack assented to this proposal.

“Go on first with the light,” he said. “I will bear the body.” And he raised it in his arms.

Just as they reached the end of the passage, they heard the voices of Jonathan and the Jew in Thames’s late place of confinement. Wild had evidently discovered the body of Quilt Arnold, and was loudly expressing his anger and astonishment.

“Extinguish the light,” cried Jack; “turn to the left. Quick! Quick!”

The order was only just given in time. They had scarcely gained the adjoining cellar when Jonathan and the Jew rushed past in the direction of the vault.

“Not a moment is to be lost,” cried Jack: “follow me.”

So saying, he hurried up stairs, opened the back door, and was quickly in the yard. Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane.

“Where are you going?” cried Thames, who, though wholly disencumbered, was scarcely able to keep up with him.

“I know not—and care not,” replied Jack.

At this moment, a coach passed them, and was instantly hailed by Thames.

“You had better let me convey her to Dollis Hill,” he said.

“Be it so,” replied Jack.

Luckily it was so dark, and there was no lamp near, that the man did not notice the condition of the body, which was placed in the vehicle by the two young men.

“What will you do?” asked Thames.

“Leave me to my fate,” rejoined Jack. “Take care of your charge.”

“Doubt me not,” replied Thames.

“Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday,” said Jack. “I will be there at the time.”

So saying, he closed the door.

The coachman having received his order, and being offered an extra fare if he drove quickly, set off at full speed.

As Jack departed, a dark figure, emerging from behind a wall, rushed after him.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE PURSUIT

After running to some distance down Seacoal Lane, Jack stopped to give a last look at the vehicle which was bearing away the remains of his beloved and ill-fated mother. It was scarcely out of sight, when two persons, whom, he instantly recognised as Jonathan and Abraham Mendez, turned the corner of the street, and made it evident from their shouts, that they likewise perceived him.

Starting off at a rapid pace, Jack dashed down Turnagain-lane, skirted the eastern bank of Fleet-ditch, crossed Holborn Bridge, and began to ascend the neighbouring hill. By the time he had reached St. Andrew’s Church, his pursuers had gained the bridge, and the attention of such passengers as crowded the streets was attracted towards him by their vociferations. Amongst others, the watchman whose box was placed against the churchyard wall, near the entrance to Shoe-lane, rushed out and sprung his rattle, which was immediately answered by another rattle from Holborn-bars.

Darting down Field-lane, Jack struck into a labyrinth of streets on the left; but though he ran as swiftly as he could, he was not unperceived. His course had been observed by the watchman, who directed Wild which way to take.

“It is Jack Sheppard, the noted housebreaker,” cried Jonathan, at the top of his sonorous voice. “He has just broken out of Newgate. After him! A hundred pounds to the man who takes him.”

Sheppard’s name operated like magic on the crowd. The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. People ran out of their shops to join the pursuit; and, by the time Wild had got into Field-lane, he had a troop of fifty persons at his heels—all eager to assist in the capture.

“Stop thief!” roared Jonathan, who perceived the fugitive hurrying along a street towards Hatton Garden. “It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!” And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels.

Jack, meanwhile, heard, the shouts, and, though alarmed by them, held on a steady course. By various twistings and turnings, during all which time his pursuers, who were greatly increased in numbers, kept him in view, he reached Gray’s-Inn-lane. Here he was hotly pursued. Fatigued by his previous exertions, and incumbered by his fetters, he was by no means—though ordinarily remarkably swift of foot—a match for his foes, who were fast gaining upon him.

At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. Hearing the distant shouts, these fellows rushed down to the entrance of the court, and arrived there just as Jack passed it. “Stop thief!” roared Jonathan. “Stop thief!” clamoured the rabble behind.

At no loss to comprehend that Jack was the individual pointed out by these outcries, two of the nearest of the group made a dash at him. But Jack eluded their grasp. A large dog was then set at him by a stable-boy; but, striking the animal with his faithful iron-bar, he speedily sent him yelping back. The two hostlers, however, kept close at his heels; and Jack, whose strength began to flag, feared he could not hold much longer. Determined, however, not be taken with life, he held on.

Still keeping ahead of his pursuers, he ran along the direct road, till the houses disappeared and he got into the open country. Here he was preparing to leap over the hedge into the fields on the left, when he was intercepted by two horsemen, who, hearing the shouts, rode up and struck at him with the butt-ends of their heavy riding-whips. Warding off the blows as well as he could with the bar, Jack struck both the horses on the head, and the animals plunged so violently, that they not only prevented their riders from assailing him, but also kept off the hostlers; and, in the confusion that ensued, Jack managed to spring over the fence, and shaped his course across the field in the direction of Sir John Oldcastle’s.

The stoppage had materially lessened the distance between him and his pursuers, who now amounted to more than a hundred persons, many of whom carried lanterns and links. Ascertaining that it was Sheppard of whom this concourse was in pursuit, the two horsemen leapt the hedge, and were presently close upon him. Like a hare closely pressed, Jack attempted to double, but the device only brought him nearer his foes, who were crossing the field in every direction, and rending the air with their shouts. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling—dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. Jack was so harrassed that he felt half inclined to stand at bay.

While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. This fall saved him, for the horsemen passed over him. Creeping along quickly on his hands and knees, he found the entrance to a covered drain, into which he crept. He was scarcely concealed when he heard the horsemen, who perceived they had overshot their mark, ride back.

By this time, Jonathan and the vast mob attending him, had come up, and the place was rendered almost as light as day by the links.

“He must be somewhere hereabouts,” cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. “We were close upon him when he suddenly disappeared.”

Jonathan made no answer, but snatching a torch from a bystander, jumped into the trench and commenced a diligent search. Just as he had arrived at the mouth of the drain, and Jack felt certain he must be discovered, a loud shout was raised from the further end of the field that the fugitive was caught. All the assemblage, accompanied by Jonathan, set off in this direction, when it turned out that the supposed housebreaker was a harmless beggar, who had been found asleep under a hedge.

Jonathan’s vexation at the disappointment was expressed in the bitterest imprecations, and he returned as speedily as he could to the trench. But he had now lost the precise spot; and thinking he had examined the drain, turned his attention to another quarter.

Meanwhile, the excitement of the chase had in some degree subsided. The crowd dispersed in different directions, and most fortunately a heavy shower coming on, put them altogether to flight. Jonathan, however, still lingered. He seemed wholly insensible to the rain, though it presently descended in torrents, and continued his search as ardently as before.