Jack Sheppard. Vol. 3

This placard attracted universal attention. While Jonathan was conversing with Austin, from whom he took care to conceal the fact of his having seen Sheppard since his escape, Ireton entered the Lodge.

“Altogether unsuccessful, Sir,” said the chief turnkey, with a look of disappointment, not unmixed with apprehension, as he approached Wild. “I’ve been to all the flash cases in town, and can hear nothing of him or his wives. First, I went to Country Tom’s, the Goat, in Long Lane. Tom swore he hadn’t set eyes on him since the trial. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch’s, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. Then to Martin’s brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. Then to Dan Ware’s, in Hanging Sword Court. Then to the Dean’s Head, in St. Martin’s Le Grand. And, lastly, to the Seven Cities o’ Refuge, in the New Mint. And nowhere could I obtain the slightest information.”

“Humph!” exclaimed Wild.

“Have you been more successful, Sir?” ventured Ireton.

Jonathan shook his head.

“Mr. Shotbolt thinks he has a scheme that can’t fail,” interposed Austin; “but he wishes to know whether you’ll be as good as your word, in respect to the great reward you offered for Jack’s capture.”

“Have I ever broken my word in such matters, that he dares put the question?” rejoined Jonathan sternly. “Tell Mr. Shotbolt that if he, or any other person, takes Jack Sheppard before to-morrow morning, I’ll double it. Do you hear?”

“I do, Sir,” replied Austin respectfully.

“Two hundred pounds, if he’s lodged in Newgate before to-morrow morning,” continued Wild. “Make it known among your friends.” And he strode out of the place.

“Two hundred pounds!” exclaimed Ireton, “besides the governor’s offer—that’s three hundred. I must go to work again. Keep a sharp look out, Austin, and see that we lose no one else. I should be sorry if Shotbolt got the reward.”

“Devilish hard! I’m not allowed a chance,” grumbled Austin, as he was left alone. “However, some one must look after the jail; and they’re all gone but me. It’s fortunate we’ve no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. Well, I don’t think they’ll any of ‘em nab him, that’s one comfort.”

On quitting the Lodge, Wild repaired to his own habitation. Telling the porter that he would attend to the house himself, he bade him go in search of Jack Sheppard. There was something in Jonathan’s manner, as he issued this command, that struck the man as singular, and he afterwards recalled it. He, however, made no remark at the time, but instantly prepared to set out. As soon as he was gone, Jonathan went up stairs to the audience-chamber; and, sitting down, appeared for some time buried in reflection. The dark and desperate thoughts that were passing through his mind at this time will presently be shown. After a while, he raised his eyes; and, if their glance could have been witnessed at the moment, it could not have been easily forgotten. Muttering something to himself, he appeared to be telling upon his fingers the advantages and disadvantages of some scheme he had in contemplation. That he had resolved upon its execution, whatever it might be, was evident from his saying aloud,—

“I will do it. So good an opportunity may never occur again.”

Upon this he arose, and paced the room hastily backwards and forwards, as if further arranging his plans. He then unlocked a cabinet, opened a secret drawer, and, lifter ransacking its contents, discovered a paper he was in search of, and a glove. Laying these carefully aside, he restored the drawer to its place. His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. His sword then came in for his scrutiny: he felt at, and appeared satisfied with its edge. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. His sword done with, he took up the bludgeon; balanced it in his hand; upon the points of his fingers; and let it fall with a smash, intentionally, upon the table.

“After all,” he said, “this is the safest weapon. No instrument I’ve ever used has done me such good service. It shall be the bludgeon.” So saying, he slung it upon his wrist.

Taking up a link, which was blazing beside him, he walked across the room; and touching a spring in the wall, a secret door flew open. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well. It was a dark mysterious place, and what it was used for no one exactly knew; but it was called by those who had seen it the Well Hole. The bridge was protected on either side by a railing with bannisters placed at wide intervals. Steps to aid the descent, which was too steep to be safe without them, led to, a door on the opposite side. This door, which was open, Jonathan locked and took out the key. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. The red glare fell upon the slimy brick-work, and tinged the inky waters below. A slight cough uttered by Jonathan at the moment awakened the echoes of the place, and was returned in hollow reverberations. “There’ll be a louder echo here presently,” thought Jonathan. Before leaving the place he looked upwards, and could just discern the blue vault and pale stars of Heaven through an iron grating at the top.

On his return to the room, Jonathan purposely left the door of the Well Hole ajar. Unlocking a cupboard, he then took out some cold meat and other viands, with a flask of wine, and a bottle of brandy, and began to eat and drink voraciously. He had very nearly cleared the board, when a knock was heard below, and descending at the summons, he found his two janizaries. They had both been unsuccessful. As Jonathan scarcely expected a more satisfactory result, he made no comment; but, ordering Quilt to continue his search, and not to return until he had found the fugitive, called Abraham Mendez into the house, and shut the door.

“I want you for the job I spoke of a short time ago, Nab,” he said. “I mean to have no one but yourself in it. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy.”

Abraham grinned, and silently followed his master, who, as soon as they reached the audience-chamber, poured out a bumper of spirits, and presented it to him. The Jew swallowed it at a draught.

“By my shoul!” he exclaimed, smacking his lips, “dat ish goot—very goot.”

“You shall finish the bottle when the job’s done,” replied Jonathan.

“Vat ish it, Mishter Vild?” inquired Mendez. “Shir Rowland Trenchard’s affair—eh?”

“That’s it,” rejoined Jonathan; “I expect him here every minute. When you’ve admitted him, steal into the room, hide yourself, and don’t move till I utter the words, ‘You’ve a long journey before you.’ That’s your signal.”

“And a famoush goot shignal it ish,” laughed Abraham. “He hash a long journey before him—ha! ha!”

“Peace!” cried Jonathan. “There’s his knock. Go, and let him in. And mind you don’t arouse his suspicions.”

“Never fear—never fear,” rejoined Abraham, as he took up the link, and left the room.

Jonathan cast a hasty glance around, to see that all was properly arranged for his purpose; placed a chair with its back to the door; disposed the lights on the table so as to throw the entrance of the room more into shadow; and then flung himself into a seat to await Sir Rowland’s arrival.

He had not to wait long. Enveloped in a large cloak, Sir Rowland stalked into the room, and took the seat assigned him; while the Jew, who received a private signal from Jonathan, set down the link near the entrance of the Well Hole, and, having made fast the door, crept behind one of the cases.

Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocket-book filled with notes.

“You have behaved like a man of honour, Sir Rowland,” said Wild, after he had twice told over the money. “Right to a farthing.”

“Give me an acquittance,” said Trenchard.

“It’s scarcely necessary,” replied Wild; “however, if you require it, certainly. There it is. ‘Received from Sir Rowland Trenchard, 15,000£. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724.’ Will that do?”

“It will,” replied Trenchard. “This is our last transaction together.”

“I hope not,” replied Wild.

“It is the last,” continued the knight, sternly; “and I trust we may never meet again, I have paid you this large sum—not because you are entitled to it, for you have failed in what you undertook to do, but because I desire to be troubled with you no further. I have now settled my affairs, and made every preparation for my departure to France, where I shall spend the remainder of my days. And I have made such arrangements that at my decease tardy justice will be done my injured nephew.”

“You have made no such arrangements as will compromise me, I hope, Sir Rowland?” said Wild, hastily.

“While I live you are safe,” rejoined Trenchard; “after my death I can answer for nothing.”

“‘Sblood!” exclaimed Wild, uneasily. “This alters the case materially. When were you last confessed, Sir Rowland?” he added abruptly.

“Why do you ask?” rejoined the other haughtily.

“Because—because I’m always distrustful of a priest,” rejoined Jonathan.

“I have just parted from one,” said Trenchard.

“So much the worse,” replied Jonathan, rising and taking a turn, as if uncertain what to do.

“So much the better,” rejoined Sir Rowland. “He who stands on the verge of the grave, as I do, should never be unprepared.”

“You’re strangely superstitious, Sir Rowland,” said Jonathan, halting, and looking steadfastly at him.

“If I were so, I should not be here,” returned Trenchard.

“How so?” asked Wild, curiously.

“I had a terrible dream last night. I thought my sister and her murdered husband dragged me hither, to this very room, and commanded you to slay me.”

“A terrible dream, indeed,” said Jonathan thoughtfully. “But you mustn’t indulge these gloomy thoughts. Let me recommend a glass of wine.”

“My penance forbids it,” said Trenchard, waving his hand. “I cannot remain here long.”

“You will remain longer than you anticipate,” muttered Wild.

“Before I go,” continued Sir Rowland, “I must beg of you to disclose to me all you know relative to the parentage of Thames Darrell.”

“Willingly,” replied Wild. “Thinking it likely you might desire to have this information, I prepared accordingly. First, look at this glove. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. You will observe that a coronet is embroidered on it.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Trenchard, starting, “is he so highly born?”

“This letter will inform you,” replied Wild, placing a document in his hand.

“What is this!” cried Sir Rowland. “I know the hand—ha! my friend! and I have murdered him! And my sister was thus nobly, thus illustriously wedded. O God! O God!”

And he appeared convulsed with agony.

“Oh! if I had known this,” he exclaimed, “what guilt, what remorse might have been spared me!”

“Repentance comes too late when the deed’s done,” returned Wild, bitterly.

“It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew,” cried Trenchard. “I will set about it instantly. He shall have the estates. I will return to Manchester at once.”

“You had better take some refreshment before you start,” rejoined Wild. “‘You’ve a long journey before you.’”

As the signal was given, the Jew, who had been some time in expectation of it, darted swiftly and silently behind Sir Rowland, and flung a cloth over his head, while Jonathan, rushing upon him in front, struck him several quick and violent blows in the face with the bludgeon. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it.

During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. It had been removed from the scabbard by the Jew. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing.

“Despatch him!” roared Jonathan.

Having no means of defence, Sir Rowland cleared the blood from his vision; and, turning to see whether there was any means of escape, he descried the open door behind him leading to the Well Hole, and instantly darted through it.

“As I could wish!” cried Jonathan. “Bring the light, Nab.”

The Jew snatched up the link, and followed him.

A struggle of the most terrific kind now ensued. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. Jonathan aimed a blow at him, which, if it had taken place, must have instantly terminated the strife; but, avoiding this, he sprang at the thief-taker, and grappled with him. Firmly built, as it was, the bridge creaked in such a manner with their contending efforts, that Abraham durst not venture beyond the door, where he stood, holding the light, a horrified spectator of the scene. The contest, however, though desperate, was brief. Disengaging his right arm, Jonathan struck his victim a tremendous blow on the head with the bludgeon, that fractured his skull; and, exerting all his strength, threw him over the rails, to which he clung with the tenacity of despair.

“Spare me!” he groaned, looking upwards. “Spare me!”

Jonathan, however, instead of answering him, searched for his knife, with the intention of severing his wrist. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. He then stamped upon the hand on the lower bannister, until that also relaxed its gripe.

Sir Rowland then fell.

A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water.

“Give me the link,” cried Jonathan.

Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well.

“Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery,” cried the Jew.

“What’s the use of wasting a shot?” rejoined Jonathan, savagely. “He can’t get out.”

After making several ineffectual attempts to keep himself above water, Sir Rowland sunk, and his groans, which had become gradually fainter and fainter, were heard no more.

“All’s over,” muttered Jonathan.

“Shall ve go back to de other room?” asked the Jew. “I shall breathe more freely dere. Oh! Christ! de door’s shut! It musht have schwung to during de schuffle!”

“Shut!” exclaimed Wild. “Then we’re imprisoned. The spring can’t be opened on this side.”

“Dere’s de other door!” cried Mendez, in alarm.

“It only leads to the fencing crib,” replied Wild. “There’s no outlet that way.”

“Can’t ve call for asshistanche?”

“And who’ll find us, if we do?” rejoined Wild, fiercely. “But they will find the evidences of slaughter in the other room,—the table upset,—the bloody cloth,—the dead man’s sword,—the money,—and my memorandum, which I forgot to remove. Hell’s curses! that after all my precautions I should be thus entrapped. It’s all your fault, you shaking coward! and, but that I feel sure you’ll swing for your carelessness, I’d throw you into the well, too.”

CHAPTER XIII. THE SUPPER AT MR. KNEEBONE’S

Persuaded that Jack Sheppard would keep his appointment with Mr. Kneebone, and feeling certain of capturing him if he did so, Shotbolt, on quitting Newgate, hurried to the New Prison to prepare for the enterprise. After debating with himself for some time whether he should employ an assistant, or make the attempt alone, his love of gain overcame his fears, and he decided upon the latter plan. Accordingly, having armed himself with various weapons, including a stout oaken staff then ordinarily borne by the watch, and put a coil of rope and a gag in his pocket, to be ready in case of need, he set out, about ten o’clock, on the expedition.

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 make 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.