Jack Sheppard A Romance / Ainsworth, William Harrison, 1805-1882

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Jack Sheppard, by William Harrison Ainsworth

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net


Title: Jack Sheppard
       A Romance

Author: William Harrison Ainsworth

Release Date: July 6, 2005 [EBook #16215]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACK SHEPPARD ***




Produced by Jason Isbell, Ben Beasley and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net





Transcribers Note: Obvious typesetter errors from the original
corrected in this etext. If they are not obvious errors, they are left as
in the original.

Throughout this text you will see words or phrases with _ (underscore)
on either side, such as _this_. These were in italics in the original,
but as ascii does not allow for formatting italics, they have been
changed in this version.

---------------------------------

English Library

_VOL. XII_

JACK SHEPPARD A Romance

BY W. Harrison Ainsworth

Internationale Bibliothek G M B H Berlin

1922

"Upon my word, friend," said I, "you have almost made me long to try
what a robber I should make." "There is a great art in it, if you did,"
quoth he. "Ah! but," said I, "there's a great deal in being hanged."

_Life and Actions of Guzman d'Alfarache._

Printed In Germany

CONTENTS.

EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703.
JONATHAN WILD.

CHAPTER I. The Widow and her Child             1
       II. The Old Mint                       13
      III. The Master of the Mint             28
       IV. The Roof and the Window            34
        V. The Denunciation                   42
       VI. The Storm                          51
      VII. Old London Bridge                  63


EPOCH THE SECOND, 1715.
THAMES DARRELL.

CHAPTER I. The Idle Apprentice                75
       II. Thames Darrell                     88
      III. The Jacobite                       95
       IV. Mr. Kneebone and his Friends       99
        V. Hawk and Buzzard                  103
       VI. The first Step towards the Ladder 119
      VII. Brother and Sister                131
     VIII. Miching Mallecho                  135
       IX. Consequences of the Theft         147
        X. Mother and Son                    154
       XI. The Mohocks                       160
      XII. Saint Giles's Round-house         167
     XIII. The Magdalene                     177
      XIV. The Flash Ken                     191
       XV. The Robbery in Willesden Church   198
      XVI. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old  201
              Bailey
     XVII. The Night-Cellar                  211
    XVIII. How Jack Sheppard broke out of    218
              the Cage at Willesden
      XIX. Good and Evil                     224


EPOCH THE THIRD, 1724.
THE PRISON-BREAKER.

CHAPTER I. The Return                        231
       II. The Burglary at Dollis Hill       249
      III. Jack Sheppard's Quarrel with      254
              Jonathan Wild
       IV. Jack Sheppard's Escape from the   258
              New Prison
        V. The Disguise                      261
       VI. Winifred receives two Proposals   278
      VII. Jack Sheppard warns Thames        284
              Darrell
     VIII. Old Bedlam                        291
       IX. Old Newgate                       302
        X. How Jack Sheppard got out of the  310
              Condemned Hold
       XI. Dollis Hill revisited             324
      XII. The Well Hole                     336
     XIII. The Supper at Mr. Kneebone's      346
      XIV. How Jack Sheppard was again       367
              captured
       XV. How Blueskin underwent the Peine  377
              Forte et Dure
      XVI. How Jack Sheppard's Portrait was  385
              painted
     XVII. The Iron Bar                      397
    XVIII. The Bed Room                      400
      XIX. The Chapel                        401
       XX. The Leads                         405
      XXI. What befell Jack Sheppard in the  408
              Turner's House
     XXII. Fast and Loose                    415
    XXIII. The last Meeting between Jack     419
              Sheppard and his Mother
     XXIV. The Pursuit                       425
      XXV. How Jack Sheppard got rid of his  429
              Irons
     XXVI. How Jack Sheppard attended his    435
              Mother's Funeral
    XXVII. How Jack Sheppard was brought     441
              back to Newgate
   XXVIII. What happened at Dollis Hill      449
     XXIX. How Jack Sheppard was taken to    454
              Westminster Hall
      XXX. How Jonathan Wild's House was     458
              burnt down
     XXXI. The Procession to Tyburn          462
    XXXII. The Closing Scene                 472




EPOCH THE FIRST.

1703.

JONATHAN WILD.






JACK SHEPPARD.




CHAPTER I.

The Widow and her Child.


On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of
eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure
quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened;
and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. This
person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown
double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow
collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees;
black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes,
wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. He
wore a three-cornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick
woollen wrapper folded round his throat. His clothes had evidently seen
some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the
workshop. Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one
well-to-do in the world. In stature, he was short and stumpy; in person,
corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed, and demure.

Immediately behind this individual, came a pale, poverty-stricken woman,
whose forlorn aspect contrasted strongly with his plump and comfortable
physiognomy. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured
by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of
rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent
the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed
in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl.

Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something
of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it
not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual
dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from
the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. She could not be
more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work
of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and
roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned
her raven hair. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon,
convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her
companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his
mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate.

"Well, good night, Mr. Wood," said she, in the deep, hoarse accents of
consumption; "and may God Almighty bless and reward you for your
kindness! You were always the best of masters to my poor husband; and
now you've proved the best of friends to his widow and orphan boy."

"Poh! poh! say no more about it," rejoined the man hastily. "I've done
no more than my duty, Mrs. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your
thanks. 'Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;' that's my
comfort. And such slight relief as I can afford should have been offered
earlier, if I'd known where you'd taken refuge after your unfortunate
husband's--"

"Execution, you would say, Sir," added Mrs. Sheppard, with a deep sigh,
perceiving that her benefactor hesitated to pronounce the word. "You
show more consideration to the feelings of a hempen widow, than there is
any need to show. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown
callous to both; but I'm _not_ used to compassion, and know not how to
take it. My heart would speak if it could, for it is very full. There
was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes
unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. Wood; but
they never come now. I have never wept since that day."

"And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul,"
replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from
his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. Pshaw!" added he, making an effort
to subdue his emotion, "I can't leave you in this way. I must stay a
minute longer, if only to see you smile."

So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by
the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips,
apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate.

The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable
look. Rotten, and covered with a thick coat of dirt, the boards of the
floor presented a very insecure footing; the bare walls were scored all
over with grotesque designs, the chief of which represented the
punishment of Nebuchadnezzar. The rest were hieroglyphic characters,
executed in red chalk and charcoal. The ceiling had, in many places,
given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained,
it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty
cobwebs. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork
counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair
of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last
century, and some other articles of female attire. On a small shelf near
the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and
basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a
spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask,
labelled "_Rosa Solis_." Broken pipes littered the floor, if that can be
said to be littered, which, in the first instance, was a mass of squalor
and filth.

Over the chimney-piece was pasted a handbill, purporting to be "_The
last Dying Speech and Confession of_ TOM SHEPPARD, _the Notorious
Housebreaker, who suffered at Tyburn on the 25th of February, 1703._"
This placard was adorned with a rude wood-cut, representing the unhappy
malefactor at the place of execution. On one side of the handbill a
print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait
of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig,
were just visible above the diadem of the queen. On the other a wretched
engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the
label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that
the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of
Jacobitism.

Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall,
formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the
words, "_Paul Groves, cobler;_" and under the name, traced in charcoal,
appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "_Hung himsel
in this rum for luv off licker;_" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the
unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. A farthing candle, stuck in a
bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the
provident kindness of Mr. Wood, was much better furnished with eatables
than might have been expected, and boasted a loaf, a knuckle of ham, a
meat-pie, and a flask of wine.

"You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. Sheppard," said Wood, glancing round
the chamber, as he expanded his palms before the scanty flame.

"It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as
it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets."

"Of course--of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than
that. But take a drop of wine," urged he, filling a drinking-horn and
presenting it to her; "it's choice canary, and'll do you good. And now,
come and sit by me, my dear, and let's have a little quiet chat
together. When things are at the worst, they'll mend. Take my word for
it, your troubles are over."

"I hope they are, Sir," answered Mrs. Sheppard, with a faint smile and a
doubtful shake of the head, as Wood drew her to a seat beside him, "for
I've had my full share of misery. But I don't look for peace on this
side the grave."

"Nonsense!" cried Wood; "while there's life there's hope. Never be
down-hearted. Besides," added he, opening the shawl in which the infant
was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly,
but placid features, "it's sinful to repine while you've a child like
this to comfort you. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father.
Like carpenter, like chips."

"That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow,
shuddering. "Were it not for that, he would indeed be a blessing and a
comfort to me. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but
lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him
now. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how like he is to
his father,--when I think of that father's shameful ending, and
recollect how free from guilt _he_ once was,--at such times, Mr. Wood,
despair will come over me; and, dear as this babe is to me, far dearer
than my own wretched life, which I would lay down for him any minute, I
have prayed to Heaven to remove him, rather than he should grow up to be
a man, and be exposed to his father's temptations--rather than he should
live as wickedly and die as disgracefully as his father. And, when I
have seen him pining away before my eyes, getting thinner and thinner
every day, I have sometimes thought my prayers were heard."

"Marriage and hanging go by destiny," observed Wood, after a pause; "but
I trust your child is reserved for a better fate than either, Mrs.
Sheppard."

The latter part of this speech was delivered with so much significance
of manner, that a bystander might have inferred that Mr. Wood was not
particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial connections.

"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a
desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at
the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his
bed."

"Save us!" exclaimed Wood. "And who is this Van Gal--Gal--what's his
outlandish name?"

"Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. "He's the famous Dutch conjuror who
foretold King William's accident and death, last February but one, a
month before either event happened, and gave out that another prince
over the water would soon enjoy his own again; for which he was
committed to Newgate, and whipped at the cart's tail. He went by another
name then,--Rykhart Scherprechter I think he called himself. His
fellow-prisoners nicknamed him the gallows-provider, from a habit he had
of picking out all those who were destined to the gibbet. He was never
known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jail-fever in consequence.
He singled out my poor husband from a crowd of other felons; and you
know how right he was in that case, Sir."

"Ay, marry," replied Wood, with a look that seemed to say that he did
not think it required any surprising skill in the art of divination to
predict the doom of the individual in question; but whatever opinion he
might entertain, he contented himself with inquiring into the grounds of
the conjuror's evil augury respecting the infant. "What did the old
fellow judge from, eh, Joan?" asked he.

"From a black mole under the child's right ear, shaped like a coffin,
which is a bad sign; and a deep line just above the middle of the left
thumb, meeting round about in the form of a noose, which is a worse,"
replied Mrs. Sheppard. "To be sure, it's not surprising the poor little
thing should be so marked; for, when I lay in the women-felons' ward in
Newgate, where he first saw the light, or at least such light as ever
finds entrance into that gloomy place, I had nothing, whether sleeping
or waking, but halters, and gibbets, and coffins, and such like horrible
visions, for ever dancing round me! And then, you know, Sir--but,
perhaps, you don't know that little Jack was born, a month before his
time, on the very day his poor father suffered."

"Lord bless us!" ejaculated Wood, "how shocking! No, I did _not_ know
that."

"You may see the marks on the child yourself, if you choose, Sir,"
urged the widow.

"See the devil!--not I," cried Wood impatiently. "I didn't think you'd
been so easily fooled, Joan."

"Fooled or not," returned Mrs. Sheppard mysteriously, "old Van told me
_one_ thing which has come true already."

"What's that?" asked Wood with some curiosity.

"He said, by way of comfort, I suppose, after the fright he gave me at
first, that the child would find a friend within twenty-four hours, who
would stand by him through life."

"A friend is not so soon gained as lost," replied Wood; "but how has the
prediction been fulfilled, Joan, eh?"

"I thought you would have guessed, Sir," replied the widow, timidly.
"I'm sure little Jack has but one friend beside myself, in the world,
and that's more than I would have ventured to say for him yesterday.
However, I've not told you all; for old Van _did_ say something about
the child saving his new-found friend's life at the time of meeting; but
how that's to happen, I'm sure I can't guess."

"Nor any one else in his senses," rejoined Wood, with a laugh. "It's not
very likely that a babby of nine months old will save _my_ life, if I'm
to be his friend, as you seem to say, Mrs. Sheppard. But I've not
promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest
lad,--mind that. Of all crafts,--and it was the only craft his poor
father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever
handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,--of all crafts, I
say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. As long as your son
observes that precept I'll befriend him, but no longer."

"I don't desire it, Sir," replied Mrs. Sheppard, meekly.

"There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the
fire, "which says,--'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll
creep out at your elbow.' But I don't value that, because I think it
applies to one who marries a widow with encumbrances; and that's not my
case, you know."

"Well, Sir," gasped Mrs. Sheppard.

"Well, my dear, I've a proposal to make in regard to this babby of
yours, which may, or may not, be agreeable. All I can say is, it's well
meant; and I may add, I'd have made it five minutes ago, if you'd given
me the opportunity."

"Pray come to the point, Sir," said Mrs. Sheppard, somewhat alarmed by
this preamble.

"I _am_ coming to the point, Joan. The more haste, the worse
speed--better the feet slip than the tongue. However, to cut a long
matter short, my proposal's this:--I've taken a fancy to your bantling,
and, as I've no son of my own, if it meets with your concurrence and
that of Mrs. Wood, (for I never do anything without consulting my better
half,) I'll take the boy, educate him, and bring him up to my own
business of a carpenter."

The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her
breast.

"Well, Joan," said the benevolent mechanic, after he had looked at her
steadfastly for a few moments, "what say you?--silence gives consent,
eh?"

Mrs. Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by
emotion.

"Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between
jest and earnest.

"I cannot part with him," replied the widow, bursting into tears;
"indeed, indeed, I cannot."

"So I've found out the way to move her," thought the carpenter; "those
tears will do her some good, at all events. Not part with him!" added he
aloud. "Why you wouldn't stand in the way of his good fortune sure_ly_?
I'll be a second father to him, I tell you. Remember what the conjuror
said."

"I _do_ remember it, Sir," replied Mrs. Sheppard, "and am most grateful
for your offer. But I dare not accept it."

"Dare not!" echoed the carpenter; "I don't understand you, Joan."

"I mean to say, Sir," answered Mrs. Sheppard in a troubled voice, "that
if I lost my child, I should lose all I have left in the world. I have
neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband--I have only
_him_."

"If I ask you to part with him, my good woman, it's to better his
condition, I suppose, ain't it?" rejoined Wood angrily; for, though he
had no serious intention of carrying his proposal into effect, he was
rather offended at having it declined. "It's not an offer," continued
he, "that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in
the year."

And muttering some remarks, which we do not care to repeat, reflecting
upon the consistency of the sex, he was preparing once more to depart,
when Mrs. Sheppard stopped him.

"Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I _can_ bring myself to
part with him, you shall have him without another word."

"Take time to consider of it," replied Wood sulkily, "there's no hurry."

"Don't be angry with me, Sir," cried the widow, sobbing bitterly, "pray
don't. I know I am undeserving of your bounty; but if I were to tell you
what hardships I have undergone--to what frightful extremities I have
been reduced--and to what infamy I have submitted, to earn a scanty
subsistence for this child's sake,--if you could feel what it is to
stand alone in the world as I do, bereft of all who have ever loved me,
and shunned by all who have ever known me, except the worthless and the
wretched,--if you knew (and Heaven grant you may be spared the
knowledge!) how much affliction sharpens love, and how much more dear to
me my child has become for every sacrifice I have made for him,--if you
were told all this, you would, I am sure, pity rather than reproach me,
because I cannot at once consent to a separation, which I feel would
break my heart. But give me till to-morrow--only till to-morrow--I may
be able to part with him then."

The worthy carpenter was now far more angry with himself than he had
previously been with Mrs. Sheppard; and, as soon as he could command his
feelings, which were considerably excited by the mention of her
distresses, he squeezed her hand warmly, bestowed a hearty execration
upon his own inhumanity, and swore he would neither separate her from
her child, nor suffer any one else to separate them.

"Plague on't!" added he: "I never meant to take your babby from you. But
I'd a mind to try whether you really loved him as much as you pretended.
I was to blame to carry the matter so far. However, confession of a
fault makes half amends for it. A time _may_ come when this little chap
will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in
Owen Wood."

As he said this, the carpenter patted the cheek of the little object of
his benevolent professions, and, in so doing, unintentionally aroused
him from his slumbers. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child
fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light,
uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled
by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms,
as if imploring protection.

"I don't think he would leave me, even if I could part with him,"
observed Mrs. Sheppard, smiling through her tears.

"I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter. "No friend like the
mother, for the babby knows no other."

"And that's true," rejoined Mrs. Sheppard; "for if I had _not_ been a
mother, I would not have survived the day on which I became a widow."

"You mustn't think of that, Mrs. Sheppard," said Wood in a soothing
tone.

"I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. "I can never get
poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at
Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to
stupify myself somehow. The dismal tolling of St. Sepulchre's bell is
for ever ringing in my ears--oh!"

"If that's the case," observed Wood, "I'm surprised you should like to
have such a frightful picture constantly in view as that over the
chimney-piece."

"I'd good reasons for placing it there, Sir; but don't question me
about them now, or you'll drive me mad," returned Mrs. Sheppard wildly.

"Well, well, we'll say no more about it," replied Wood; "and, by way of
changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong
waters for consolation, Joan. One nail drives out another, it's true;
but the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail. Gin Lane's the
nearest road to the churchyard."

"It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I
care not," retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused
into sudden eloquence. "To those who, like me, have never been able to
get out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is indeed a
refuge, and the sooner they reach it the better. The spirit I drink may
be poison,--it may kill me,--perhaps it _is_ killing me:--but so would
hunger, cold, misery,--so would my own thoughts. I should have gone mad
without it. Gin is the poor man's friend,--his sole set-off against the
rich man's luxury. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. It may be
treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present
happiness, and that is sufficient. When I have traversed the streets a
houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have
solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought
shelter,--when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched
my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,--or, worse
than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible
temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,--when I
have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of
this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt.
Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to
me, and I have fancied myself happy,--as happy as I am now." And she
burst into a wild hysterical laugh.

"Poor creature!" ejaculated Wood. "Do you call this frantic glee
happiness?"

"It's all the happiness I have known for years," returned the widow,
becoming suddenly calm, "and it's short-lived enough, as you perceive. I
tell you what, Mr. Wood," added she in a hollow voice, and with a
ghastly look, "gin may bring ruin; but as long as poverty, vice, and
ill-usage exist, it will be drunk."

"God forbid!" exclaimed Wood, fervently; and, as if afraid of prolonging
the interview, he added, with some precipitation, "But I must be going:
I've stayed here too long already. You shall hear from me to-morrow."

"Stay!" said Mrs. Sheppard, again arresting his departure. "I've just
recollected that my husband left a key with me, which he charged me to
give you when I could find an opportunity."

"A key!" exclaimed Wood eagerly. "I lost a very valuable one some time
ago. What's it like, Joan?"

"It's a small key, with curiously-fashioned wards."

"It's mine, I'll be sworn," rejoined Wood. "Well, who'd have thought of
finding it in this unexpected way!"

"Don't be too sure till you see it," said the widow. "Shall I fetch it
for you, Sir?"

"By all means."

"I must trouble you to hold the child, then, for a minute, while I run
up to the garret, where I've hidden it for safety," said Mrs. Sheppard.
"I think I _may_ trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the
candle.

"Don't leave him, if you're at all fearful, my dear," replied Wood,
receiving the little burthen with a laugh. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as
the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better
circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. Strange, I could
never learn her history. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would
never tell whom he married. Of this I'm certain, however, she was much
too good for him, and was never meant to be a journeyman carpenter's
wife, still less what is she now. Her heart's in the right place, at all
events; and, since that's the case, the rest may perhaps come
round,--that is, if she gets through her present illness. A dry cough's
the trumpeter of death. If that's true, she's not long for this world.
As to this little fellow, in spite of the Dutchman, who, in my opinion,
is more of a Jacobite than a conjurer, and more of a knave than either,
he shall never mount a horse foaled by an acorn, if I can help it."

The course of the carpenter's meditations was here interrupted by a loud
note of lamentation from the child, who, disturbed by the transfer, and
not receiving the gentle solace to which he was ordinarily accustomed,
raised his voice to the utmost, and exerted his feeble strength to
escape. For a few moments Mr. Wood dandled his little charge to and fro,
after the most approved nursery fashion, essaying at the same time the
soothing influence of an infantine melody proper to the occasion; but,
failing in his design, he soon lost all patience, and being, as we have
before hinted, rather irritable, though extremely well-meaning, he
lifted the unhappy bantling in the air, and shook him with so much good
will, that he had well-nigh silenced him most effectually. A brief calm
succeeded. But with returning breath came returning vociferations; and
the carpenter, with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of
scene, took up his lantern, opened the door, and walked out.




CHAPTER II.

The Old Mint.


Mrs. Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings,
called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part
lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along
the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected
gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. The neighbouring
houses were tenanted by the lowest order of insolvent traders, thieves,
mendicants, and other worthless and nefarious characters, who fled
thither to escape from their creditors, or to avoid the punishment due
to their different offenses; for we may observe that the Old Mint,
although it had been divested of some of its privileges as a sanctuary
by a recent statute passed in the reign of William the Third, still
presented a safe asylum to the debtor, and even continued to do so until
the middle of the reign of George the First, when the crying nature of
the evil called loudly for a remedy, and another and more sweeping
enactment entirely took away its immunities. In consequence of the
encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to
crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the
period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous
villainy of the metropolis. Infested by every description of vagabond
and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery
near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in
our own time. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and
squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his
dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to
scorn--on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence
of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart
was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour.
Suffolk House, as Brandon's palace was denominated, was subsequently
converted into a mint by his royal brother-in-law, Henry the Eighth;
and, after its demolition, and the removal of the place of coinage to
the Tower, the name was still continued to the district in which it had
been situated.

Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of
desolation and misery. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. The roof
was partially untiled; the chimneys were tottering; the side-walls
bulged, and were supported by a piece of timber propped against the
opposite house; the glass in most of the windows was broken, and its
place supplied with paper; while, in some cases, the very frames of the
windows had been destroyed, and the apertures were left free to the airs
of heaven. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak
more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular
appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty
hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former
occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have
before alluded.

It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs. Sheppard
was enabled to take possession of the premises. In a fit of despondency,
superinduced by drunkenness, he made away with himself; and when the
body was discovered, after a lapse of some months, such was the
impression produced by the spectacle--such the alarm occasioned by the
crazy state of the building, and, above all, by the terror inspired by
strange and unearthly noises heard during the night, which were, of
course, attributed to the spirit of the suicide, that the place speedily
enjoyed the reputation of being haunted, and was, consequently, entirely
abandoned. In this state Mrs. Sheppard found it; and, as no one opposed
her, she at once took up her abode there; nor was she long in
discovering that the dreaded sounds proceeded from the nocturnal gambols
of a legion of rats.

A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main
thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood
Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return.

As Mrs. Sheppard did not make her appearance quite so soon as he
expected, the carpenter became a little fidgetty, and, having succeeded
in tranquillizing the child, he thought proper to walk so far down the
entry as would enable him to reconnoitre the upper windows of the house.
A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp
atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. This light did not
remain stationary, but could be seen at one moment glimmering through
the rents in the roof, and at another shining through the cracks in the
wall, or the broken panes of the casement. Wood was unable to discover
the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and
was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he
imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a
chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor.

Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his
attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the
swiftness of desperation. This individual apparently met with some
impediment to his further progress; for he had not proceeded many steps
when he turned suddenly about, and darted up the passage in which Wood
stood.

Uttering a few inarticulate ejaculations,--for he was completely out of
breath,--the fugitive placed a bundle in the arms of the carpenter, and,
regardless of the consternation he excited in the breast of that
personage, who was almost stupified with astonishment, he began to
divest himself of a heavy horseman's cloak, which he threw over Wood's
shoulder, and, drawing his sword, seemed to listen intently for the
approach of his pursuers.

The appearance of the new-comer was extremely prepossessing; and, after
his trepidation had a little subsided, Wood began to regard him with
some degree of interest. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was
scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of
feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such
as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society.
His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his
countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was
resolute and stern.

At this juncture, a cry burst from the child, who, nearly smothered by
the weight imposed upon him, only recovered the use of his lungs as Wood
altered the position of the bundle. The stranger turned his head at the
sound.

"By Heaven!" cried he in a tone of surprise, "you have an infant there?"

"To be sure I have," replied Wood, angrily; for, finding that the
intentions of the stranger were pacific, so far as he was concerned, he
thought he might safely venture on a slight display of spirit. "It's
very well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to death with this
confounded clothes'-bag. But some people have no consideration."

"That child may be the means of saving me," muttered the stranger, as if
struck by a new idea: "I shall gain time by the expedient. Do you live
here?"

"Not exactly," answered the carpenter.

"No matter. The door is open, so it is needless to ask leave to enter.
Ha!" exclaimed the stranger, as shouts and other vociferations resounded
at no great distance along the thoroughfare, "not a moment is to be
lost. Give me that precious charge," he added, snatching the bundle from
Wood. "If I escape, I will reward you. Your name?"

"Owen Wood," replied the carpenter; "I've no reason to be ashamed of it.
And now, a fair exchange, Sir. Yours?"

The stranger hesitated. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen
flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring
houses.

"My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. "But, if you are
discovered, answer no questions, as you value your life. Wrap yourself
in my cloak, and keep it. Remember! not a word!"

So saying, he huddled the mantle over Wood's shoulders, dashed the
lantern to the ground, and extinguished the light. A moment afterwards,
the door was closed and bolted, and the carpenter found himself alone.

"Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his
frame. "The Dutchman was right, after all."

This exclamation had scarcely escaped him, when the discharge of a
pistol was heard, and a bullet whizzed past his ears.

"I have him!" cried a voice in triumph.

A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by
the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat. This person was
speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried
flambeaux.

"Mur--der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant,
by whom he was half strangled.

"Damnation!" exclaimed one of the leaders of the party in a furious
tone, snatching a torch from an attendant, and throwing its light full
upon the face of the carpenter; "this is not the villain, Sir Cecil."

"So I find, Rowland," replied the other, in accents of deep
disappointment, and at the same time relinquishing his grasp. "I could
have sworn I saw him enter this passage. And how comes his cloak on this
knave's shoulders?"

"It is his cloak, of a surety," returned Rowland "Harkye, sirrah,"
continued he, haughtily interrogating Wood; "where is the person from
whom you received this mantle?"

"Throttling a man isn't the way to make him answer questions," replied
the carpenter, doggedly. "You'll get nothing out of me, I can promise
you, unless you show a little more civility."

"We waste time with this fellow," interposed Sir Cecil, "and may lose
the object of our quest, who, beyond doubt, has taken refuge in this
building. Let us search it."

Just then, the infant began to sob piteously.

"Hist!" cried Rowland, arresting his comrade. "Do you hear that! We are
not wholly at fault. The dog-fox cannot be far off, since the cub is
found."

With these words, he tore the mantle from Wood's back, and, perceiving
the child, endeavoured to seize it. In this attempt he was, however,
foiled by the agility of the carpenter, who managed to retreat to the
door, against which he placed his back, kicking the boards vigorously
with his heel.

"Joan! Joan!" vociferated he, "open the door, for God's sake, or I shall
be murdered, and so will your babby! Open the door quickly, I say."

"Knock him on the head," thundered Sir Cecil, "or we shall have the
watch upon us."

"No fear of that," rejoined Rowland: "such vermin never dare to show
themselves in this privileged district. All we have to apprehend is a
rescue."

The hint was not lost upon Wood. He tried to raise an outcry, but his
throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland.

"Another such attempt," said the latter, "and you are a dead man. Yield
up the babe, and I pledge my word you shall remain unmolested."

"I will yield it to no one but its mother," answered Wood.

"'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. "Give
me the child, or--"

As he spoke the door was thrown open, and Mrs. Sheppard staggered
forward. She looked paler than ever; but her countenance, though
bewildered, did not exhibit the alarm which might naturally have been
anticipated from the strange and perplexing scene presented to her view.

"Take it," cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; "take it, and
fly."

Mrs. Sheppard put out her arms mechanically. But before the child could
be committed to her care, it was wrested from the carpenter by Rowland.

"These people are all in league with him," cried the latter. "But don't
wait for me, Sir Cecil. Enter the house with your men. I'll dispose of
the brat."

This injunction was instantly obeyed. The knight and his followers
crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them.

"Davies," said Rowland, delivering the babe, with a meaning look, to his
attendant.

"I understand, Sir," replied Davies, drawing a little aside. And,
setting down the link, he proceeded deliberately to untie his cravat.

"My God! will you see your child strangled before your eyes, and not so
much as scream for help?" said Wood, staring at the widow with a look of
surprise and horror. "Woman, your wits are fled!"

And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur
distractedly, "I can't find the key."

"Devil take the key!" ejaculated Wood. "They're about to murder your
child--_your_ child, I tell you! Do you comprehend what I say, Joan?"

"I've hurt my head," replied Mrs. Sheppard, pressing her hand to her
temples.

And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood
coursing slowly down her cheek.

At this moment, Davies, who had completed his preparations, extinguished
the torch.

"It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are
gone. However, I'll make a last effort to save the poor little creature,
if it costs me my life."

And, with this generous resolve, he shouted at the top of his voice,
"Arrest! arrest! help! help!" seconding the words with a shrill and
peculiar cry, well known at the time to the inhabitants of the quarter
in which it was uttered.

In reply to this summons a horn was instantly blown at the corner of the
street.

"Arrest!" vociferated Wood. "Mint! Mint!"

"Death and hell!" cried Rowland, making a furious pass at the carpenter,
who fortunately avoided the thrust in the darkness; "will nothing
silence you?"

"Help!" ejaculated Wood, renewing his cries. "Arrest!"

"Jigger closed!" shouted a hoarse voice in reply. "All's bowman, my
covey. Fear nothing. We'll be upon the ban-dogs before they can shake
their trotters!"

And the alarm was sounded more loudly than ever.

Another horn now resounded from the further extremity of the
thoroughfare; this was answered by a third; and presently a fourth, and
more remote blast, took up the note of alarm. The whole neighbourhood
was disturbed. A garrison called to arms at dead of night on the sudden
approach of the enemy, could not have been more expeditiously, or
effectually aroused. Rattles were sprung; lanterns lighted, and hoisted
at the end of poles; windows thrown open; doors unbarred; and, as if by
magic, the street was instantaneously filled with a crowd of persons of
both sexes, armed with such weapons as came most readily to hand, and
dressed in such garments as could be most easily slipped on. Hurrying in
the direction of the supposed arrest, they encouraged each other with
shouts, and threatened the offending parties with their vengeance.

Regardless as the gentry of the Mint usually were (for, indeed, they had
become habituated from their frequent occurrence to such scenes,) of any
outrages committed in their streets; deaf, as they had been, to the
recent scuffle before Mrs. Sheppard's door, they were always
sufficiently on the alert to maintain their privileges, and to assist
each other against the attacks of their common enemy--the sheriff's
officer. It was only by the adoption of such a course (especially since
the late act of suppression, to which we have alluded,) that the
inviolability of the asylum could be preserved. Incursions were often
made upon its territories by the functionaries of the law; sometimes
attended with success, but more frequently with discomfiture; and it
rarely happened, unless by stratagem or bribery, that (in the language
of the gentlemen of the short staff) an important caption could be
effected. In order to guard against accidents or surprises, watchmen, or
scouts, (as they were styled,) were stationed at the three main outlets
of the sanctuary ready to give the signal in the manner just described:
bars were erected, which, in case of emergency; could be immediately
stretched across the streets: doors were attached to the alleys; and
were never opened without due precautions; gates were affixed to the
courts, wickets to the gates, and bolts to the wickets. The back windows
of the houses (where any such existed) were strongly barricaded, and
kept constantly shut; and the fortress was, furthermore, defended by
high walls and deep ditches in those quarters where it appeared most
exposed. There was also a Maze, (the name is still retained in the
district,) into which the debtor could run, and through the intricacies
of which it was impossible for an officer to follow him, without a
clue. Whoever chose to incur the risk of so doing might enter the Mint
at any hour; but no one was suffered to depart without giving a
satisfactory account of himself, or producing a pass from the Master. In
short, every contrivance that ingenuity could devise was resorted to by
this horde of reprobates to secure themselves from danger or
molestation. Whitefriars had lost its privileges; Salisbury Court and
the Savoy no longer offered places of refuge to the debtor; and it was,
therefore, doubly requisite that the Island of Bermuda (as the Mint was
termed by its occupants) should uphold its rights, as long as it was
able to do so.

Mr. Wood, meantime, had not remained idle. Aware that not a moment was
to be lost, if he meant to render any effectual assistance to the child,
he ceased shouting, and defending himself in the best way he could from
the attacks of Rowland, by whom he was closely pressed, forced his way,
in spite of all opposition, to Davies, and dealt him a blow on the head
with such good will that, had it not been for the intervention of the
wall, the ruffian must have been prostrated. Before he could recover
from the stunning effects of the blow, Wood possessed himself of the
child: and, untying the noose which had been slipped round its throat,
had the satisfaction of hearing it cry lustily.

At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold.

"He has escaped!" exclaimed the knight; "we have searched every corner
of the house without finding a trace of him."

"Back!" cried Rowland. "Don't you hear those shouts? Yon fellow's
clamour has brought the whole horde of jail-birds and cut-throats that
infest this place about our ears. We shall be torn in pieces if we are
discovered. Davies!" he added, calling to the attendant, who was
menacing Wood with a severe retaliation, "don't heed him; but, if you
value a whole skin, come into the house, and bring that woman with you.
She may afford us some necessary information."

Davies reluctantly complied. And, dragging Mrs. Sheppard, who made no
resistance, along with him, entered the house, the door of which was
instantly shut and barricaded.

A moment afterwards, the street was illumined by a blaze of torchlight,
and a tumultuous uproar, mixed with the clashing of weapons, and the
braying of horns, announced the arrival of the first detachment of
Minters.

Mr. Wood rushed instantly to meet them.

"Hurrah!" shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head.
"Saved!"

"Ay, ay, it's all bob, my covey! You're safe enough, that's certain!"
responded the Minters, baying, yelping, leaping, and howling around him
like a pack of hounds when the huntsman is beating cover; "but, where
are the lurchers?"

"Who?" asked Wood.

"The traps!" responded a bystander.

"The shoulder-clappers!" added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join the
party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether habiliments
for her own petticoats.

"The ban-dogs!" thundered a tall man, whose stature and former
avocations had procured him the nickname of "The long drover of the
Borough market." "Where are they?"

"Ay, where are they?" chorussed the mob, flourishing their various
weapons, and flashing their torches in the air; "we'll starve 'em out."

Mr. Wood trembled. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be very
difficult, if not impossible, to allay. He knew not what to say, or what
to do; and his confusion was increased by the threatening gestures and
furious looks of the ruffians in his immediate vicinity.

"I don't understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length.

"What does he say?" roared the long drover.

"He says he don't understand flash," replied the lady in gentleman's
attire.

"Cease your confounded clutter!" said a young man, whose swarthy visage,
seen in the torchlight, struck Wood as being that of a Mulatto. "You
frighten the cull out of his senses. It's plain he don't understand our
lingo; as, how should he? Take pattern by me;" and as he said this he
strode up to the carpenter, and, slapping him on the shoulder,
propounded the following questions, accompanying each interrogation with
a formidable contortion of countenance. "Curse you! Where are the
bailiffs? Rot you! have you lost your tongue? Devil seize you! you could
bawl loud enough a moment ago!"

"Silence, Blueskin!" interposed an authoritative voice, immediately
behind the ruffian. "Let me have a word with the cull!"

"Ay! ay!" cried several of the bystanders, "let Jonathan kimbaw the
cove. He's got the gift of the gab."

The crowd accordingly drew aside, and the individual, in whose behalf
the movement had been made immediately stepped forward. He was a young
man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable
either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for
the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. His
eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a
fox. A physiognomist, indeed, would have likened him to that crafty
animal, and it must be owned the general formation of his features
favoured such a comparison. The nose was long and sharp, the chin
pointed, the forehead broad and flat, and connected, without any
intervening hollow, with the eyelid; the teeth when displayed, seemed to
reach from ear to ear. Then his beard was of a reddish hue, and his
complexion warm and sanguine. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred
that he slept with his eyes open. But this might be merely a figurative
mode of describing his customary vigilance. Certain it was, that the
slightest sound aroused him. This astute personage was somewhat under
the middle size, but fairly proportioned, inclining rather to strength
than symmetry, and abounding more in muscle than in flesh.

It would seem, from the attention which he evidently bestowed upon the
hidden and complex machinery of the grand system of villany at work
around him, that his chief object in taking up his quarters in the Mint,
must have been to obtain some private information respecting the habits
and practices of its inhabitants, to be turned to account hereafter.

Advancing towards Wood, Jonathan fixed his keen gray eyes upon him, and
demanded, in a stern tone whether the persons who had taken refuge in
the adjoining house, were bailiffs.

"Not that I know of," replied the carpenter, who had in some degree
recovered his confidence.

"Then I presume you've not been arrested?"

"I have not," answered Wood firmly.

"I guessed as much. Perhaps you'll next inform us why you have
occasioned this disturbance."

"Because this child's life was threatened by the persons you have
mentioned," rejoined Wood.

"An excellent reason, i' faith!" exclaimed Blueskin, with a roar of
surprise and indignation, which was echoed by the whole assemblage. "And
so we're to be summoned from our beds and snug firesides, because a kid
happens to squall, eh? By the soul of my grandmother, but this is too
good!"

"Do you intend to claim the privileges of the Mint?" said Jonathan,
calmly pursuing his interrogations amid the uproar. "Is your person in
danger?"

"Not from my creditors," replied Wood, significantly.

"Will he post the cole? Will he come down with the dues? Ask him that?"
cried Blueskin.

"You hear," pursued Jonathan; "my friend desires to know if you are
willing to pay your footing as a member of the ancient and respectable
fraternity of debtors?"

"I owe no man a farthing, and my name shall never appear in any such
rascally list," replied Wood angrily. "I don't see why I should be
obliged to pay for doing my duty. I tell you this child would have been
strangled. The noose was at its throat when I called for help. I knew
it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to
stratagem."

"Well, Sir, I must say you deserve some credit for your ingenuity, at
all events," replied Jonathan, repressing a smile; "but, before you put
out your foot so far, it would have been quite as prudent to consider
how you were to draw it back again. For my own part, I don't see in what
way it is to be accomplished, except by the payment of our customary
fees. Do not imagine you can at one moment avail yourself of our
excellent regulations (with which you seem sufficiently well
acquainted), and the next break them with impunity. If you assume the
character of a debtor for your own convenience, you must be content to
maintain it for ours. If you have not been arrested, we have been
disturbed; and it is but just and reasonable you should pay for
occasioning such disturbance. By your own showing you are in easy
circumstances,--for it is only natural to presume that a man who owes
nothing must be in a condition to pay liberally,--and you cannot
therefore feel the loss of such a trifle as ten guineas."

However illogical and inconclusive these arguments might appear to Mr.
Wood, and however he might dissent from the latter proposition, he did
not deem it expedient to make any reply; and the orator proceeded with
his harangue amid the general applause of the assemblage.

"I am perhaps exceeding my authority in demanding so slight a sum,"
continued Jonathan, modestly, "and the Master of the Mint may not be
disposed to let you off so lightly. He will be here in a moment or so,
and you will then learn his determination. In the mean time, let me
advise you as a friend not to irritate him by a refusal, which would be
as useless as vexatious. He has a very summary mode of dealing with
refractory persons, I assure you. My best endeavours shall be used to
bring you off, on the easy terms I have mentioned."

"Do you call ten guineas easy terms?" cried Wood, with a look of dismay.
"Why, I should expect to purchase the entire freehold of the Mint for
less money."

"Many a man has been glad to pay double the amount to get his head from
under the Mint pump," observed Blueskin, gruffly.

"Let the gentleman take his own course," said Jonathan, mildly. "I
should be sorry to persuade him to do anything his calmer judgment might
disapprove."

"Exactly my sentiments," rejoined Blueskin. "I wouldn't force him for
the world: but if he don't tip the stivers, may I be cursed if he don't
get a taste of the _aqua pompaginis_. Let's have a look at the kinchen
that _ought_ to have been throttled," added he, snatching the child from
Wood. "My stars! here's a pretty lullaby-cheat to make a fuss about--ho!
ho!"

"Deal with me as you think proper, gentlemen," exclaimed Wood; "but, for
mercy's sake don't harm the child! Let it be taken to its mother."

"And who is its mother?" asked Jonathan, in an eager whisper. "Tell me
frankly, and speak under your breath. Your own safety--the child's
safety--depends upon your candour."

While Mr. Wood underwent this examination, Blueskin felt a small and
trembling hand placed upon his own, and, turning at the summons, beheld
a young female, whose features were partially concealed by a loo, or
half mask, standing beside him. Coarse as were the ruffian's notions of
feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the surpassing loveliness
of the fair creature, who had thus solicited his attention. Her figure
was, in some measure, hidden by a large scarf, and a deep hood drawn
over the head contributed to her disguise; still it was evident, from
her lofty bearing, that she had nothing in common, except an interest in
their proceedings, with the crew by whom she was surrounded.

Whence she came,--who she was,--and what she wanted,--were questions
which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to
seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture
of silence from the lady.

"Hush!" said she, in a low, but agitated voice; "would you earn this
purse?"

"I've no objection," replied Blueskin, in a tone intended to be gentle,
but which sounded like the murmuring whine of a playful bear. "How much
is there in it!"

"It contains gold," replied the lady; "but I will add this ring."

"What am I to do to earn it?" asked Blueskin, with a disgusting
leer,--"cut a throat--or throw myself at your feet--eh, my dear?"

"Give me that child," returned the lady, with difficulty overcoming the
loathing inspired by the ruffian's familiarity.

"Oh! I see!" replied Blueskin, winking significantly, "Come nearer, or
they'll observe us. Don't be afraid--I won't hurt you. I'm always
agreeable to the women, bless their kind hearts! Now! slip the purse
into my hand. Bravo!--the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done
it better. And now for the fawney--the ring I mean. I'm no great judge
of these articles, Ma'am; but I trust to your honour not to palm off
paste upon me."

"It is a diamond," said the lady, in an agony of distress,--"the child!"

"A diamond! Here, take the kid," cried Blueskin, slipping the infant
adroitly under her scarf. "And so this is a diamond," added he,
contemplating the brilliant from the hollow of his hand: "it does
sparkle almost as brightly as your ogles. By the by, my dear, I forgot
to ask your name--perhaps you'll oblige me with it now? Hell and the
devil!--gone!"

He looked around in vain. The lady had disappeared.




CHAPTER III.

The Master of the Mint.


Jonathan, meanwhile, having ascertained the parentage of the child from
Wood, proceeded to question him in an under tone, as to the probable
motives of the attempt upon its life; and, though he failed in obtaining
any information on this point, he had little difficulty in eliciting
such particulars of the mysterious transaction as have already been
recounted. When the carpenter concluded his recital, Jonathan was for a
moment lost in reflection.

"Devilish strange!" thought he, chuckling to himself; "queer business!
Capital trick of the cull in the cloak to make another person's brat
stand the brunt for his own--capital! ha! ha! Won't do, though. He must
be a sly fox to get out of the Mint without my knowledge. I've a shrewd
guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. These bloods
will pay well for his capture; if not, _he'll_ pay well to get out of
their hands; so I'm safe either way--ha! ha! Blueskin," he added aloud,
and motioning that worthy, "follow me."

Upon which, he set off in the direction of the entry. His progress,
however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of the
Master of the Mint and his train.

Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man,
and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he
entertained for good liquor and good living. He had a quick, shrewd,
merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good
humour. It was easy to discover that he was a knave, but equally easy to
perceive that he was a pleasant fellow; a combination of qualities by no
means of rare occurrence. So far as regards his attire, Baptist was not
seen to advantage. No great lover of state or state costume at any time,
he was generally, towards the close of an evening, completely in
dishabille, and in this condition he now presented himself to his
subjects. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose
ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into
a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into
a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. A white apron was tied
round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon,
which looked very much like a rolling-pin.

The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as
portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. The costume
of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a
masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour
forbidden any such supposition. It consisted of a close jerkin of brown
frieze, ornamented with a triple row of brass buttons; loose Dutch
slops, made very wide in the seat and very tight at the knees; red
stockings with black clocks, and a fur cap. The owner of this dress had
a broad weather-beaten face, small twinkling eyes, and a bushy, grizzled
beard. Though he walked by the side of the governor, he seldom exchanged
a word with him, but appeared wholly absorbed in the contemplations
inspired by a broadbowled Dutch pipe.

Behind the illustrious personages just described marched a troop of
stalwart fellows, with white badges in their hats, quarterstaves, oaken
cudgels, and links in their hands. These were the Master's body-guard.

Advancing towards the Master, and claiming an audience, which was
instantly granted, Jonathan, without much circumlocution, related the
sum of the strange story he had just learnt from Wood, omitting nothing
except a few trifling particulars, which he thought it politic to keep
back; and, with this view, he said not a word of there being any
probability of capturing the fugitive, but, on the contrary, roundly
asserted that his informant had witnessed that person's escape.

The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at
its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of
his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his
phlegmatic companion. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply,
coughed as only a Dutchman _can_ cough, and raising his hand from the
bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial
as the Master.

Putting his own construction upon this mute interchange of opinions,
Jonathan ventured to observe, that it certainly was a very perplexing
case, but that he thought something _might_ be made of it, and, if left
to him, he would undertake to manage the matter to the Master's entire
satisfaction.

"Ja, ja, Muntmeester," said the Dutchman, removing the pipe from his
mouth, and speaking in a deep and guttural voice, "leave the affair to
Johannes. He'll settle it bravely. And let ush go back to our brandewyn,
and hollandsche genever. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers
on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb,
dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant
complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened,
and of which its poor vader died. Myn Got! haanging runs in some
families, Muntmeester. It's hereditary, like de jigt, vat you call
it--gout--haw! haw!"

"If the child _is_ destined to the gibbet, Van Galgebrok," replied the
Master, joining in the laugh, "it'll never be choked by a footman's
cravat, that's certain; but, in regard to going back empty-handed,"
continued he, altering his tone, and assuming a dignified air, "it's
quite out of the question. With Baptist Kettleby, to engage in a matter
is to go through with it. Besides, this is an affair which no one but
myself can settle. Common offences may be decided upon by deputy; but
outrages perpetrated by men of rank, as these appear to be, must be
judged by the Master of the Mint in person. These are the decrees of the
Island of Bermuda, and I will never suffer its excellent laws to be
violated. Gentlemen of the Mint," added he, pointing with his truncheon
towards Mrs. Sheppard's house, "forward!"

"Hurrah!" shouted the mob, and the whole phalanx was put in motion in
that direction. At the same moment a martial flourish, proceeding from
cow's horns, tin canisters filled with stones, bladders and cat-gut,
with other sprightly, instruments, was struck up, and, enlivened by this
harmonious accompaniment, the troop reached its destination in the best
possible spirits for an encounter.

"Let us in," said the Master, rapping his truncheon authoritatively
against the boards, "or we'll force an entrance."

But as no answer was returned to the summons, though it was again, and
more peremptorily, repeated, Baptist seized a mallet from a bystander
and burst open the door. Followed by Van Galgebrok and others of his
retinue, he then rushed into the room, where Rowland, Sir Cecil, and
their attendants, stood with drawn swords prepared to receive them.

"Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed."

"Beat out their brains, you mean," rejoined Blueskin with a tremendous
imprecation; "no half measures now, Master."

"Hadn't you better hold a moment's parley with the gentlemen before
proceeding to extremities?" suggested Jonathan.

"Agreed," responded the Master. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland,
"either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is--"

"You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of
silence; "it is your old friend. I'm glad to recognise you."

"And I'm glad your worship's recognition doesn't come too late,"
observed the Master. "But why didn't you make yourself known at once?"

"I'd forgotten the office you hold in the Mint, Baptist," replied
Rowland. "But clear the room of this rabble, if you have sufficient
authority over them. I would speak with you."

"There's but one way of clearing it, your worship," said the Master,
archly.

"I understand," replied Rowland. "Give them what you please. I'll repay
you."

"It's all right, pals," cried Baptist, in a loud tone; "the gentlemen
and I have settled matters. No more scuffling."

"What's the meaning of all this?" demanded Sir Cecil. "How have you
contrived to still these troubled waters?"

"I've chanced upon an old ally in the Master of the Mint," answered
Rowland. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch
friend of the good cause."

"Blueskin, clear the room," cried the Master; "these gentlemen would be
private. They've _paid_ for their lodging. Where's Jonathan?"

Inquiries were instantly made after that individual, but he was nowhere
to be found.

"Strange!" observed the Master; "I thought he'd been at my elbow all
this time. But it don't much matter--though he's a devilish shrewd
fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred.
Hark ye, Blueskin," continued he, addressing that personage, who, in
obedience to his commands, had, with great promptitude, driven out the
rabble, and again secured the door, "a word in your ear. What female
entered the house with us?"

"Blood and thunder!" exclaimed Blueskin, afraid, if he admitted having
seen the lady, of being compelled to divide the plunder he had obtained
from her among his companions, "how should I know? D'ye suppose I'm
always thinking of the petticoats? I observed no female; but if any one
_did_ join the assault, it must have been either Amazonian Kate, or
Fighting Moll."

"The woman I mean did not join the assault," rejoined the Master, "but
rather seemed to shun observation; and, from the hasty glimpse I caught
of her, she appeared to have a child in her arms."

"Then, most probably, it was the widow Sheppard," answered Blueskin,
sulkily.

"Right," said the Master, "I didn't think of her. And now I've another
job for you."

"Propose it," returned Blueskin, inclining his head.

"Square accounts with the rascal who got up the sham arrest; and, if he
don't tip the cole without more ado, give him a taste of the pump,
that's all."

"He shall go through the whole course," replied Blueskin, with a
ferocious grin, "unless he comes down to the last grig. We'll lather him
with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with _aqua
pompaginis_. Master, your humble servant.--Gentlemen, your most
obsequious trout."

Having effected his object, which was to get rid of Blueskin, Baptist
turned to Rowland and Sir Cecil, who had watched his proceedings with
much impatience, and remarked, "Now, gentlemen, the coast's clear; we've
nothing to interrupt us. I'm entirely at your service."




CHAPTER IV.

The Roof and the Window.


Leaving them to pursue their conference, we shall follow the footsteps
of Jonathan, who, as the Master surmised, and, as we have intimated, had
unquestionably entered the house. But at the beginning of the affray,
when he thought every one was too much occupied with his own concerns to
remark his absence, he slipped out of the room, not for the purpose of
avoiding the engagement (for cowardice was not one of his failings), but
because he had another object in view. Creeping stealthily up stairs,
unmasking a dark lantern, and glancing into each room as he passed, he
was startled in one of them by the appearance of Mrs. Sheppard, who
seemed to be crouching upon the floor. Satisfied, however, that she did
not notice him, Jonathan glided away as noiselessly as he came, and
ascended another short flight of stairs leading to the garret. As he
crossed this chamber, his foot struck against something on the floor,
which nearly threw him down, and stooping to examine the object, he
found it was a key. "Never throw away a chance," thought Jonathan. "Who
knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And,
picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket.

Arrived beneath an aperture in the broken roof, he was preparing to pass
through it, when he observed a little heap of tiles upon the floor,
which appeared to have been recently dislodged. "He _has_ passed this
way," cried Jonathan, exultingly; "I have him safe enough." He then
closed the lantern, mounted without much difficulty upon the roof, and
proceeded cautiously along the tiles.

The night was now profoundly dark. Jonathan had to feel his way. A
single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he
had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen
through it. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were
blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the
building. The venturous climber gazed for a moment at the assemblage
beneath, to ascertain that he was not discovered; and, having satisfied
himself in this particular, he stepped out more boldly. On gaining a
stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and
again unmasked his lantern. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except
the crumbling brickwork. "Confusion!" ejaculated Jonathan: "can he have
escaped? No. The walls are too high, and the windows too stoutly
barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a supposition. He can't be far
off. I shall find him yet. Ah! I have it," he added, after a moment's
deliberation; "he's there, I'll be sworn." And, once more enveloping
himself in darkness, he pursued his course.

He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof,
approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story
loftier than its neighbours. Apparently, Jonathan was well acquainted
with the premises; for, feeling about in the dark, he speedily
discovered a ladder, up the steps of which he hurried. Drawing a pistol,
and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst
through an open trap-door into a small loft.

The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of
defence, with the child in his arms.

"Aha!" exclaimed Jonathan, acting upon the information he had obtained
from Wood; "I have found you at last. Your servant, Mr. Darrell."

"Who are you!" demanded the fugitive, sternly.

"A friend," replied Jonathan, uncocking the pistol, and placing it in
his pocket.

"How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell.

"What should I do here alone if I were an enemy? But, come, don't let us
waste time in bandying words, when we might employ it so much more
profitably. Your life, and that of your child, are in my power. What
will you give me to save you from your pursuers?"

"_Can_ you do so?" asked the other, doubtfully.

"I can, and will. Now, the reward?"

"I have but an ill-furnished purse. But if I escape, my gratitude--"

"Pshaw!" interrupted Jonathan, scornfully. "Your gratitude will vanish
with your danger. Pay fools with promises. I must have something in
hand."

"You shall have all I have about me," replied Darrell.

"Well--well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. An
ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. However,
come along. I needn't tell you to tread carefully. You know the danger
of this breakneck road as well as I do. The light would betray us." So
saying, he closed the lantern.

"Harkye, Sir," rejoined Darrell; "one word before I move. I know not who
you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an
injustice. But there is something in your voice that makes me distrust
you. If you attempt to play the traitor, you will do so at the hazard of
your life."

"I have already hazarded my life in this attempt to save you," returned
Jonathan boldly, and with apparent frankness; "this ought to be
sufficient answer to your doubts. Your pursuers are below. What was to
hinder me, if I had been so inclined, from directing them to your
retreat?"

"Enough," replied Darrell. "Lead on!"

Followed by Darrell, Jonathan retraced his dangerous path. As he
approached the gable of Mrs. Sheppard's house, loud yells and
vociferations reached his ears; and, looking downwards, he perceived a
great stir amid the mob. The cause of this uproar was soon manifest.
Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. The unfortunate
carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually. His hat was placed
upon one pole, his wig on another. His shouts for help were answered by
roars of mockery and laughter. He continued alternately to be tossed in
the air, or rolled in the kennel until he was borne out of sight. The
spectacle seemed to afford as much amusement to Jonathan as to the
actors engaged in it. He could not contain his satisfaction, but
chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight.

"By Heaven!" cried Darrell, "it is the poor fellow whom I placed in such
jeopardy a short time ago. I am the cause of his ill-usage."

"To be sure you are," replied Jonathan, laughing. "But, what of that?
It'll be a lesson to him in future, and will show him the folly of doing
a good-natured action!"

But perceiving that his companion did not relish his pleasantry and
fearing that his sympathy for the carpenter's situation might betray him
into some act of imprudence, Jonathan, without further remark, and by
way of putting an end to the discussion, let himself drop through the
roof. His example was followed by Darrell. But, though the latter was
somewhat embarrassed by his burthen, he peremptorily declined Jonathan's
offer of assistance. Both, however, having safely landed, they
cautiously crossed the room, and passed down the first flight of steps
in silence. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on
the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished
at the foot of the stairs.

Darrell stopped, and drew his sword.

"You have betrayed me," said he, in a deep whisper, to his companion;
"but you shall reap the reward of your treachery."

"Be still!" returned Jonathan, in the same under tone, and with great
self-possession: "I can yet save you. And see!" he added, as the figures
drew back, and the lights disappeared; "it's a false alarm. They have
retired. However, not a moment is to be lost. Give me your hand."

He then hurried Darrell down another short flight of steps, and entered
a small chamber at the back of the house. Closing the door, Jonathan
next produced his lantern, and, hastening towards the window, undrew a
bolt by which it was fastened. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly,
being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. This obstacle, which
appeared to preclude the possibility of egress in that quarter, was
speedily got rid of. Withdrawing another bolt, and unhooking a chain
suspended from the top of the casement, Jonathan pushed the iron
framework outwards. The bars dropped noiselessly and slowly down, till
the chain tightened at the staple.

"You are free," said he, "that grating forms a ladder, by which you may
descend in safety. I learned the trick of the place from one Paul
Groves, who used to live here, and who contrived the machine. He used to
call it his fire-escape--ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for my own
convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account. And
now, Sir, have I kept faith with you?"

"You have," replied Darrell. "Here is my purse; and I trust you will let
me know to whom I am indebted for this important service."

"It matters not who I am," replied Jonathan, taking the money. "As I
said before, I have little reliance upon _professions_ of gratitude."

"I know not how it is," sighed Darrell, "but I feel an unaccountable
misgiving at quitting this place. Something tells me I am rushing on
greater danger."

"You know best," replied Jonathan, sneeringly; "but if I were in your
place I would take the chance of a future and uncertain risk to avoid a
present and certain peril."

"You are right," replied Darrell; "the weakness is past. Which is the
nearest way to the river?"

"Why, it's an awkward road to direct you," returned Jonathan. "But if
you turn to the right when you reach the ground, and keep close to the
Mint wall, you'll speedily arrive at White Cross Street; White Cross
Street, if you turn again to the right, will bring you into Queen
Street; Queen Street, bearing to the left, will conduct you to Deadman's
Place; and Deadman's Place to the water-side, not fifty yards from Saint
Saviour's stairs, where you're sure to get a boat."

"The very point I aim at," said Darrell as he passed through the outlet.

"Stay!" said Jonathan, aiding his descent; "you had better take my
lantern. It may be useful to you. Perhaps you'll give me in return some
token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet
again. Your glove will suffice."

"There it is;" replied the other, tossing him the glove. "Are you sure
these bars touch the ground?"

"They come within a yard of it," answered Jonathan.

"Safe!" shouted Darrell, as he effected a secure landing. "Good night!"

"So," muttered Jonathan, "having started the hare, I'll now unleash the
hounds."

With this praiseworthy determination, he was hastening down stairs, with
the utmost rapidity, when he encountered a female, whom he took, in the
darkness, to be Mrs. Sheppard. The person caught hold of his arm, and,
in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him.

"Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. "I heard his voice;
but I saw them on the stairs, and durst not approach him, for fear of
giving the alarm."

"If you mean the fugitive, Darrell, he has escaped through the back
window," replied Jonathan.

"Thank Heaven!" she gasped.

"Well, you women are forgiving creatures, I must say," observed
Jonathan, sarcastically. "You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who
did his best to get your child's neck twisted."

"What do you mean?" asked the female, in astonishment.

"I mean what I say," replied Jonathan. "Perhaps you don't know that
this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken
for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat,
I can assure you. However, the scheme answered well enough, for Darrell
has got off with his own brat."

"Then this is not my child?" exclaimed she, with increased astonishment.

"If you have a child there, it certainly is not," answered Jonathan, a
little surprised; "for I left your brat in the charge of Blueskin, who
is still among the crowd in the street, unless, as is not unlikely, he's
gone to see your other friend disciplined at the pump."

"Merciful providence!" exclaimed the female. "Whose child can this be?"

"How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. "I suppose it
didn't drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it's flesh
and blood?" asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with
pain.

"My child! my child!" exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, rushing from the
adjoining room. "Where is it?"

"Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first
spoken, addressing Mrs. Sheppard.

"I am--I am!" cried the widow, snatching the babe, and pressing it to
her breast with rapturous delight "God be thanked, I have found it!"

"We have both good reason to be grateful," added the lady, with great
emotion.

"'Sblood!" cried Jonathan, who had listened to the foregoing
conversation with angry wonder, "I've been nicely done here. Fool that I
was to part with my lantern! But I'll soon set myself straight. What ho!
lights! lights!"

And, shouting as he went, he flung himself down stairs.

"Where shall I fly?" exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror. "They
will kill me, if they find me, as they would have killed my husband and
child. Oh God! my limbs fail me."

"Make an effort, Madam," cried Mrs. Sheppard, as a storm of furious
voices resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the stairs;
"they are coming!--they are coming!--fly!--to the roof! to the roof."

"No," cried the lady, "this room--I recollect--it has a back window."

"It is shut," said Mrs. Sheppard.

"It is open," replied the lady, rushing towards it, and springing
through the outlet.

"Where is she?" thundered Jonathan, who at this moment reached Mrs.
Sheppard.

"She has flown up stairs," replied the widow.

"You lie, hussy!" replied Jonathan, rudely pushing her aside, as she
vainly endeavoured to oppose his entrance into the room; "she is here.
Hist!" cried he, as a scream was heard from without. "By G--! she has
missed her footing."

There was a momentary and terrible silence, broken only by a few feeble
groans.

Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed
to the window with a torch.

He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a
blanched cheek, to Rowland.

"Your sister is dead," said he, in a deep whisper.

"Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. "Why
came she here?"

"She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied
Sir Cecil, mournfully.

"Descend and take charge of the body," said Rowland, conquering his
emotion by a great effort, "I will join you in a moment. This accident
rather confirms than checks my purpose. The stain upon our family is
only half effaced: I have sworn the death of the villain and his
bastard, and I will keep my oath. Now, Sir," he added, turning to
Jonathan, as Sir Cecil and his followers obeyed his injunctions, "you
say you know the road which the person whom we seek has taken?"

"I do," replied Jonathan. "But I give no information gratis!"

"Speak, then," said Rowland, placing money in his hand.

"You'll find him at St. Saviours's stairs," answered Jonathan. "He's
about to cross the river. You'd better lose no time. He has got five
minutes' start of you. But I sent him the longest way about."

The words were scarcely pronounced, when Rowland disappeared.

"And now to see the end of it," said Jonathan, shortly afterwards
passing through the window. "Good night, Master."

Three persons only were left in the room. These were the Master of the
Mint, Van Galgebrok, and Mrs. Sheppard.

"A bad business this, Van," observed Baptist, with a prolonged shake of
the head.

"Ja, ja, Muntmeester," said the Hollander, shaking his head in
reply;--"very bad--very."

"But then they're staunch supporters of our friend over the water,"
continued Baptist, winking significantly; "so we must e'en hush it up in
the best way we can."

"Ja," answered Van Galgebrok. "But--sapperment!--I wish they hadn't
broken my pipe."

"JONATHAN WILD promises well," observed the Master, after a pause:
"he'll become a great man. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so."

"He'll be hanged nevertheless," replied the Hollander, giving his collar
an ugly jerk. "Mind, I, Rykhart Van Galgebrok predict it. And now let's
go back to the Shovels, and finish our brandewyn and bier, Muntmeester."

"Alas!" cried Mrs. Sheppard, relieved by their departure, and giving way
to a passionate flood of tears; "were it not for my child, I should wish
to be in the place of that unfortunate lady."




CHAPTER V.

The Denunciation.


For a short space, Mrs. Sheppard remained dissolved in tears. She then
dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor, knelt down
beside him. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble
tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my
ways. I have sinned deeply; but I have been sorely tried. Spare me yet a
little while, Father! not for my own sake, but for the sake of this poor
babe." Her utterance was here choked by sobs. "But if it is thy will to
take me from him," she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted
her,--"if he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech
thee, a mother's feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend,
who shall be to him what I would have been. Let him not bear the weight
of my punishment. Spare him!--pity me!"

With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed
down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and
the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house.

"Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are
you?"

Mrs. Sheppard returned no answer.

"I've got something to say to you," continued the speaker, rather less
harshly; "something to your advantage; so come out o' your hiding-place,
and let's have some supper, for I'm infernally hungry.--D'ye hear?"

Still the widow remained silent.

"Well, if you won't come, I shall help myself, and that's unsociable,"
pursued the speaker, evidently, from the noise he made, suiting the
action to the word. "Devilish nice ham you've got here!--capital
pie!--and, as I live, a flask of excellent canary. You're in luck
to-night, widow. Here's your health in a bumper, and wishing you a
better husband than your first. It'll be your own fault if you don't
soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain. Here's his
health likewise. What! mum still. You're the first widow I ever heard of
who could withstand that lure. I'll try the effect of a jolly stave."
And he struck up the following ballad:--

SAINT GILES'S BOWL.[A]

[Music: Transcribers note See HTML version for music]

    I.

    Where Saint-Giles' church stands, once a la-zar-house
    stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a ves-sel of wood; A
    broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who
    pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might
    tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown, in a
    sea of good li-quor, all fear! For nothing the
    tran-sit to Ty-burn beguiles, So well as a
    draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!


    II.

    By many a highwayman many a draught
    Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft,
    Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down,
    And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown.
        _Where the robber may cheer_
        _His spirit with beer,_
      _And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear!_
      _For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles_
      _So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!_


    III.

    There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth,
    OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth:
    There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up,
    And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup!
        _For a can of ale calms,_
        _A highwayman's qualms,_
      _And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms_
      _And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles_
      _So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!_

"Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at
the bottle. "And now, widow," he continued, "attend to the next verse,
for it consarns a friend o' yours."


    IV.

    When gallant TOM SHEPPARD to Tyburn was led,--
    "Stop the cart at the Crown--stop a moment," he said.
    He was offered the Bowl, but he left it and smiled,
    Crying, "Keep it till call'd for by JONATHAN WILD!
        "_The rascal one day,_
        "_Will pass by this way,_
      "_And drink a full measure to moisten his clay!_
      "_And never will Bowl of Saint Giles have beguiled_
      "_Such a thorough-paced scoundrel as_ JONATHAN WILD!"


    V.

    Should it e'er be _my_ lot to ride backwards that way,
    At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay;
    I'll summon the landlord--I'll call for the Bowl,
    And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul!
        _Whatever may hap,_
        _I'll taste of the tap,_
      _To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap!_
      _For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles_
      _So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Giles!_

"Devil seize the woman!" growled the singer, as he brought his ditty to
a close; "will nothing tempt her out? Widow Sheppard, I say," he added,
rising, "don't be afraid. It's only a gentleman come to offer you his
hand. 'He that woos a maid',--fol-de-rol--(hiccupping).--I'll soon find
you out."

Mrs. Sheppard, whose distress at the consumption of the provisions had
been somewhat allayed by the anticipation of the intruder's departure
after he had satisfied his appetite, was now terrified in the extreme by
seeing a light approach, and hearing footsteps on the stairs. Her first
impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it,
at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm
was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without.
Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if
it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment,
staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the
other.

"Oh, you're here, are you?" said the ruffian, with an exulting laugh:
"I've been looking for you everywhere."

"Let me go," implored Mrs. Sheppard,--"pray let me go. You hurt the
child. Don't you hear how you've made it cry?"

"Throttle the kid!" rejoined Blueskin, fiercely. "If you don't stop its
squalling, I will. I hate children. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown
'em all like a litter o' puppies."

Well knowing the savage temper of the person she had to deal with, and
how likely he was to put his threat into execution, Mrs. Sheppard did
not dare to return any answer; but, disengaging herself from his
embrace, endeavoured meekly to comply with his request.

"And now, widow," continued the ruffian, setting down the candle, and
applying his lips to the bottle neck as he flung his heavy frame upon a
bench, "I've a piece o' good news for you."

"Good news will be news to me. What is it?"

"Guess," rejoined Blueskin, attempting to throw a gallant expression
into his forbidding countenance.

Mrs. Sheppard trembled violently; and though she understood his meaning
too well, she answered,--"I can't guess."

"Well, then," returned the ruffian, "to put you out o' suspense, as the
topsman remarked to poor Tom Sheppard, afore he turned him off, I'm come
to make you an honourable proposal o' marriage. You won't refuse me, I'm
sure; so no more need be said about the matter. To-morrow, we'll go to
the Fleet and get spliced. Don't shake so. What I said about your brat
was all stuff. I didn't mean it. It's my way when I'm ruffled. I shall
take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore
long.--I'll give him the edication of a prig,--teach him the use of his
forks betimes,--and make him, in the end, as clever a cracksman as his
father."

"Never!" shrieked Mrs. Sheppard; "never! never!"

"Halloa! what's this?" demanded Blueskin, springing to his feet. "Do you
mean to say that if I support your kid, I shan't bring him up how I
please--eh?"

"Don't question me, but leave me," replied the widow wildly; "you had
better."

"Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "--not just
yet."

"I am not unprotected," rejoined the poor woman; "there's some one at
the window. Help! help!"

But her cries were unheeded. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked
round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than
ever.

"It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from
his approach, "so you may spare your breath. Come, come, be reasonable,
and listen to me. Your kid has already brought me good luck, and may
bring me still more if his edication's attended to. This purse," he
added, chinking it in the air, "and this ring, were given me for him
just now by the lady, who made a false step on leaving your house. If
I'd been in the way, instead of Jonathan Wild, that accident wouldn't
have happened."

As he said this, a slight noise was heard without.

"What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the
window. "Who's there?--Pshaw! it's only the wind."

"It's Jonathan Wild," returned the widow, endeavouring to alarm him. "I
told you I was not unprotected."

"_He_ protect _you_," retorted Blueskin, maliciously; "you haven't a
worse enemy on the face of the earth than Jonathan Wild. If you'd read
your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at
Jonathan's door,--and with reason too, as I can testify."

"Man!" screamed Mrs. Sheppard, with a vehemence that shook even the
hardened wretch beside her, "begone, and tempt me not."

"What should I tempt you to?" asked Blueskin, in surprise.

"To--to--no matter what," returned the widow distractedly. "Go--go!"

"I see what you mean," rejoined Blueskin, tossing a large case-knife,
which he took from his pocket, in the air, and catching it dexterously
by the haft as it fell; "you owe Jonathan a grudge;--so do I. He hanged
your first husband. Just speak the word," he added, drawing the knife
significantly across his throat, "and I'll put it out of his power to do
the same by your second. But d--n him! let's talk o' something more
agreeable. Look at this ring;--it's a diamond, and worth a mint o'
money. It shall be your wedding ring. Look at it, I say. The lady's
name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it.
A-L-I-V-A--Aliva--T-R-E-N--Trencher that's it. Aliva Trencher."

"Aliva Trenchard!" exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, hastily; "is that the
name?"

"Ay, ay, now I look again it _is_ Trenchard. How came you to know it?
Have you heard the name before?"

"I think I have--long, long ago, when I was a child," replied Mrs.
Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is
gone--quite gone. Where _can_ I have heard it!"

"Devil knows," rejoined Blueskin. "Let it pass. The ring's yours, and
you're mine. Here, put it on your finger."

Mrs. Sheppard snatched back her hand from his grasp, and exerted all her
force to repel his advances.

"Set down the kid," roared Blueskin, savagely.

"Mercy!" screamed Mrs. Sheppard, struggling to escape, and holding the
infant at arm's length; "have mercy on this helpless innocent!"

And the child, alarmed by the strife, added its feeble cries to its
mother's shrieks.

"Set it down, I tell you," thundered Blueskin, "or I shall do it a
mischief."

"Never!" cried Mrs. Sheppard.

Uttering a terrible imprecation, Blueskin placed the knife between his
teeth, and endeavoured to seize the poor woman by the throat. In the
struggle her cap fell off. The ruffian caught hold of her hair, and held
her fast. The chamber rang with her shrieks. But her cries, instead of
moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. Planting his
knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while
with the other he sought his knife. The child was now within reach; and,
in another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm
from behind had not felled him to the ground.

When Mrs. Sheppard, who had been stricken down by the blow that
prostrated her assailant, looked up, she perceived Jonathan Wild
kneeling beside the body of Blueskin. He was holding the ring to the
light, and narrowly examining the inscription.

"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard--they were right, then, as
to the name. Well, if she survives the accident--as the blood, who
styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do--this ring will make my
fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in
this strange affair."

"Is the poor lady alive?" asked Mrs. Sheppard, eagerly.

"'Sblood!" exclaimed Jonathan, hastily thrusting the ring into his vest,
and taking up a heavy horseman's pistol with which he had felled
Blueskin,--"I thought you'd been senseless."

"Is she alive?" repeated the widow.

"What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly.

"Oh, nothing--nothing," returned Mrs. Sheppard. "But pray tell me if her
husband has escaped?"

"Her husband!" echoed Jonathan scornfully. "A _husband_ has little to
fear from his wife's kinsfolk. Her _lover_, Darrell, has embarked upon
the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing
like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by
his pursuers--ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and
should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to
take me. However, as things have turned up, it's fortunate that I came
back."

"It is, indeed," replied Mrs. Sheppard; "most fortunate for me."

"For _you_!" exclaimed Jonathan; "don't flatter yourself that I'm
thinking of you. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before
I'd have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn't suited my purposes
to do so, and _he_ hadn't incurred my displeasure. I never forgive an
injury. Your husband could have told you that."

"How had he offended you?" inquired the widow.

"I'll tell you," answered Jonathan, sternly. "He thwarted my schemes
twice. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time,
when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who
visited you to-night,--Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,--he betrayed
me. I told him I would bring him to the gallows, and I was as good as my
word."

"You were so," replied Mrs Sheppard; "and for that wicked deed you will
one day be brought to the gallows yourself."

"Not before I have conducted your child thither," retorted Jonathan,
with a withering look.

"Ah!" ejaculated Mrs. Sheppard, paralysed by the threat.

"If that sickly brat lives to be a man," continued Jonathan, rising,
"I'll hang him upon the same tree as his father."

"Pity!" shrieked the widow.

"I'll be his evil genius!" vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy her
torture.

"Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his
taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses."

"Curse on, and welcome," jeered Wild.

Mrs. Sheppard raised her hand, and the malediction trembled upon her
tongue. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness
overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her
arms over her child.

"A mother's prayers--a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour
almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice."

"We shall see," rejoined Jonathan, turning carelessly upon his heel.

And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the
floor.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners
conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be executed
for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were presented with a Bowl
of Ale, thereof to drink, as their last refreshing in this
life.--_Strype's Stow._ Book. IX. ch. III.]




CHAPTER VI.

The Storm.


As soon as he was liberated by his persecutors, Mr. Wood set off at full
speed from the Mint, and, hurrying he scarce knew whither (for there was
such a continual buzzing in his ears and dancing in his eyes, as almost
to take away the power of reflection), he held on at a brisk pace till
his strength completely failed him.

On regaining his breath, he began to consider whither chance had led
him; and, rubbing his eyes to clear his sight, he perceived a sombre
pile, with a lofty tower and broad roof, immediately in front of him.
This structure at once satisfied him as to where he stood. He knew it to
be St. Saviour's Church. As he looked up at the massive tower, the clock
tolled forth the hour of midnight. The solemn strokes were immediately
answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst
which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. A
feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died
away. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an
undefined sense of approaching danger. The peculiar appearance of the
sky was not without some influence in awakening these terrors. Over one
of the pinnacles of the tower a speck of pallid light marked the
position of the moon, then newly born and newly risen. It was still
profoundly dark; but the wind, which had begun to blow with some
violence, chased the clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed
the vapours hanging nearer the earth. Sometimes the moon was totally
eclipsed; at others, it shed a wan and ghastly glimmer over the masses
rolling in the firmament. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their
stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to
determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the
ominous and threatening appearance of the night.

Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much
exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot,
Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise
refresh himself. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on
the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung
the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter."

"Let me have a glass of brandy," said he, addressing the host.

"Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly
tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just
shut up shop."

"Zounds! David Pugh, don't you know your old friend and countryman?"
exclaimed the carpenter.

"Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. "What the devil
makes you out so late? And what has happened to you, man, eh?--you seem
in a queer plight."

"Give me the brandy, and I'll tell you," replied Wood.

"Here, wife--hostess--fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the
corner cupboard.--There, Mr. Wood," cried David, pouring out a glass of
the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, "that'll warm the cockles
of your heart. Don't be afraid, man,--off with it. It's right Nantz. I
keep it for my own drinking," he added in a lower tone.

Mr. Wood having disposed of the brandy, and pronounced himself much
better, hurried close to the fire-side, and informed his friend in a few
words of the inhospitable treatment he had experienced from the
gentlemen of the Mint; whereupon Mr. Pugh, who, as well as the
carpenter, was a descendant of Cadwallader, waxed extremely wrath; gave
utterance to a number of fierce-sounding imprecations in the Welsh
tongue; and was just beginning to express the greatest anxiety to catch
some of the rascals at the Trumpeter, when Mr. Wood cut him short by
stating his intention of crossing the river as soon as possible in order
to avoid the storm.

"A storm!" exclaimed the landlord. "Gadzooks! I thought something was
coming on; for when I looked at the weather-glass an hour ago, it had
sunk lower than I ever remember it."

"We shall have a durty night on it, to a sartinty, landlord," observed
an old one-eyed sailor, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire-side. "The
glass never sinks in that way, d'ye see, without a hurricane follerin',
I've knowed it often do so in the West Injees. Moreover, a souple o'
porpusses came up with the tide this mornin', and ha' bin flounderin'
about i' the Thames abuv Lunnun Bridge all day long; and them
say-monsters, you know, always proves sure fore runners of a gale."

"Then the sooner I'm off the better," cried Wood; "what's to pay,
David?"

"Don't affront me, Owen, by asking such a question," returned the
landlord; "hadn't you better stop and finish the bottle?"

"Not a drop more," replied Wood. "Enough's as good as a feast. Good
night!"

"Well, if you won't be persuaded, and must have a boat, Owen," observed
the landlord, "there's a waterman asleep on that bench will help you to
as tidy a craft as any on the Thames. Halloa, Ben!" cried he, shaking a
broad-backed fellow, equipped in a short-skirted doublet, and having a
badge upon his arm,--"scullers wanted."

"Holloa! my hearty!" cried Ben, starting to his feet.

"This gentleman wants a pair of oars," said the landlord.

"Where to, master?" asked Ben, touching his woollen cap.

"Arundel Stairs," replied Wood, "the nearest point to Wych Street."

"Come along, master," said the waterman.

"Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe
upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the
Thames to-night."

"And why not, old saltwater?" inquired Ben, turning a quid in his mouth.

"'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater,"
replied the tar.

"It must look sharp then, or I shall give it the slip," laughed Ben:
"the gale never yet blowed as could perwent my crossing the Thames. The
weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned
my back upon it."

"May be not," replied the old sailor, drily; "but you'll find it too
stiff for you to-night, anyhow. Howsomdever, if you _should_ reach
t'other side, take an old feller's advice, and don't be foolhardy enough
to venter back again."

"I tell 'ee what, saltwater," said Ben, "I'll lay you my fare--and
that'll be two shillin'--I'm back in an hour."

"Done!" cried the old sailor. "But vere'll be the use o' vinnin'? you
von't live to pay me."

"Never fear," replied Ben, gravely; "dead or alive I'll pay you, if I
lose. There's my thumb upon it. Come along, master."

"I tell 'ee what, landlord," observed the old sailor, quietly
replenishing his pipe from a huge pewter tobacco-box, as the waterman
and Wood quitted the house, "you've said good-b'ye to your friend."

"Odd's me! do you think so?" cried the host of the Trumpeter. "I'll run
and bring him back. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that
any accident befel him."

"Never mind," said the old sailor, taking up a piece of blazing coal
with the tongs, and applying it to his pipe; "let 'em try. They'll be
back soon enough--or not at all."

Mr. Wood and the waterman, meanwhile, proceeded in the direction of St.
Saviour's Stairs. Casting a hasty glance at the old and ruinous prison
belonging to the liberty of the Bishop of Winchester (whose palace
formerly adjoined the river), called the Clink, which gave its name to
the street, along which he walked: and noticing, with some uneasiness,
the melancholy manner in which the wind whistled through its barred
casements, the carpenter followed his companion down an opening to the
right, and presently arrived at the water-side.

Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing
current, as if impatient of restraint. Into one of these the waterman
jumped, and, having assisted Mr. Wood to a seat within it, immediately
pushed from land. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of
a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. A shout was heard at a
little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless
haste to the stair-head.

"Boat there!" cried a voice, which Mr. Wood fancied he recognised.

"You'll find a waterman asleep under his tilt in one of them ere craft,
if you look about, Sir," replied Ben, backing water as he spoke.

"Can't you take me with you?" urged the voice; "I'll make it well worth
your while. I've a child here whom I wish to convey across the water
without loss of time."

"A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. "Hold hard,"
cried he, addressing the waterman; "I'll give the gentleman a lift."

"Unpossible, master," rejoined Ben; "the tide's running down like a
mill-sluice, and the wind's right in our teeth. Old saltwater was right.
We shall have a reg'lar squall afore we gets across. D'ye hear how the
wanes creaks on old Winchester House? We shall have a touch on it
ourselves presently. But I shall lose my wager if I stay a moment
longer--so here goes." Upon which, he plunged his oars deeply into the
stream, and the bark shot from the strand.

Mr. Wood's anxiety respecting the fugitive was speedily relieved by
hearing another waterman busy himself in preparation for starting; and,
shortly after, the dip of a second pair of oars sounded upon the river.

"Curse me, if I don't think all the world means to cross the Thames this
fine night," observed Ben. "One'd think it rained fares, as well as
blowed great guns. Why, there's another party on the stair-head
inquiring arter scullers; and, by the mass! they appear in a greater
hurry than any on us."

His attention being thus drawn to the bank, the carpenter beheld three
figures, one of whom bore a torch, leap into a wherry of a larger size
than the others, which immediately put off from shore. Manned by a
couple of watermen, who rowed with great swiftness, this wherry dashed
through the current in the track of the fugitive, of whom it was
evidently in pursuit, and upon whom it perceptibly gained. Mr. Wood
strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. But he could
only discern a black and shapeless mass, floating upon the water at a
little distance, which, to his bewildered fancy, appeared absolutely
standing still. To the practised eye of the waterman matters wore a very
different air. He perceived clearly enough, that the chase was moving
quickly; and he was also aware, from the increased rapidity with which
the oars were urged, that every exertion was made on board to get out of
the reach of her pursuers. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying
bark was about to put to shore. But this plan (probably from its danger)
was instantly abandoned; not, however, before her momentary hesitation
had been taken advantage of by her pursuers, who, redoubling their
efforts at this juncture, materially lessened the distance between them.

Ben watched these manoeuvres with great interest, and strained every
sinew in his frame to keep ahead of the other boats.

"Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he
observed.

"Something worse, I fear," Wood replied.

"Why, you don't think as how they're crimps, do you?" Ben inquired.

"I don't know what I think," Wood answered sulkily; and he bent his eyes
upon the water, as if he wished to avert his attention forcibly from the
scene.

There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy
in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. The sounds that reach the
ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a
train of sad and serious contemplation. The ripple of the water against
the boat, as its keel cleaves through the stream--the darkling current
hurrying by--the indistinctly-seen craft, of all forms and all sizes,
hovering around, and making their way in ghost-like silence, or warning
each other of their approach by cries, that, heard from afar, have
something doleful in their note--the solemn shadows cast by the
bridges--the deeper gloom of the echoing arches--the lights glimmering
from the banks--the red reflection thrown upon the waves by a fire
kindled on some stationary barge--the tall and fantastic shapes of the
houses, as discerned through the obscurity;--these, and other sights and
sounds of the same character, give a sombre colour to the thoughts of
one who may choose to indulge in meditation at such a time and in such a
place.

But it was otherwise with the carpenter. This was no night for the
indulgence of dreamy musing. It was a night of storm and terror, which
promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. Not a bark
could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. The
darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been
blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. It was a dead calm. But this calm
was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast.

Amid this portentous hush, the report of a pistol reached the
carpenter's ears; and, raising his head at the sound, he beheld a sight
which filled him with fresh apprehensions.

By the light of a torch borne at the stern of the hostile wherry, he saw
that the pursuers had approached within a short distance of the object
of their quest. The shot had taken effect upon the waterman who rowed
the chase. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the
stream towards the enemy. Escape was now impossible. Darrell stood erect
in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack
of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience
the moment which should deliver him into their power.

They had not to tarry long. In another instant, the collision took
place. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped
their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. Wood,
then, beheld two persons, one of whom he recognised as Rowland, spring
on board the chase. A fierce struggle ensued. There was a shrill cry,
instantly succeeded by a deep splash.

"Put about, waterman, for God's sake!" cried Wood, whose humanity got
the better of every personal consideration; "some one is overboard. Give
way, and let us render what assistance we can to the poor wretch."

"It's all over with him by this time, master," replied Ben, turning the
head of his boat, and rowing swiftly towards the scene of strife; "but
d--n him, he was the chap as hit poor Bill Thomson just now, and I don't
much care if he should be food for fishes."

As Ben spoke, they drew near the opposing parties. The contest was now
carried on between Rowland and Darrell. The latter had delivered himself
from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. Hurled over the sides
of the skiff, the ruffian speedily found a watery grave. It was a
spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and
furiously, bore him instantly away. While the strife raged between the
principals, the watermen in the larger wherry were occupied in stemming
the force of the torrent, and endeavouring to keep the boats, they had
lashed together, stationary. Owing to this circumstance, Mr. Wood's
boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it
aimed; and before it could be again brought about, the struggle had
terminated. For a few minutes, Darrell seemed to have the advantage in
the conflict. Neither combatant could use his sword; and in strength the
fugitive was evidently superior to his antagonist. The boat rocked
violently with the struggle. Had it not been lashed to the adjoining
wherry, it must have been upset, and have precipitated the opponents
into the water. Rowland felt himself sinking beneath the powerful grasp
of his enemy. He called to the other attendant, who held the torch.
Understanding the appeal, the man snatched his master's sword from his
grasp, and passed it through Darrell's body. The next moment, a heavy
plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves.

Darrell, however, rose again instantly; and though mortally wounded,
made a desperate effort to regain the boat.

"My child!" he groaned faintly.

"Well reminded," answered Rowland, who had witnessed his struggles with
a smile of gratified vengeance; "I had forgotten the accursed imp in
this confusion. Take it," he cried, lifting the babe from the bottom of
the boat, and flinging it towards its unfortunate father.

The child fell within a short distance of Darrell, who, hearing the
splash, struck out in that direction, and caught it before it sank. At
this juncture, the sound of oars reached his ears, and he perceived Mr.
Wood's boat bearing up towards him.

"Here he is, waterman," exclaimed the benevolent carpenter. "I see
him!--row for your life!"

"That's the way to miss him, master," replied Ben coolly. "We must keep
still. The tide'll bring him to us fast enough."

Ben judged correctly. Borne along by the current, Darrell was instantly
at the boat's side.

"Seize this oar," vociferated the waterman.

"First take the child," cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and
clinging to the oar with a dying effort.

"Give it me," returned the carpenter; "all's safe. Now lend me your own
hand."

"My strength fails me," gasped the fugitive. "I cannot climb the boat.
Take my child to--it is--oh God!--I am sinking--take it--take it!"

"Where?" shouted Wood.

Darrell attempted to reply. But he could only utter an inarticulate
exclamation. The next moment his grasp relaxed, and he sank to rise no
more.

Rowland, meantime, alarmed by the voices, snatched a torch from his
attendant, and holding it over the side of the wherry, witnessed the
incident just described.

"Confusion!" cried he; "there is another boat in our wake. They have
rescued the child. Loose the wherry, and stand to your oars--quick--quick!"

These commands were promptly obeyed. The boat was set free, and the men
resumed their seats. Rowland's purposes were, however, defeated in a
manner as unexpected as appalling.

During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. But as Rowland
sprang to the helm, and gave the signal for pursuit, a roar like a
volley of ordnance was heard aloft, and the wind again burst its
bondage. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. It
was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. The
blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of
foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging
torrent blacker than before. The gale had become a hurricane: that
hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city.
Destruction everywhere marked its course. Steeples toppled, and towers
reeled beneath its fury. Trees were torn up by the roots; many houses
were levelled to the ground; others were unroofed; the leads on the
churches were ripped off, and "shrivelled up like scrolls of parchment."
Nothing on land or water was spared by the remorseless gale. Most of the
vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed
tumultuously against each other, or blown ashore. All was darkness,
horror, confusion, ruin. Men fled from their tottering habitations, and
returned to them scared by greater dangers. The end of the world seemed
at hand.

At this time of universal havoc and despair,--when all London quaked at
the voice of the storm,--the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost
fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. The boat in which
he rode was not overset. Fortunately, her course had been shifted
immediately after the rescue of the child; and, in consequence of this
movement, she received the first shock of the hurricane, which blew from
the southwest, upon her stern. Her head dipped deeply into the current,
and she narrowly escaped being swamped. Righting, however, instantly
afterwards, she scudded with the greatest rapidity over the boiling
waves, to whose mercy she was now entirely abandoned. On this fresh
outburst of the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom
of the boat, and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured
to prepare himself to meet his fate.

While he was thus occupied, he felt a rough grasp upon his arm, and
presently afterwards Ben's lips approached close to his ear. The
waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice
would have been carried away by the violence of the blast.

"It's all up, master," groaned Ben, "nothin' short of a merracle can
save us. The boat's sure to run foul o' the bridge; and if she 'scapes
stavin' above, she'll be swamped to a sartainty below. There'll be a
fall of above twelve foot o' water, and think o' that on a night as 'ud
blow a whole fleet to the devil."

Mr. Wood _did_ think of it, and groaned aloud.

"Heaven help us!" he exclaimed; "we were mad to neglect the old sailor's
advice."

"That's what troubles me," rejoined Ben. "I tell 'ee what, master, if
you're more fortinate nor I am, and get ashore, give old saltwater your
fare. I pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I'd pay the wager if I
lost; and I should like to be as good as my word."

"I will--I will," replied Wood hastily. "Was that thunder?" he faltered,
as a terrible clap was heard overhead.

"No; it's only a fresh gale," Ben returned: "hark! now it comes."

"Lord have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!" ejaculated Wood, as a
fearful gust dashed the water over the side of the boat, deluging him
with spray.

The hurricane had now reached its climax. The blast shrieked, as if
exulting in its wrathful mission. Stunning and continuous, the din
seemed almost to take away the power of hearing. He, who had faced the
gale, would have been instantly stifled. Piercing through every crevice
in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or
from his grasp. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed
the faculties. The intense darkness added to the terror of the storm.
The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. None
saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice.
Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms.
Ten thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the
work of devastation. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings
of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. The actual danger was
lost sight of in these wild apprehensions; and many timorous beings were
scared beyond reason's verge by the excess of their fears.

This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter. He was roused from
the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who
roared in his ear, "The bridge!--the bridge!"




CHAPTER VII.

Old London Bridge.


London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. But
that bridge was more remarkable than any the metropolis now possesses.
Covered with houses, from one end to the other, this reverend and
picturesque structure presented the appearance of a street across the
Thames. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its
magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the
Middlesex to the Surrey shore. The houses were older, the shops
gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the
crowd, the street-like air was the same. Then the bridge had arched
gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways
ought to be) with the heads of traitors. In olden days it boasted a
chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt
curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the
Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it
still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition)
which had once vied with a palace,--we mean Nonesuch House. The other
buildings stood close together in rows; and so valuable was every inch
of room accounted, that, in many cases, cellars, and even habitable
apartments, were constructed in the solid masonry of the piers.

Old London Bridge (the grandsire of the present erection) was supported
on nineteen arches, each of which

    Would a Rialto make for depth and height!

The arches stood upon enormous piers; the piers on starlings, or
jetties, built far out into the river to break the force of the tide.

Roused by Ben's warning, the carpenter looked up and could just perceive
the dusky outline of the bridge looming through the darkness, and
rendered indistinctly visible by the many lights that twinkled from the
windows of the lofty houses. As he gazed at these lights, they suddenly
seemed to disappear, and a tremendous shock was felt throughout the
frame of the boat. Wood started to his feet. He found that the skiff had
been dashed against one of the buttresses of the bridge.

"Jump!" cried Ben, in a voice of thunder.

Wood obeyed. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. Though the
starling was more than two feet above the level of the water, he
alighted with his little charge--which he had never for an instant
quitted--in safety upon it. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. Just as he
was pre