Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 38

There were an unusual number of charges to be heard at the court on the day in which Peace was examined. A gang of poachers were charged with an attempt to murder a gamekeeper in the neighbourhood. The prisoners who had been committed were therefore removed from the cells to make room for the fresh arrivals.

Peace, Mr. Green, and five others were conveyed to a lock-up which was situated at about two miles distant from the court. They were to remain there till the prison van returned to take them to the county gaol.

The lock-up in question has long since undergone demolition, and indeed at the time of which we are writing it was only occasionally used as a temporary and supplementary prison-house for offenders.

It was part of a large building originally erected as a receptacle for fraudulent debtors.

Peace and his companions were safely deposited in the prison van which conveyed them to what was in reality only a wing of the substantial-looking building.

They were conducted into a large lofty stone-room, with windows near to the ceiling, much after the fashion of Millbank prison.

In front of these were strong iron bars.

A long massive table stood in the centre of the cheerless apartment, and around this were arranged a number of chairs.

A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and in front of this ran some strong iron bars as high as a man’s chest. These were supported and braced by iron uprights.

When Peace and his fellow-prisoners entered this place they found several other offenders already assembled therein.

The massive door, studded with iron nails, was slammed to and looked from the outside.

“What do they mean by bringing us to a crib like this when we are committed to the county gaol?” said Mr. Green, in a tone of disgust. “I shall enter an action agen them for unlawful detention.”

“You are particular,” cried a man seated at the corner of the fireplace. “You’ll be taken to the gaol soon enough, but it won’t be till after the rising of the court.”

“You seem to know all about it,” returned Mr. Green. “Thank you for the information.”

The batch of prisoners who had but just arrived now possessed themselves of the requisite number of chairs, and arranged themselves in a group apart from the others.

There was a dead silence for some time after this.

Peace was moody and thoughtful, and every now and then regarded his companions with a furtive glance.

He did not recognise any person with whom he had been previously acquainted.

“You all of yer look confoundedly down in the dumps,” said the man who had been charged with horse-stealing. “It’s no use giving way. Make your miserable lives as happy as you can—​that’s my motto.”

The man who gave utterance to this speech was about thirty-five years of age, and five feet seven in height, with a remarkably firm-knit frame.

His face was bronzed, his hair and eyes were jet black, the former hanging in ringlets over the latter; his mouth was coarse and sensual; his legs were slightly curved, which added to the general strength of his figure.

He wore a sloped-cut, dark-green coat, with metal buttons, a striped vest, which hung half-way down his thighs, over which were broad-striped corduroys, buttoned over the top of the knees, with loose cloth leggings, having gilt buttons to match.

On the whole his appearance denoted a groom possessing great muscular power, and a bully of ferocious determination, who would not hesitate a moment to carry out any undertaking in which he had embarked. For the rest he did not appear to be depressed by the situation in which he found himself placed; he was cheerful and loquacious.

“Listen to me, mates,” said this personage, rising from his seat. “If, as our friend has said, we are to remain here till the rising of the court, we shall, I’m afraid, find the time hang heavily on our hearts.”

“If we do, there’s no help for it,” said Peace, looking hard at the speaker.

“Right you are, my lad,” returned the other, who then proceeded with his discourse. “I was just a-thinkin’,” he observed, “which among us has the honour of being the biggest rogue. We’ve all been guilty, gentlemen, of doing something which has brought the wrath of our enemies down upon us. I myself am here for taking an airing on a pad one fine moonlight night. Now, I say, I wonder which is the biggest rogue in this batch of injured gentlemen?”

“Oh, shut up; that will do,” said a voice from the further end of the room. “What does it matter?”

“Well,” returned the other, “as far as that goes, I don’t know how it does much matter; but it aint in my nature to sit still like a dummy when in such good company as I now find myself. Let us relate to each other our own lives and doings. It will amuse some on us.”

“You begin with yours, then,” said Peace. “You’ve got the jawing tackle on, and won’t stand still for want of words, I dare say. I’m quite willing. What say you, gentlemen?”

There was a murmur of many voices, and some of those present expressed their willingness to listen to the story.

“Good, then; here goes to keep the game alive. I can say I am not related to any of the hupper classes; leastways not as I knows on—​my impression being that I was born under a hedge: I am a gipsy: this I dare say you have already guessed. Well, let me tell you a gipsy’s life is not without is charms. I believe I was cradled on a horse or a donkey, but this is what I’ve heard other people say.

No. 9.

“DON’T YOU DARE TO INSULT ME, YOU NASTY UGLY LITTLE VILLIAN,” EXCLAIMED MRS. POCKLINGTON.

“My earliest recollections bring to my view seven or eight hooped tents on the skirts of a common, eight or ten stunted sorts of horses, and five or six donkeys with here and there a fire on the ground, kettles hanging over them hitched on a cross-stick, supported by others fixed in the ground.

“Myself with four or five other children of my own age might be seen rolling on the grass just washed and refreshed by the morning dew.

“There, aint that a picter? But, Lord love yer, them days are passed, and the honourable race of gipsies are rapidly passing away before modern improvements, as they are termed—​and be hanged to them.

“Aint it a picture—​a gipsy encampment, I only ask ye that?”

“It is, without a doubt, quite a picture,” said Peace.

“I see you are a sensible man, sir,” remarked the gipsy; “but let me proceed with my story.

“As I grow up I was reckoned the best climber and runner in the camp. My elder brother, Ralph, undertook my edication.

“‘Will,’ ses he, one day, ‘come along with me.’ He took me to a pond at the remote corner of a common when he laid me down on my face across the edge of the bank.

He then covered me with briar, and giving me proper instructions went and drove the geese all that way, quietly to the spot where I lay.

As they waddled to reach the water, I, from under the boughs, grabbed at their legs and secured two on ’em. Didn’t I have a tuck-out when I got home off one of the geese?”

There was a roar of laughter at this part of the narrative.

“After this I got on fast in life; new scenes every day opened to me, and horse-dealing and horse-stealing became part of my business.

“We attended races and fairs, where the girls of our camp told fortunes, the old women set up togs for the children to throw at three shies a penny. My brother and others followed the thimble and garter rig, while I and father at times skirted the towns and villages to job swap horses.

“Sometimes I was sent off with a horse fifty miles away from his former acquaintances, there to await the arrival of our clan.

“When I was fifteen years of age I could ride and leap a ’oss with any jockey in the kingdom. A ’oss I liked better than anything in the world, and a prad has got me into my present difficulty; but it can’t be helped.

“It happened one day, as my brother and I were taking four chopped ’osses to a fair (we never ventured into a market with a prigged prad), a pack of hounds crossed the road, and presently a lot of swells came leaping over the hedge arter them. One of the last of these, togged in a scarlet coat, came rolling over the ’oss slap at Ralph’s feet.

“‘Hallo!’ said Ralph, ‘a regular spill.’

“Over went the ’oss on the t’other side into the field. ‘She’ll gallop home,’ said the huntsman.

“‘No she won’t,’ said I, and away I goes with my pony arter her. Well, I had a good chase, but I nabbed her, and getting into the saddle slap, I gallops back and took the hedge and ditch like a good un into the road where Ralph was rubbing down the swell.

“‘Good lad,’ said the huntsman. ‘Why he can ride a bit.’

“‘Ride,’ said Ralph; ‘I believe you, master.’

“‘Try her again,’ said the swell.

“So I puts the mare over the hedge and back agen, like a buck in full chase.

“‘Well done, excellent; you’re a brave boy,’ exclaimed the swell cove. ‘Do you want a place, my lad?’

“‘I could do very well with one, sir,’ I answered.

“‘Very well; if you do come to my stables,’ said he, and with that he handed me his card.

“Well arter he had gone I thought of what he sed, and the next day I ran over to the gentleman’s stables, when I met a chap cleaning a curb chain.

“‘What do want here?’ said the man.

“‘I want to see your master,’ I replied.

“‘Do you?’ he returned, with an impudent mocking laugh.

“‘If you take my advice, youngster, you’ll just hook it.’

“‘I shan’t do nuffin of the sort,’ ses I.

“He laid hold of a long riding whip, and told me to be off.

“‘Don’t you think I am afraid of you, big as you are’ I ses.

“With that he aimed a blow at me with the whip.

“I dodged on one side, and caught hold of the lash.

“We had a tussle. I wrested the whip from his hand, and gave him a sharp blow over the legs with the butt end of the weapon.

“Arter this we had a set-to. I floored him twice, when up comes my new master.

“‘Leave the lad alone,’ said the swell, addressing himself to my antagonist. ‘You’re a deal too fast.’

“‘He tried to break my leg,’ answered the man.

“‘I’ve seen the whole affair from the garden. You were the aggressor,’ said the gentleman, who then bade me follow him into the house.

“He took me into a fine room in which were seated several gentlemen, I s’pose they called themselves; and found them to be a fast lot. But I was a little surprised to hear them ‘my lord’ my master, and he ‘Sir Edgar’ and ‘Sir Thomas’ them.

“Well, the upshot of it was that they made bets that I would lick the groom, whom they called Andrew.

“We had a set-to. The fight lasted over five and twenty minutes, and I was declared victor.

“After this I had a chair among the swells, and drank wine out of a tumbler, and the footman brought me some sandwiches, while they talked of a lot of things in slang that puzzled me.

“I understood, however, that horse-racing, steeple-chasing, and dog fighting were the main subjects of their discourse.

“‘You give a rare account of the aristocracy,’ said Peace.

“‘I’ve had pretty much to do with them,’ returned the gipsy. ‘Well, the first night I went to bed in my lord’s house I couldn’t sleep a wink, the bed was so soft and uncomfortable. I got up early, and cleaned out the kennel. About eleven o’clock my lord and his friends came down the yard.

“‘Well,’ ses he, ‘have you had a look at the stud yet?’

“‘No, my lord,’ says I; ‘your chaps wouldn’t like that.’

“‘They’ll have to learn better manners,’ said my lord. He then had ’em all turned out—​eight or nine on ’em there were. ‘Harkye,’ said he to the men, ‘this is my training groom,’ pointing to me; ‘so for the future attend to his orders as coming from me. Put up the bar, and bring out Redfern, Curband, and Beeswing. We are going to have some leaping. Now,’ he said, addressing himself to me; ‘there will be some crack steeple horses here presently, and you must see what you can do with them. Jump up, and give these a breathing before the others arrive. Have the saddle put on which you like.’

“‘I don’t want a saddle, my lord,’ ses I; and up I jumped on a grey horse, named Custard, as I afterwards learnt.

“After I had made a few leaps, I placed shillings between my knees and the ’oss’s sides, and the same under my seat, and to their astonishment cleared the bar without displacing them.

“My lord was evidently delighted. He drew me on one side, out of earshot of the rest, and said, in a whisper, ‘You shall be my steeple-race jockey, but mind, don’t show all you can do at present.’

“‘All right,’ says I.

“‘I had no idea Custard could do so much till you rode him.’

“‘Why, my lord,’ said I, ‘I knowed the grey horse when a baby. I could win all the steeplechases in the country with him.’”

“Why, how came you to know the horse?” inquired Peace.

The gipsy looked at the questioner with one eye only.

“Why, Lord bless us,” he answered, with a merry twinkle in his eye, “father and I knowed every ’oss as was worth knowing in every country we travelled in, and got money by carrying information about ’em from place to place.

“Well, a great race was to come off soon after this. My lord had taken the field twenty to one over and over ag’in against Custard for the steeplechase which was to be run on the following week, so he stood to win eight thousand if I could bring Custard in a winner, and that I felt I could make sure of.

“But I must tell you, however, that my lord and I, after being so nutty upon one another, all of a sudden on this morning began to wrangle. First he began teaching me how to ride. Well, I couldn’t stand that nohow.

“I’m for commanding a ’oss light in the mouth, riding him as with a silken rein as fine as a hair, and which you feel afraid to break. My lord, who was a yokel in the management of ’osses, though he was good at a-getting money on ’em, as you shall hear presently, always gave his lads instructions to hold their ’osses tight in racing.

“Now, if a ’oss bears on his rein in running it makes him open his mouth, and pulls his head up, which frets him, and causes him to jump with his forelegs open, and run stag-necked, locks his wind, and soon tires him. ’Osses that run sprawling, with a part of the rider’s weight in their mouth, can never win a race if at all matched. I, however, likes to keep a ’oss together with a good bridle hand, being careful not to pull on the rein, or he can’t rise to the fence when he gets up to it.

“Arter a deal of argufying for sometime, his lordship gave in, and told me I had better ride as I liked.

“Well, I did have my own way, and the consequence was that I won four races with Custard, and a rare swag of money did my lord make.

“He was entered for the fifth race. Well, you must know that a few days afore this came off a great bull-headed man, who was a bruiser by profession, and a scoundrel by nature, come and ses to me—​‘Look here, Will, can’t Custard and you lose the race that’s coming off? It’s all right; you are to lose it—​so his lordship says.’

“‘Oh, indeed; that’s to be the little game—​is it?’ says I. ‘I can’t give you an answer at present, my noble.’

“So I goes to my lord, and blows the pumping, and all about the losing game.

“‘Well,’ said my master, ‘whatever the gentleman’—​he meant, of course, the bruiser—​‘tells you to do you must consider as my orders. You will be well paid.’ I didn’t like the task, but there was no help for it, I was bound to obey. But Custard didn’t seem to see it, and he would have run the race; so at the last leap but one I tumbled off and left him to do as he liked, and of course he lost it.”

“What a dirty piece of business!” said the man by the fireplace.

“Disgraceful!” exclaimed Mr. Green. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“It wasn’t nice,” said the gipsy, “and went against the grain. When I was limping across the field as if I was hurt, didn’t my lord swear at me like a good un afore everybody? He called me every name he could think of, but I bore it all like a lamb.

“I always thought my lord looked shy at me after this, and never treated me on the same footing as before.

“The truth is, if you once make yourself a rascal to serve a rich man he never likes to see you under his nose any more.

“About a month after this the ‘bruiser,’ whom I had never seen before the race, sends a gig over for me from the next market town, and when I gets there, ‘Well,’ says he, ‘my lord is going to sell his stud, and bids me say that he shall not want your services any more. He has sent you fifty pounds as a present.’ He handed me a note for that amount, which you may be sure I collared.

“‘Well, I am sorry he’s going to part with his stud,’ said I.

“‘It’s a pity a young fellow like you should lose a good berth,’ observed the ‘bruiser.’ ‘I am, however, glad to say that I’ve got you a situation in one of the first breeders’ establishments in the kingdom.’

“Then, pointing to a thick-set man in the room, he said, ‘This person will drive you to the place with this letter, and you’ll be all right—​better off, indeed, than you were in your old place.’

“I assented, and he placed me in charge of the little man whom he called Jim. He was a well-known tool of the ‘bruiser’s.’

“‘What sort of a shop is this you are a takin’ me to?’ said I to my companion.

“‘Oh! it is as right as the mail,’ answered he in a cheerful tone. ‘Good as gold—​that’s what it is. If you mind what’s said to you, and keep your eye on the main chance, you will be made for life. You’ll find it far better than serving a lord.’

“I did not like to inquire any further, but made up my mind to wait patiently till I knew more about matters, but could not help thinking, however, that there was something in the wind. The next day I went with him about fifty or sixty miles off to my new situation, which I was told was a topping establishment—​the biggest one there was in the sporting world.

“‘What will be my duties?’ I inquired of Jim.

“‘Well, you see, old man,’ he answered, ‘you’ll only be engaged as helping groom; but what of that? The guv’nor he’s a liberal sort, he is, an’ he’ll make it up to you, so that you’ll find it as good as the situation you have just left.’

“Well, I was installed in my new office, and found things comfortable enough. I had not been there more than a fortnight when Master Jim again made his appearance. He was mighty friendly, took me and treated me to a rattling good dinner, which I washed down with a plentiful supply of wine.

“He asked me if I wanted money, and said, at the same time, that I might, whenever I fancied a horse, have part of a bet in his book; in fact, I found him most amiable and considerate. But I wasn’t a born fool, and knew perfectly well what the pretended friendship of betting men was worth.

“He kept the game up all the winter, and came to see me frequently till the spring meetings came on at Newmarket.

“I expected something was up, and I was not mistaken.

“My master had a colt and filly bred of the best promise of the season.

“He was a big card in his way, and went in heavily for betting.

“When I got to Newmarket with the colt and filly there was Mister Jim all honey and butter as usual, and now came out the murder.”

“You may well call it murder, you vagabond,” exclaimed one of the prisoners. “I know all about the villainous transaction, and lost my fortune by that and other swindles of a similar description.”

“Well, don’t fall foul of me, master,” cried the gipsy, who eyed the speaker curiously. “There’s no call to use hard words now, seeing that we are here in limbo together.”

“Go on,” said the other prisoner. “I acknowledge that it was not your fault, but those who bribed you. Go on; I will not again interrupt you.”

“Well, as I said, out comes the murder,” said the gipsy, in continuation.

“Jim followed me when away from the stables like my shadow, till late one evening he got me into a by-lane.

“I saw something was a coming from the expression of his countenance, and I was not mistaken.

“‘I want to say a few words to you upon business matters,’ said he.

“‘All right,’ ses I; ‘fire away. I’m all ears.’

“‘Well,’ he murmured, ‘this is a queer world, and there are a lot of queer people in it. Some on ’em are fools, and some are rogues. If you try to live honestly you are doomed to remain a beggar, or next door to one.’

“‘I found that out a long time ago.’

“‘Did you? Ah, I suppose so. I think we shall be able to understand one another.’

“‘Ah, I dare say we shall—​leastways, I hope so. I aint too particular, you know.’

“‘I have brought with me a hundred pounds. You may have it upon one condition.’

“‘And what might that be?’ I inquired.

“‘Your colt and filly!’ he replied, with a meaning look. ‘In my pocket are six balls. I want one given to each of them to-night, one to-morrow morning, and one again to-morrow night.’

“‘Oh!’ I ejaculated, for his proposition had almost taken my breath away. ‘That’s it, is it? You want me to poison the poor brutes.’

“‘No, no,’ he quickly answered; ‘not poison—​only opium; the animals will be all the better for it—​their legs will be saved. They will go down in character for this two thousand stake, but come out another day low in the list, to the surprise of the knowing ones.’

“‘I don’t like the job,’ I exclaimed, ‘that I tell you plainly—​I don’t like it at all.’

“‘That may be, but you’ll do it—​you must!’

“‘When am I to touch?’ said I.

“‘Immediately after the race comes off. Our people are honourable, and just in all their dealings.’”

“Oh, oh!” exclaimed half a dozen of the prisoners, simultaneously.

“In a manner of speaking,” returned the gipsy. “That’s what Jim wished me to understand. He said he would take their word for thousands.

“Well, I took the balls—​the colt and filly ran like cows, and I got the coin.

“Three times afterwards I did the physicking game while in my employer’s service. I believe he suspected something, and discharged one man after another, till it came to my turn, and I was sent adrift without a character.

“‘And serve you right, too,’ said Peace. ‘What else could you expect?’

“I had no right to expect anything else, and if I had I should have been disappointed. I was now like a fettered dog, obliged to crouch before the glance of my keeper. Jim had only to say do this or do that, and I was forced to obey.

“Duplicate keys were given me to enter stables by night, and when these did not answer I broke open the doors to hocus ’osses for those who gave out their orders, till at last I and three others had a command to poison the water from which a whole stable of race-’osses were supplied. The game was now up; my employers made a fortune and escaped all danger.

“They were, however, suspected, but as they had touched the blunt and obtained credit of being down to a thing or two they were followed more than before.

“One of their tools was grabbed and had six years of it. I and two others cut our sticks just in time.

“After a twelvemonth’s hide we came back, but we could not get anything to do. Jim told us that we had managed the thing badly, and that his employers had cut him off without giving him a ‘quid’ for his trouble.

“‘Foul deeds deserve foul play,’ said the moody prisoner in the corner. ‘It is the moral law, and grievous ought to be the penalty exacted from all who take part in them. Retributive justice has overtaken you, Bandy-legged Bill. You perceive I am acquainted with your nickname. But what became of the lord, your former master?’

“‘Why,’ replied the gipsy, ‘I knowed he was in it all from first to last, and had picked me up to serve his own ends. I dogged him one morning going down to the stables.’

“Please, my lord,” says I, coming the crawl to him, ‘I am an ill-used man.’

“‘Indeed! And who has ill-used you, Will?’ he asked, as if he had been my best friend. So I took courage, and up and told him all.

“‘And who is Jim Dempster?’ said he, when he had heard me out, looking as innocent as a blessed saint.

“‘Why, the agent of your friends who belong to the big betting firm where I was after I left you. Jim is the little man you spoke to the other day at Ascot about the running of Butterfly.’

“‘My friends, you scoundrel! How dare you call those fellows my friends?’ he cried out. ‘Perhaps you, too, are a friend of mine, as you have been my groom and rode my horses. Don’t you have the audacity to speak of such persons as my friends again.’ Then turning as serious as a barn owl, he looked me in the face, and continued, ‘You have escaped the law, my man, this time. Take my advice, quit bad company, and turn to an honest course of life. But, mark me, if ever you cross my path again, and are impudent enough to speak to me, I shall give you into custody on your own confession,’ and away he strode to the stable.

“‘Hang it all, this is cheeky for a youngster, lord or no lord,’ says I. ‘I don’t think I could have done it better myself.’

“I can’t tell you how I lived for the next two or three years. It was, perhaps, something after the manner of the dog who has no master—​to-day, I might be feeding on garbage; to-morrow, snatching a bone from a smaller and weaker dog; and a third time, waiting for the refuse of those who were over-gorged. Like a fly, I dipped into every man’s cup that came into my way; but, strange to say, all this time it never came into my head to look back on a gipsy’s life.”

“Shall I tell you why?” muttered the man in the corner. “There is a charm in a vagabond’s wayward life which none but a vagabond can appreciate.”

“What is a gipsy’s life but that of a vagabond state of existence?” inquired Peace.

“True,” returned the other. “Granted, but not precisely in the same degree as the one he had been following. He had known what a wayward life was in the country, but the town loafer’s life was new to him, and brought fresh charms—​yes, charms, I will call them. There is positively a fascinating spell in a life of monetary casualty which is a mystery to those who are well provided for in life. Even the extreme of misery does not break the spell. Sadness oftentimes twines itself around the strings of the heart, while it releases and softens them.

“I knew a corner in a tap-room of a public-house resorted to by cadgers which was called the dead man’s corner, because numbers of decayed beggars had made it their sleeping place, and in that spot one had breathed his last. The seat was frequently at a premium among aged beggars.”

“Ah, I say, draw it mild, old man,” said several voices.

“It’s a fact,” returned the man in the corner.

No two specimen of the human species could form a stranger contrast than the gipsy and the man in the corner, or the “Croaker,” as the former designated him.

The gipsy was full of robust health, of life, and animation.

The “Croaker” resembled more the skeleton of a murdered man than a living subject.

The attenuation of his figure conveyed to the mind the horrible idea of a man just terminating his life under a sentence of starvation.

His eyes resembled dirty gray glass, and a countenance, when unmoved, adorned with features cut in marble, or moulded in cast iron, impressing those who looked on him with the idea that for once nature had made a man without feelings or affections.

Warmth, ardour, sensibility, and the sentiment of friendship had all, however, reigned successively in the collapsed breast of that frame, of which nothing was left but the bare walls, lighted by the last flickerings of the vital spark of that intellect which had brought reflection and worn him to the bone.

He was a mere wreck. Remorse for an ill-spent and sinful life had eaten like a canker worm into his heart.

Peace was particularly struck with the emaciated man who sat in the corner, and who every now and then offered some observation as the gipsy shadowed forth his career. He would have liked to learn something of his history, and indeed it was understood that he was to be the next speaker.

“Get on with your biography,” said the man in the corner.

“I’ve not much more to tell,” returned the gipsy. Let’s see, where was I?

“Oh, I was down at low-water mark, and didn’t know how to get on. One cold, dark, rainy, boisterous night, the whole of which I had passed in the streets penniless and hungry, drove me almost to desperation. It had often come into my head to knock down and rob the first person I met, but every crime requires a beginning before it can be done with ease and firmness.”

“True,” ejaculated the man in the corner, “I know it well. If Jem Dempster had put you on to poisoning the trough at starting you would have backed out; but he first put you on to hocussing, and you soon came to the poison like an old un in the trade.”

“Cease moralising,” called out several of the auditory.

“The morning was dimming the already dimmed lamps when at the corner of Park-lane I saw a chap who had been in the stables with me.

“He recognised me and spoke a few words of comfort after I had told him my story; he did more than this—​he lent me a little ready cash. He informed me that he was in a good situation, being groom to a gentleman in North Audley-street. He was a right good sort and stood by me like a brick, helping me in every way he possibly could during the time I was out of collar.

“Well, to cut along story short, after this I became an ’oss dealer, in which honourable profession I remained, till one night a cunning ’oss coaxed me to put the saddle on his back, and would not be satisfied till I got into it: when he rode away with me—​for which they put me in quod instead of the ’oss.

“Now, my old ourang-outang,” said the gipsy, addressing himself to the emaciated man, “let us have an account of your times when you were in the land of the living.”

“I had thought,” responded the prisoner addressed, “that I had some weeks since achieved a victory over memory and buried all recollections of the past. I had shut myself wholly in passive resignation to the future without suffering myself to revert to the bygone events of my life, the frequent reference to which had previously worn me to the object you now behold. But that man,” pointing to the gipsy, “has broken down the barrier within which I had taken shelter. He has, in a few words, informed me of the causes of my ruin. His villainies have brought me here.

“The family of which I am an unworthy member was more distinguished for its ancestors than for its possessions.”

The speaker had got thus far when the ponderous lock of the door was turned, and a police sergeant and two constables, accompanied by a prison warder, entered.

“Now then, prisoners, this way,” said the sergeant.

The culprits rose from their seats. Peace, the gipsy, Mr. Green, with several others, were conducted to the prison van, or “Black Maria,” as it is termed by criminals.

The cadaverous-looking man was abruptly cut short in his narrative.

Most persons will doubtless remember having seen the ominous-looking vehicle called “Black Maria” going to and from the various police offices and the metropolitan prisons. It is not unlike a hearse in external appearance, and is suggestive of one of the darker phases of metropolitan and provincial criminal life.

On mounting the steps of the sable vehicle Peace was ushered into a passage running up the centre from end to end of her Majesty’s carriage. A number of dark doors were on each side, through one of which he was gently pushed by one of his janitors.

He then found himself shut up in a close box on a seat, not too well ventilated nor too clean.

This was not the first time he had been inside a prison van. He had not been much impressed with its comfort on the former occasion, when he first made its acquaintance; now he was disgusted with it, for it brought to his recollection the many ignominious circumstances connected with his first conviction.

When the outer door was shut and locked the vehicle proceeded on its journey.

His companions in misfortune or crime—​whichever of the two it might be—​did not appear to be so depressed, so moody, and so thoughtful, as our hero.

He heard the sound of their voices in his narrow compartment.

Some were calling to each other by name, it might be said, in a jocund and familiar manner. Mr. Green’s voice was distinctly audible above the hubbub of the rest.

“He’s a sharp sort of a chap that gipsy,” murmured Peace. “I should have liked t’other cove to have time to tell his tale. Ah, this is a bad business. What a spiteful, vindictive old cat!”

This last observation of course referred to the relentless Mrs. Pocklington, from whom he could not Hope to secure clemency. He was perfectly well assured that she would “prosecute to the utmost rigour of the law,” to quote the words so often to be seen on warning sign-posts.

On arriving in the court-yard of the county gaol, the prisoners were marshalled in a narrow-vaulted passage, where they were made to stand in a row.

The deputy-governor, in plain uniform, attended by a cordon of officials, was ready to receive them. He was a tall, military-looking personage, with a broad face and a large bushy beard.

He gave a short preliminary cough, and took from the conductor of the prison van a number of papers, one for each prisoner.

He glanced at these, and then proceeded to call out the names, which the prisoners answered to, some in a jaunty, and others in a quiet tone and manner.

Having satisfied himself that the requisite number of culprits were then and there present, he folded up the papers in a mechanical manner.

When this ceremony had been gone through the new arrivals were conducted to their quarters.

The cadaverous-looking man was the first to be removed. He looked so weak, so borne down, that even the officials regarded him with something like compassion. To their credit we must record that they treated him with kindness and consideration—​that is, as far as the rigid prison discipline would allow.

Peace was told to follow a warder. The bumps on his head were still very painful, and, taken altogether, he presented a most pitiable and abject appearance. He said to his janitor, as they went along, that he had been most cruelly used, and told him, moreover, that he was perfectly innocent of the charge upon which he had been committed.

The warder was so accustomed to hear statements of a similar character from prisoners that he did not take much heed of Peace’s declaration of innocence.

He merely nodded, and ushered his prisoner into a stone cellar-like place, where there were a number of small rooms with baths in them.

Peace was directed to enter one and undress. He obeyed without making any observation, knowing well enough, from his former experience of prison life, that it would be useless to offer any objection.

When he had undressed his clothes were taken from him, and underwent a careful scrutiny—​the pockets in the garments were turned out, and all prohibited articles removed.

All this was done in a methodical, systematical way. An inventory of these things was taken, and Peace was told that any of his friends, on calling to see him, might take them away.

“I don’t know why I should be stripped of all I possess, but if it’s the rule I suppose there’s no use murmuring,” said Peace.

“It is the rule,” quietly observed the warder. “You are treated precisely the same as all the other prisoners. Now you must have a bath.”

“I’ve no objection to that,” cried Peace.

The bath room was scrupulously clean; the water looked as clear as crystal, and Peace plunged in.

On re-dressing, he was conducted by the warder up a flight of stairs into a large, lofty hall, on each side of which were galleries.

In each gallery was a warder in uniform. With the exception of the halls and corridors the building was almost entirely divided into an immense number of small apartments. These were homely inside, but exquisitely clean.

Prisons at this time might be said to be in a transition state. In some the old system remained in full force. The two systems vary in their aims. Under the old, prisoners awaiting their trials were allowed to mix together in wards.

In such places as these the criminals of the olden times—​common thieves, pickpockets, burglars, and others—​had, no doubt, many of them, in their own way, a jolly time of it.

They were supplied with provisions by their pals and relatives, and were not compelled to live on prison fare.

As many as twenty would be found at times in one of these wards under the old system, which were nurseries of crime—​so it is said—​the old hardened felon contaminating the young and inexperienced.

Then, as now, the prisoners did not do any labour before trial, but after conviction they were sent to correctional prisons.

Under the new system the prison is intended to be a penal hospital for the cure of diseased and contagious souls.

The one in which Peace found himself was of the latter class.

On his reaching the first gallery a number was shouted out in a loud voice by his attendant. One of the warders came forward and conducted Peace to his cell.

He was told what to do in case he wished to speak to a warder. It was pointed out to him by his custodian that everything was clean and in its place, and that he was expected to keep it so.

He was also informed that if he liked to pay another prisoner for cleaning his cell he could, by permission of the governor, have it done for him, but otherwise he would have to do it himself.

All these matters he knew, but he did not care to say so. He also knew by heart the printed list of rules to which his attention was next directed.

He said he was too ill to clean his own cell at present, and would rather pay another prisoner to do the work.

He was very clever at shamming illness, but on this occasion he really was in a weak state.

The door was shut with a horrid discordant sound, and Peace then was fairly caged, and felt miserable to the last degree.

He remained for some time moody and thoughtful. After awhile he rose from his seat, and proceeded to examine his narrow prison house. It was a stone or brick-arched room, some fourteen feet by seven; the furniture was in no way superfluous. A bedstead, consisting of the side walls of the apartment; polished steel staples were fixed in these walls, two on each side, at an elevation of about two feet and a half. The occupant’s mattress has two short steel hooks at each end, these are hooked into the staples, so he lies across his abode. A deal table, the size of a pocket-handkerchief, also a deal seat; a bright copper wash basin, fastened to the wall, with a water tap over it so ingeniously contrived, that turned to the right it sends a small stream into the basin, and to the left into a bottomless close stool at some little distance. There were three shelves in one corner.

An iron enamelled plate, a tin mug, wooden spoon, and salt box, and a piece of soap were arranged on the two lower shelves.

“How cursedly clean and staring everything is,” exclaimed Peace, in a tone of disgust. “The things seem to glare at you. Ugh! this is about the most contemtible piece of business I ever knew; but, law, they’ll never convict upon such a trumpery charge.”

He was under the full impression that he would be acquitted.

A great many people are committed by magistrates for trial that are not found guilty. There are many cases where a magistrate will not take upon himself the responsibility of deciding a case, which he prefers being disposed of by the verdict of a jury.

It does happen sometimes that a perfectly innocent man is committed for trial, and it does appear hard, not to say unjust, that he should be subjected to the many indignities and privations which prisoners have to endure.

The law holds that every man is innocent till he is found guilty, and there should certainly be some better arrangement in respect to prisoners who are awaiting their trial.

We question much whether it is advisable for them to be sent to the same prison with others who are convicted.

Many a man at the close of his trial has left the court “without a stain upon his character.” Yet he has had to pass through a painful ordeal, which possibly he will not forget for the remainder of his life. This ought not to be.

Men untried should be treated very differently from the way they are so long as they are kept secure from escape; the main object of their detention is effected. But a man who is unjustly accused, sent to prison, and afterwards proved innocent, bears with him the unpleasant reflection that some mischievous and evil-disposed person is sure to be found who will whisper mysteriously to others “So-and-so was charged with larceny, but he was acquitted.”

With some persons the very fact of having been accused would be prejudicial, but these are things the reader may perhaps exclaim, “It is not possible for the wisest of us to prevent!”

Granted; but that is no reason why every precaution should not be taken to protect the innocent man.

These observations, however, do not apply to such hardened offenders as Peace, who is included in the category of habitual criminals, or, to make use of a stronger term, professional thieves.