Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"We went down to Canterbury, and took lodgings on the
Herne Bay road, close by the barracks. Dick and I used to visit all the
neighbouring towns, and see what we could pick up; but we led a jovial life,
spending much, more than we got, and thus making desperate inroads into my
funds. My old habits of gambling returned; and the gold which I had received
from the Jew was disappearing very rapidly. We had left London for upwards of
eight months, when we thought of returning to our old haunts. Mary seemed quite
averse to the proposal, and was most anxious to remain a short time longer
where she was. To this Dick agreed; and he and I came up to town. We went to
the Boozing-ken on Saffron Hill, and there took up our quarters. Dick
introduced me to Bill Bolter; and as it happened that our funds were all low,
we resolved upon adopting some means to replenish our purses. Happening to take
up the
Times
, I saw an advertisement, according to which a wealthy
jeweller and goldsmith in the Strand required a porter. I made a remark which
led Dick Flairer to observe, that if I chose to take the situation, he could
get me a reference, as he knew one of the largest linen-drapers in Norton
Folgate, who was in the habit of buying stolen goods of the cracksmen of Dick's
gang, and would not dare refuse, to perform the part required. The plan was
settled: I applied for the situation, gave the reference, and in two days
entered the service of the rich goldsmith. In lees than a fortnight I had
obtained all the information I required; and stepping out one evening, I
hastened to the boozing-ken, where I met the pals, and appointed the following
night for the enterprise. I then returned to my master's residence.
"On the ensuing night, precisely as the clock struck
twelve, I stole softly down from my bed-room, and entered the shop by means of
a skeleton key. I then cautiously opened the front door, and admitted Dick
Flairer and Bill Bolter.. We immediately set to work to pack up all the most
valuable and most portable articles; in which occupation we were engaged
when a cry of '
Fire, fire
!' was heard in the street outside; and almost
at the same moment a tremendous knocking at the front door began. For an
instant we were paralysed; but the noise of steps descending the stairs hurried
us into action; and, opening the doors, we darted from the house with the speed
of wild animals, leaving all the booty behind us. The cry of '
Fire
!' was
instantly succeeded by that of '
Thieves
!' and several persons began to
pursue us hotly. We gained Wellington Street, and hastened towards Waterloo
Bridge, intending to get into the Borough with the least possible delay. On we
went-through the great gate, without waiting to pay the toll at the entrance of
the footway - the pursuers gaining upon us. Suddenly I recollected that the
cornice along the outside of the parapet was very wide; and without hesitating
a moment I sprang over the parapet, alighted on the cornice, and only saved
myself from falling into the river by catching hold of the gas-pipe which runs
along the outer side of the bridge. Scarcely had I thus accomplished a most
dangerous feat, when I distinctly saw a man, a few yards a-head, mount the
parapet, and precipitate himself into the river. Then arose the sounds of
voices on the bridge, crying,
'He is over!' 'He has leaped in!' 'He
will be drowned.' 'They have all three escaped.' 'But where the devil could the
other two have got to?'
and such-like exclamations, which convinced me
that my companions were safe. There I remained, a prey to a thousand painful
reflections and horrid ideas, for upwards of an hour; till at length I grew so
dizzy that I was every moment on the point of falling into the river. The
bridge was now completely silent; and I ventured to leave my hiding- place. I
passed over the bridge to the Surrey side, without molestation, and proceeded
by a circuitous route to the Old House in Chick Lane, where, to my
astonishment, I found Bill Bolter. I then learnt that it was Dick Flairer who
had leapt into the river, and was no doubt drowned; and that Bolter had only
escaped by concealing himself in the deep shade of one of the recesses of the
bridge, when totally overcome by fatigue, until his pursuers had passed, when
he retraced his steps, and quietly gained the Strand.
"We were greatly grieved to think that our enterprise
in the jeweller's house should have failed, and that we had lost so excellent a
fellow as Flairer; but in the midst of our lamentations, the door opened and
Dick himself entered the room. Pale, dripping, and exhausted, he fell upon a
seat, and would most probably have fainted - if not died - had we not forced
some brandy down his throat. He then revived; and, having changed his clothes,
was soon completely recovered from the effects of his bath, and the desperate
exertions he had made to swim to a wharf communicating with the Commercial
Road.
"We staid for the remainder of the night at the Old
House; and on the following morning Dick Flairer went up to the boozing-ken,
where he procured a newspaper. He then returned to us; and we perceived by the
journal that the curtains of the bed-room which I had occupied at the
jeweller's house had caught fire, and created the alarms which had interrupted
us in the midst of our employment in the shop. I moreover ascertained that I
was of course suspected of having admitted thieves into the premises, and that
a reward was offered for my apprehension. I was accordingly compelled to remain
concealed for some weeks in the Old House, while Bolter and Flairer, being
unsuspected, were enabled to go abroad. I did not upon this occasion conceal
myself in the dungeon of the Old House, for I could not bear the solitude of
that living tomb; and as Bolter and Flairer were constantly visiting me, the
time did not hang so very heavily on my hands. At length I left the Old House,
and I and Dick returned to Canterbury.
"When we arrived there, after an absence of two months,
we made a most unpleasant discovery - unpleasant to Dick as the brother, and to
me who was enamoured of Mary. She was in a way to become a mother; her
situation was too palpable to be concealed. Dick flew into a most ungovernable
rage; and Mary tried to deny it. But the fact was glaring, and she was obliged
to confess that she had been seduced by a serjeant of the regiment stationed at
Canterbury. Her attachment to that man, and the hope that he would do her
justice, were the reasons that had induced her to remain at Canterbury, when we
went to London. The serjeant had recently treated her with neglect and
indifference, and she longed for revenge. Dick and I swore that she should have
it. She told us that the serjeant was very fond of angling, and that every
morning early he indulged in his favourite sport in the river Stour, which
flowed close by the barracks.
"Next morning Dick and I went down to the river, and
there we saw the serjeant preparing his tackle. From the description we had
received of him, we knew him to be the man we wanted but there was a large
water-mill close by, and we dared not attack him in a spot that was so overlooked.
We accordingly returned home, and consulted together how we should proceed. At
length we resolved that Mary should endeavour to get him to grant her an
interview on the banks of the river. She sent him a note, saying that she was
to leave Canterbury in a few days, and that she wished to see him once more.
She concluded by begging him to meet her that evening or the next between nine
and ten o'clock, close by the bridge of Kingsford's water-mill. He consented,
and appointed the evening of the next day for the interview.
"The hour drew nigh, and Mary want to the place agreed
upon. Dick and I followed her at a little distance. The night was dark; it was
in the month of April; and the air was very cold. As we drew near the bridge as
noiselessly as we could, we distinguished the forms of two persons standing
upon the bridge, and leaning in earnest conversation upon the low railing that
overhung the huge wheel which was revolving beneath, the torrent pouring over
it through the sluices of the dam upon the top of which the bridge stood. We
advanced closer; and could then perceive that the two forms were those of Mary
and her seducer. We proceeded to the bridge. When we reached the middle, Dick
went up to the serjeant, and said,
'This is my sister; do you mean to
do her justice ?' - 'No,'
cried Mary;
'he has just told me
that I need have no hope us that respect.' 'Then there is nothing more to be
said,'
exclaimed Dick Flairer; and at the same moment we precipitated
ourselves upon the serjeant. Dick Flairer pressed his hand upon his mouth; the
poor wretch struggled violently; but in an instant we hurled him over the
bridge-railing. He fell upon the wheel; the roar of the torrent, and the din of
the ponderous machine drowned his last cry of agony, and the crushing of his
bones.
'Now, Mary,'
said I,
'you are revenged.'
She
pressed my hand convulsively, without uttering a word; and we returned to our
lodgings.
"Next day, the body of the serjeant was found,
fearfully crushed and mutilated, a mile below the mill, entangled in a bed of
osiers. It was carried to the barracks: an inquest was called and a verdict of
'
Found Drowned
' was recorded. Not a suspicion was entertained that the
man had been murdered it being evident from the surgical examination that he
had been crushed by the wheel of the mill, upon which it was supposed he had
accidentally fallen, over the bridge-railing, which was only about three feet
high.
"The moment the verdict was returned, and we saw that
no suspicion attached to any body in reference to the murder, we left
Canterbury, and repaired to London. In the course of a few weeks, Mary became
the mother of a still-born child; and in due time I assured her that I would
overlook her fault, and marry her if she would have me. She was pleased with
the proposal; and Dick readily agreed to it. But before we could be spliced, I
one day met the goldsmith of the Strand in the street; and he gave me into
custody. I was taken before the magistrates, and fully committed for an attempt
to rob my employer. While I was in Newgate, waiting for my trial, I was greatly
alarmed lest the old gentleman, whom I had robbed at the auction mart, should
prefer an indictment against me; but my fears in this respect were unfounded.
At length the sessions commenced, and I was put upon my trial. The Sheriffs had
supplied me with counsel, for I was completely without funds when I was
arrested. The barrister thus retained in my behalf, advised me to plead guilty,
as I should then stand a good chance of escaping transportation. I followed his
recommendation, and expressed my contrition for the offence. The Recorder read
me a long lecture, and condemned me to seven years' transportation, which
sentence was commuted to two years' imprisonment in Newgate.
"During that time I seriously thought of mending my
ways, when I should be once more at liberty. But I could not conceive what on
earth I should do for a livelihood if I did not steal. I knew that I should be
turned adrift without a penny in my pocket; and I had no friends but those with
whom I could only pursue my old career. When the chaplain spoke to me upon the
errors of my past life, and the necessity of reformation, I used to say to him,
'
Show me, reverend sir, how I am to obtain an honest living when I leave
these walls, and I never shall sin again.
' But he always gave an evasive
reply. in fact, what could he say? If he had required a man-servant - a groom -
an errand-boy - a menial scrub to black his boots and brush his clothes, would
he have taken me? No. If he had known any friend who wanted a man to take care
of his hounds - never enter his house - but sleep in the kennels along with the
dogs, would the chaplain have recommended me? No. If the governor of Newgate
had needed a man to sweep the dirt away from the front of the prison, would the
reverend gentleman have spoken a kind word in favour of me? No. Of what use,
then, is it for these gaol chaplains to preach penitence and reformation, when
by their very actions they say, '
We do not believe that you can possibly
change for the better?
' Of what benefit is it for these salaried moralists
to declaim upon the advantages of a virtuous course, when they know perfectly
well that the old maxim is invariably correct, - '
Give a dog a bad name and
hang him!
' Virtue must be fed; but Virtue, upon leaving the walls of a
criminal prison, can obtain no food. Must Virtue, then die of starvation? Human
nature revolts against this self-destruction - this systematic suicide; and,
sooner than submit to it, Virtue will al low itself to be changed by
circumstances into Vice. Virtue in this case has no option but to become Vice.
"I often thought, when I was in prison, that ii there
was a workshop, established by the government to receive persons whom the
criminal gaols daily vomit back upon society, many a miserable creature would
in reality reform, and be saved from a re-plunge into the sea of crime, But all
that the government does is to punish. I mentioned these thoughts to the
chaplain. And what did he say? He endeavoured to get rid of the necessity of
giving a derisive opinion, by throwing himself headlong into a mass of argument
and reasoning, half religious and half political, which I could not understand.
Thus do those men invariably extricate themselves from perplexing topics. In my
opinion there is no mockery more abominable - no hypocrisy more contemptible -
no morality more baseless than the attributes of a gaol-chaplain!
"If good and pious men attended criminal prisons of
their own free will, and talked in a plain homely manner to the inmates, - a
manner which those inmates could understand, - how much benefit might result!
But when you think that the chaplain only troubles himself about you because he
is paid, - that he doles out his doctrine in proportion to the income which he
receives, - and that he says the same to you to-day which he said to another
yesterday, and will say to a third to-morrow, - his office is mean,
contemptible, and degrading.