The Essential Works of William Harrison Ainsworth. William Harrison Ainsworth
him through his toilsome walk over the wet grass, or along the slippery ploughed land. At last, he got into a lane, but had not proceeded far when he was again alarmed by the sound of a horse’s tread.
Once more breaking through the hedge he took to the fields. He was now almost driven to despair. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night’s lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:— how was he to get rid of them?
Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. Again returning to the main road, he passed through Clapton; and turning off on the left, arrived at the foot of Stamford Hill. He walked on for an hour longer, till he could scarcely drag one leg after another. At length, he fell down on the road, fully expecting each moment would prove his last.
How long he continued thus he scarcely knew; but just before dawn, he managed to regain his legs, and, crawling up a bank, perceived he was within a quarter of a mile of Tottenham. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. Opening the door, he found it littered with straw, on which he threw himself, and instantly fell asleep.
When he awoke it was late in the day, and raining heavily. For some time he could not stir, but felt sick and exhausted. His legs were dreadfully swelled; his hands bruised; and his fetters occasioned him intolerable pain. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. All the events of the previous day rushed to his recollection; and though he had been unintentionally the cause of his mother’s death, he reproached himself as severely as if he had been her actual murderer.
“Had I not been the guilty wretch I am,” he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, “she would never have died thus.”
This strong feeling of remorse having found a natural vent, in some degree subsided, and he addressed himself to his present situation. Rousing himself, he went to the door. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. Taking up a couple of large stones which lay near, Jack tried to beat the round basils of the fetters into an oval form, so as to enable him to slip his heels through them.
While he was thus employed a farming man came into the barn. Jack instantly started to his feet, and the man, alarmed at his appearance, ran off to a neighbouring house. Before he could return, Jack had made good his retreat; and, wandering about the lanes and hedges, kept out of sight as much as possible.
On examining his pockets, he found about twenty guineas in gold, and some silver. But how to avail himself of it was the question, for in his present garb he was sure to be recognised. When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. A crowd was collected round the fellow, who was rapidly disposing of his stock.
“Here’s the full, true, and particular account of Jack Sheppard’s last astonishing and never-to-be-forgotten escape from the Castle of Newgate,” bawled the hawker, “with a print of him taken from the life, showing the manner, how he was shackled and handcuffed. Only one penny — two copies — two pence — thank you, Sir. Here’s the ——”
“Let me have one,” cried a servant maid, running across the street, and in her haste forgetting to shut the door — “here’s the money. Master and missis have been talking all day long about Jack Sheppard, and I’m dying to read his life.”
“Here you have it, my dear,” returned the hawker. “Sold again!”
“If you don’t get back quickly, Lucy,” observed a bystander, “Jack Sheppard will be in the house before you.”
This sally occasioned a general laugh.
“If Jack would come to my house, I’d contrive to hide him,” remarked a buxom dame. “Poor fellow! I’m glad he has escaped.”
“Jack seems to be a great favourite with the fair sex,” observed a smirking grocer’s apprentice.
“Of course,” rejoined the bystander, who had just spoken, and who was of a cynical turn — “the greater the rascal, the better they like him.”
“Here’s a particular account of Jack’s many robberies and escapes,” roared the hawker — “how he broke into the house of his master, Mr. Wood, at Dollis Hill —”
“Let me have one,” said a carpenter, who was passing by at the moment — “Mr. Wood was an old friend of mine — and I recollect seeing Jack when he was bound ‘prentice to him.”
“A penny, if you please, Sir,” said the hawker. —“Sold again! Here you have the full, true, and particular account of the barbarous murder committed by Jack Sheppard and his associate, Joseph Blake, alias Blueskin, upon the body of Mrs. Wood —”
“That’s false!” cried a voice behind him.
The man turned at the exclamation, and so did several of the bystanders; but they could not make out who had uttered it.
Jack, who had been lingering near the group, now walked on.
In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. The owner was at the door unhooking a few articles of wearing apparel which he had exposed outside for sale. Amongst other things, he had just brought down an old laced bavaroy, a species of surtout much worn at the period.
“What do you want fot that coat, friend?” asked Jack, as he came up.
“More than you’ll pay for it, friend,” snuffled the Jew.
“How do you know that?” rejoined Jack. “Will you take a guinea for it?”
“Double that sum might tempt me,” replied the Jew; “it’s a nobleman’s coat, upon my shoul!”
“Here’s the money,” replied Jack, taking the coat.
“Shall I help you on with it, Sir?” replied the Jew, becoming suddenly respectful.
“No,” replied Jack.
“I half suspect this is a highwayman,” thought the Jew; “he’s so ready with his cash. I’ve some other things inside, Sir, which you might wish to buy — some pistols.”
Jack was about to comply; but not liking the man’s manner, he walked on.
Further on, there was a small chandler’s shop, where Jack observed an old woman seated at the counter, attended by a little girl. Seeing provisions in the window, Jack ventured in and bought a loaf. Having secured this — for he was almost famished — he said that he had lost a hammer and wished to purchase one. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith.
Guided by the glare of the forge, which threw a stream of ruddy light across the road, Jack soon found the place of which he was in search. Entering the workshop, he found the blacksmith occupied in heating the tire of a cart wheel. Suspending his labour on Jack’s appearance, the man demanded his business. Making up a similar story to that which he had told the old woman, he said he wanted to purchase a hammer and a file.
The man looked hard at him.
“Answer me one question first?” he said; “I half suspect you’re Jack Sheppard.”
“I am,” replied Jack, without hesitation; for he felt assured from the man’s manner that he might confide in him.
“You’re a bold fellow, Jack,” rejoined the blacksmith. “But you’ve done well to trust me. I’ll take off your irons — for I guess that’s the reason why you want the hammer and file — on one condition.”
“What is it?”
“That you give ’em to me.”
“Readily.”
Taking