Of my Incarceration in the Jug, and of
how the Prisoner-Ordinary and
I drank Wine together
Chapter V
Of my Incarceration in the Jug, and or
how the Prisoner-Ordinary and
I drank Wine together
’Twas on the third day of November, in the year 1687, His Majesty’s Assizes being then in full session, that I was first clapped into the Jug. Timothy Grubbe it was that managed it, and a dirtier trick never stood to his account. For I had rode up that morning from Uxbridge, after an absence of three months from Town, and no sooner am I arrived than the news reaches me through a crimping-master of my acquaintance at the “Bull’s Head,” that the traps had their paws on Polly Scarlett, she lying ill in the Ratcliffe Highway. There was never a tenterhook alive durst put his nose inside the “Bull’s Head,” where the company was too hot for a regiment of dragoons; and so they must needs find this way to fetch me forth. The report was no Jack o’Lanthorn, neither, for Timothy, as I discovered, had put the beagles upon her that very day, upon the news communicated by his spies that I was come to Town. The Law has no queasy stomach, and will undertake a scurvy job with any; but indeed there was no suspicion upon Polly, and the charge upon which they took her was, if you please, the possession of certain gold guineas with His Majesty’s viznomy upon them. These, they would make out, were a parcel of the King’s treasure, the which I had snatched out of Timothy’s own fingers by Dartford. I knew it was odds but the message was a snare for my feet, for all that I questioned the crimp so closely; but then, I was not for letting the risque hang over Polly. It made me mad to think upon her in Timothy’s hands, with his pink eyes a-cocking at her. I was not to be averted by such scum, whether it was my capture that was plotted or no; and that very evening, after the fall of dusk, I set forth on foot for the Ratcliffe Highway, counterfeited for a sailor, with a stout hanger at my thigh.
When I reached the house it was pitch black, and a light shone forth only from an upper window. Sure enough, there was an officer ostentatiously set upon the doorstep, and keeping a sharp watch. I knew that I was like to get little by strategy out of Grubbe; it was in a bold front my only hopes lay; and so up I marched with a rolling gait, and, says I, feigning a drunken hiccough, “What’s agog?” I says, “and upon whose door are you sticking out your elbows?”
The trap gave me a glance, and seeing as I made for the door, pushed me off with his arm. “The Law is in charge here,” he says shortly.
“Law!” says I, with a stupid stare. “Law!” and I fell to laughing. “Damn me, what’s the old Antick atwixt Jenny Rumbold and me?” for that I knew was the name of a piece in the house.
He observed me from head to foot, without ever a suspicion. “Get you gone,” says he, contemptuously; “there’s no kixsy-winsy for you here.”
“Damme,” says I, with another hiccough, and fingering for my hanger, “but I’m in the mind to carve your face after a private pattern of my own.” He closed with me, but, getting a clutch upon his waist, I threw him, and fell to battering on the door with the hilt of my weapon, shouting the while as one full of drink. That brought some one from the inside, and in another moment I was in the grip of a sturdy fellow on the doorstep, with my other friend handling me freely from behind.
“What the Devil’s this?” said the newcomer. “Is this our man, Cockerel?”
“No,” says t’other, puffing for breath; “’tis a scurvy tarpaulin with a libidinous body full of liquor.”
“And that’s true,” says I, lurching against ’em, and nodding my head with a foolish smile; and with that I called “Jenny” at the top of my voice, in a most endearing manner.
“Bah!” said the big officer, who seemed to be in a superior position, “push the drunken fool out.”
“No,” says I, “push the drunken fool in, young fellow.”
The catch-polls broke out laughing, seeming to be touched by the humour of my rejoinder, and one of ’em gives me a shove that despatched me reeling against the stairway in right earnest. But picking myself up I started a fol-de-rol in a quavering voice, and staggered noisily up the stairs. And all would have gone well, but just as I had gotten to the landing, who should come out of Polly’s room but the arch-janizary himself; who no sooner had set eyes on me than he uttered a thin cackle, and blew a shrill whistle through his teeth. To say the truth, I took longer to recognise him in the gloom than he me, or I should have spoiled that game for him; but after that it was too late, and turning I leaped down the stairs.
“Seize him!” yelled Grubbe. “Take him!” he clamoured; and the traps met me at the bottom. I laid one low with my hanger, and I let a hole through a second, seeing which, the third drew off.
“Curse you for a pack of curs,” screeched Grubbe, and came tumbling down the stairs upon me behind. He had no weapon, but the force of his weight dismissed me sprawling, and ere I could pull myself up, there was three of ’em sitting upon my body.
So there was the curtain down upon that part of the play, and the Jug for me, sure enough. But I should not ha’ minded so much had it not been for Grubbe, who came about me discharging his jests with an air of affectionate condolence. It was “Poor Dick! And that you should have come to this after all Timothy’s warnings!” And it was, “Ah, Dick, the Lord abideth His time to avenge Himself on evil-doers.” And then he would turn to his bum-bailies—(Damn them!)—and beg them to take care of me, for that I was a fastidious young gentleman of tender nurture, whom His Majesty destined to high promotion. But I said never a word in answer, and kept my lips tight until they had delivered me in Newgate. I was not going to let Timothy Grubbe raise a sound out of me.
There was sorry company in the Jug, but I could have ordered things tolerably, for it held a cracksman or two I knew pretty well by sight; only the next trick the knave played on me was to have me laid in irons and disposed in a solitary cell. It was declared that I was a desperate fellow, and the dubsman told me with a grin that he had long hoped for the pleasure of my fellowship, and had kept his best set against my coming. I dare say this was true enough, for there were few parts of the country but I was as well known as the King himself. Moreover, those that enjoyed the liberties of the Jug would have spread my name; to witness which, it was a brave reception I got upon my entrance. But to be chained within a lonely chamber, without ever the chance of a diversion, went against my stomach. And the place was foul to boot, and full of rats.
Here I lay for some time, until my case was heard at the Assizes. Now, Grubbe was a cunning devil, and I knew that ’twas not of the Chatham coach I should hear, seeing that was too delicate a business upon which to hazard his own reputation. But there was plenty against me without that, and first of all up comes the affair at Petersfield, with which Grubbe was well acquainted. And as if that were not enough, they had furbished up a paltry business on Hampstead Heath, in the which I was under the necessity to quiet a noisy fellow with my barker. This, it turns out, if you please, was no less a personage than a Sheriff of the City. And after that the document wound up with the officer that I had cut down in the Highway; as if the killing of a catchpoll, good Lord, made any difference among respectable people! Still, though the one case was black against me, and Grubbe, no doubt, had ample private particulars of the others, I must face my position with the best phiz possible. So I laid hold of a gentleman of the law to speak in my defence. He was a man in repute for a mighty clever fellow, and had had much practice at the Assizes these many years. In his earlier days he had had sharp work under Old Noll, and of late he had been with Bloody Jeffreys in the West. He was a grasping, watery-livered creature, with his fee ever in the tail of his eye; but that was no bar to me, seeing I was just then very comfortable in pocket; and so I bought him with a bag of goldfinches, and sent him off with his pockets bulging with king’s pictures, to digest at his leisure. I knew it was a bad case for me, and that fact was plainer upon the morning of the trial, when I was fetched into Court atween two turnkeys, and with the darbies still upon my wrist. It seems that they were in a taking lest even then Dick Ryder should spread his wings! When I was brought in and looked about me, there was the Judge regarding me sourly from his bench, and hobanobbing with him stood a tall, fat-bellied man, with a white wig and a very scarlet face. This was the cully as was to talk me up the ladder. And with the sight of them laughing together I knew ’twas odds but I should get no fair play that day. But I was not to hoist the white feather on that account, and so I just wagged my head to my man to begin. But instead, up jumps Pot-belly, and starts upon a tedious harangue, motioning at me with his fingers and bowing to the Judge, raising his eyes to the ceiling, and gesticulating like the gross ape he was. I paid little heed myself, being long past patience after the first ten minutes; but presently out pops some one from the crowd, and ere I knew it, was swearing away as to what I had done here, and what coat I wore, and how his arm was a-bleeding, with other matter of the sort.
“’Twas a bloody deed, my Lord,” says he, and looks at me fearfully.
I knew the oaf now for the rascal of the gentleman I had run through at Petersfield. It was a flagrant piece of foolishness, for sure, was that Petersfield job: in broad daylight too, and within a mile of the town!
“Do you recognise him?” asks his Lordship.
“Yes, my Lord,” says the fellow.
“You are sure?” says his Lordship: “look at him.”
The coachman turned a frightened glance upon me, for he was in a rare panic, and I shot him a black look full of menace. Whether it was that, or that his wits were out, I know not, but says he, “No,” says he.
“Come, come,” said his Lordship, with a frown, “you shall not blow hot and cold in this fashion. Is that the man?”
Whereupon the craven, who was all a-sweat with terror, lost the hold upon his tongue, and stammered and stuttered and blinked, and finally appealed to the Judge to spare him, and to the Almighty to have mercy on him, for that what he said was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“Pah! take the fellow down,” says his Lordship. “Call another witness.”
But if, so far, the fact was in my favour, I was not to get off so easily upon other scores; and the chief business of all was the appearance of the Sheriff I had wounded. The old mawkin had a voice like a parrot, harsh and high, and delivered his evidence all in one shrill squeak. I will confess that what he said was true enough, and went badly against me; so much so that I chafed to myself that I had not stuck him, while I was about it. After that I knew it was all over with me, unless my little lawyer could serve. He had sat very still, making notes upon his papers industriously, and asking a question or so pretty sharply at times. And indeed, it was ludicrous to see the pair of ’em, for he, like t’other, was fat, only small, and bald under his wig; and the two kept jumping up and down opposite one another, as if ’twas a game of see-saw. But by degrees his face began to lengthen and he shook his head over his shoulder to some one behind; and at that, and seeing the case gathering against me, I slipped my temper, for he had done little enough for his money.
So, “Damn you,” I bawled to him, “speak up, you little beer-keg, you!” At which he went scarlet, and there was a laugh in the Court. But the Judge scowled, and I was hustled by the turnkeys.
And then, when at last it fell to him to speak, a mighty poor figure he made. He ranted like a Roundhead. If you were to believe him, I was a low-spirited cur enough, that had no thought but to keep his mother in bread and his wife in garters. ’Twas a marvel that he did not attach half a score of gaping brats upon me. According to him I was a half-starved sort of snip, as took my meals in a boiling-house, and was as regular for church as a girl in her teens. He pursued these silly lies so long and with such satisfaction that I could endure him no further.
“Gag that fat fool,” says I, “for an’ the topsman must have me he may have me and welcome, but I’ll meet him after my own fashion, and not with the character of a poltroon.”
There was little more to be said after that. And soon the Judge got to his feet, and says he: “Prisoner at the bar, have you any reason to urge why I should not pass sentence upon you?”
“My lord,” says I, speaking very loftily, “an’ I had gotten a lawyer with a proper tongue in his mouth, and some brains to his skull, and an’ it had not been for yonder sour-featured Sheriff, this honourable Court might ha’ come to a different resolution. But seeing as things are thus, why pass your sentence, and be damned,” says I.
Thereat he puts on a little black cap, and turns to me with a solemn Anabaptist face. But I was not behind him at that, and so smack upon my head goes my own hat, and I surveyed him with as long and mopish a countenance as himself. And at the conclusion of his discourse I marched off as jaunty as you may wish, atween my guards. There was never a Judge on His Majesty’s bench as could get a tremor out of Dick Ryder.
Well, there was I now laid in the Jug again, in my little-ease of a cell, and scarce a fortnight ’twixt me and Tyburn. And first, you must know, they had me watched very sharply, for Grubbe had whispered in their ears that I was a devil that would break out of hell. ’Twas the dubsman told me this in excuse for harsher usage, for he was decent enough out of his office, and entertained an admiration for me. Nor was Grubbe much at fault, for it was not in my mind to rest in my dungeon convenient to Jack Ketch, and I vow that I would have burst their very walls and disported myself openly in London Town, had I gotten the liberty of my limbs. For that again I owed Timothy a grudge, and I was not the man to forget a black debt, not if I had to wait a twelvemonth. But I will admit that my plight took a dark colour, with me in chains, and never a soul, not even Polly, permitted in my cell. It was plain that they would hold me if they could. But, Lord, ’tis before obstacles that a man’s heart rises, and if I was to be daunted by the raw circumstances of my peril, I should ha’ given up the road, in a manner of tongue, ere ever I took to it. So with that I considered very deeply, taking counsel in my hold. I had many friends outside Newgate, if I could but exchange messages; and presently I thought upon a plan, which was no sooner conceived than forthwith I started to put it into execution. And first I must deliberate on my behaviour, for upon that all hung. What does I do then but in the first few days after my sentence break out into paroxysms of fury whenever the gaoler poked his nose over the doorway? I roared like a bull at him, rattling my irons furiously and flinging my body upon the stones till you would have thought that all the devils were collected out of Christendom in that one corner. The gaoler himself, with whom I had been upon terms previously, took affright at me, and not without reason, for I threw my hands in his face when he entered with my food, grinding my teeth at him till the edges cracked. ’Twas small wonder soon that I got the name of being a bedlam: the appreciation of death having, as they said, robbed me of my senses. And then it came about that not one of them would venture into the dungeon. Lord, it fairly split me to see ’em run when I charged at the doorway. But this was a piece of my policy, for I guessed very well what would happen; and sure enough, after this had gone forward for a couple of days, in marched the Ordinary for to quiet me with the consolations of religion, by the Governor’s command. He entered in a trembling state, his knees giving as he came, but I sat sullen in my corner with never a word or a sign, till he was arrived nearly abreast of me, leaving the door open for flight, and the dubsmen all agog with the expectation of an uproar.
“My son,” says the Ordinary in a quaking voice, seeing I kept calm, and inspired, maybe, by this, “it is my duty to prepare you for your appearance before your Maker.”
At that I gave vent to a yell and brought my chains with a crash upon the floor, sending him at the same time a devilish look. He withdrew at top speed; but fearing, I suppose, that I might make a rush for them, the turnkeys banged the door, and there was his reverence all alone with me. His face betrayed the most abject consternation, and he turned white even to his red nose. Whereupon I could hold my laughter no longer, and broke out into a fit of merriment.
This seemed to encourage him a little, for, still keeping his distance, he addressed me: “I am glad,” says he, “to see that you keep up your spirits, my poor fellow, in these heavy circumstances.”
“Spirits!” says I, scowling at him, “I have had enough of spirits, damn them! Take ’em away!” I yelled, and fell to cursing. He made no sign, but still remained in the corner near the door, in a fresh fit of shivering. But that was not in my scheme; and so, feigning to come out of my seizure, I turned to him in a tremulous imploring fashion. “An’ you be a man of God,” I bleated, “and the Minister of His Divine mercy, rid me of these Devils, reverend sir.”
This put a new face on him at once, and his tune changed with alacrity. “Why, certainly, certainly, my good man,” says he, coming towards me briskly. “’Tis the function of us servants of the Almighty to discharge such duties to the unfortunate. What ails you?”
I groaned, and then, taking him greedily by the hand, whispered, “’Tis the spirits of the murdered as haunt me, your reverence.”
By this he was completely in control of himself, and took out his snuff-box quite pompously. a Yes, yes,” says he, tapping it, “’tis true. For they that have the blood of their fellow-creatures upon them, how shall they escape the damnation of Hell?” and he regarded me complacently.
He was a tall, thin fellow, with an ancient wig that sat awry upon him, and a face blotched and bubuckled with drinking. His arms and shanks were long and bony, and seemed ever in his way, so that you took the impression that he had more than his share of them; he looked for all the world like a dragon-fly in liquor. He stretched his ungainly carcase on the floor, and doubling up his knees, snuffed with a satisfied air. I groaned again.
“If you have shed blood,” observed the Ordinary, “blood shall be exacted of you, and after death, to burn in the fires of Gehenna. Thus doth the Holy Writ imply. The tears of a sinner avail not, for though in God is our refuge, yet shall not the judge of all do right?” He wiped his nose with his fingers, and looked at me.
“But if I repent,” said I humbly, “the Almighty will pardon me?”
The Ordinary smiled in a superior way, and dusted his legs. “Undoubtedly,” he returned, “there is a chance for such as truly repent them of their iniquities, but who testifieth to the sincerity of that repentance, seeing that we are but dust and ashes? Moreover I would ask you to observe that it is more comfortable to feel that the Lord takes vengeance upon them that break His commandments, as He rewards them that keep them. Thirdly,” says he, “whom He loveth He chasteneth.”
Now by this I had perceived that the Ordinary was somewhat gone in liquor, having primed himself, as I imagine, for our encounter; but it was no odds to me in what condition I found him, provided I could make a tool of him. And this I seemed likely to achieve, for when he left me, it was with the most polite messages of religion and a promise to see me again that evening for the further administration of sacred comforts. From the word, too, which I had of the gaoler, he took credit, I found, for having tamed me.
“I have exorcised him,” said he to the dubsman. “There’s nothing like the consolations of the Church to exorcise the evil spirit.” And he stalked about the Yard among the prisoners, holding his head high.
Things now fell out as I had plotted, for, sure enough, the Ordinary made his appearance in the evening with a mouth full of admonitions and prayers. He was now deeper than ever in wine, having, as I supposed, spent the better part of the day in celebrating his spiritual triumph. He wore a great air of patronage, and was extremely affable, standing with his lean legs well apart, in order for to keep his feet, and poking a bent forefinger at me to emphasise his instructions.
“Ryder,” says he, “I fear that you are a rogue, a devilish rogue. By the tokens of the law, discovered in His Gracious Majesty’s Courts, you have taken the blood of man, and whoso sheddeth man’s blood by man shall his blood be shed. There is a solemn word for your comfortable consideration. When I am gone, and, my orisons discharged, I am retired to the innocent sleep of a child, think upon it with tears and sighs and bitter mortifyings of the spirit. For the Almighty has appointed unto Him ministers of His Wrath, the which shall exact of you the penalty to the uttermost farthing.” Whereat he hiccoughed, and incautiously changing the position of his feet, sat down upon the floor very suddenly. “Ryder,” says he, proceeding still solemnly, and without any appearance of having discovered his collapse, “I warn you as a priest of the Church, to flee from the wrath to come. What is man but as the grass that to-day is and to-morrow is burned in the oven? Yea, what is he, but as the flame of a candle that is blown out with a breath? And I will put it thus unto you, for your surer edification. Firstly, there is the sin of Lasciviousness, the which deserves reprobation. Verily it has its reward. Secondly, to divide our discourse into heads, there is the sin of Drunkenness. The drunkard shall not inherit the kingdom of God. Mark that, ye that look upon the wine when it is red. Thirdly, there is also the sin of Covetousness, the which even princes commit. And finally, to pass over the several Cardinal vices, which at this moment have slipped my memory, there is the sin of Murder.”
He spoke the word as it were with a sort of bellow, and contemplated me sternly, his bibulous eyes, a little asquint, resting weakly on my face. But whether ’twas the dramatic pause he made that was too long for his wits, or that he was tired of the matter, he resumed presently without seeming to remember upon what he had been talking. “Ryder,” says he, “the ale in this Jug is admirable, but the wine is swipes for a tender stomach,” and at once fell to chuckling in delight of his jest.
“And that’s true, your reverence,” said I, “as I can bear witness. ’Tis hard that a man who is picked out for death may not so much as bowse a pint of good wine to warm his heart against the rope.”
He nodded approvingly, and we condoled in quite an affectionate manner; the which set presently smacking his lips over the rare flasks he had drunk in former times, more particularly in the company of Jerry Starbottle.
“Aye,” says he, “that was an excellent year, Ryder: a better I have no wish to spend. There was Hack, and Higgins, and old Jeremy Starbottle, all rode to the Tree that year. Ah, there was king’s pictures and to spare, lad! Faith, there was more of ‘Stand and Deliver’ in those days in a week than the whole squadron of you might venture in a twelvemonth nowadays,” and he sighed over the recollection.
It was in my plan to set his tongue blabbing, the more so as I desired to be upon terms with him; and so I listened very humbly, though Hack and Higgins were none so mighty, nor Jerry Starbottle neither. Indeed the tales of these gentry have suffered undue enlargement. But I said no word about that, merely shaking my head along of him, and saying, “Ah yes, those must ha’ been gay days. We are a poor company in their comparison.”
“Poor!” says the Ordinary with spirit. “You say well. A parcel of scarecrows, set to frighten crows—that’s what the pad is now;” and seemed very bitter about it.
In fine, we got very well acquainted, for the Ordinary was glad to pay me frequent visits, the other tenants of the Jug being little to his taste.
“There was never a scurvier company in the Yard,” he explained. “’Tis full of none but common canters and divers, rude fellowship for a man of parts; and scarce a golden roundle among them.”
There was the rub; and, indeed, it was as much the entertainment I made for him as the love of my society as fetched him so often to see me. For I was in no lack of money, and would constantly have him in a pint of warm ale, the which he drank with tender regard.
“Ryder,” says he, “I have taken a liking to you. You are no common file, like the riff-raff outside; and damme, but if you must wear hemp, you shall wear it like a proper gentleman with the very best offices at your service.”
He was a rare sodden rogue was the Rev. Josiah Phipps—for that was his name—and mingled piety with liquor and oaths faster than any man I have encountered. For the most part he was drunken, when he alternated between a desire to prove me damned and the whim of recounting famous exploits on the road. But when he was sober he wore a solemn face, and roared Hell at me, as he had been in the pulpit. There was never a man so deeply damned as me, according to him, with his firstlies, and his lastlies, and his flow of quotation from the Scriptures. And verily I believe the cully was in earnest, for there were two parts of him, so to speak: one crapulous and roystering, and t’other imposed by traditions and long usage upon his fleshly habit. But there were times, too, when he was neither drunk nor pious, at which he would talk shrewdly of the affairs of State and the conditions of the Government. Not that I cared a groat for them, but it was to my profit to encourage him into a lively friendship for me, which is ever best achieved by the fortuitous discussions that pass between man and man. And then, again, he would sometimes fall very low-spirited and comment upon his own affairs with the utmost frankness.
“I should ha’ been a Dean, not to say a Bishop, Ryder,” he would say; “I would have filled the place sonorously. I’ll warrant I have a good voice, as you may witness, and there be people that have come miles to listen to my discourses to the condemned. I have a stinging smack in my sentences. I have made old Jerry himself heave with fear. ’Tis all in the accumulation, as it were. I pile my emotions in a pyramid. Each phrase hath an edge: it bites. I have seen the eyes goggling out of the whole condemned pew at my fulminations. And to think,” he went on with a change of note, “that I am but Prisoner-Ordinary to a noise of gallows-birds! I that might have had beaux and wits and fine ladies trembling afore me. ’Tis the papistical leanings of His Majesty that are at fault.” And with a sigh he would bury his nose in the tankard.
But all the same I made way with him, as he acknowledged. “I will admit, Ryder,” said he at another time and in his most sentimental mood, “howbeit I wear the cloth, and am, beyond doubt, of a much superior state, that I am sincerely honoured by your friendship. Starbottle was well enough, but Starbottle, between cronies, was a rough-mannered tyke, with no gracious instincts. He had no more civility than a bear, had Jerry.”
And now I come to the time when, my plot being ripe, I must make a push for liberty. It was a hazardous course, and I could not promise myself success, but ’twas better to take all the hazards in the world than to be carted meekly off to Tyburn. Thus it was upon the night afore the day appointed for the ladder that the Ordinary, entering my cell very sober about eight o’clock, found me with a doleful mouth.
“Ah, Ryder,” he says, shaking his head, “’tis a long journey and a short shrift for you to-morrow”; and, being in that humour, proceeded to enliven me with pictures of the vengeance of the Almighty and of the baseness of the malefactor.
Of course I listened very anxiously, and when he had finished, I says, “Your reverence,” I says, “if a man must die, ’tis wisdom that he should die with his belly comfortable. For the which consideration let us be merry to-night."
“Merry!” he cried, lifting up his hands, “a soul so nigh its Maker is more meet for prayers and fastings”; and then, his own stomach getting the uppermost, “yet I would not refuse any legitimate consolations of the flesh to a human being, more particularly as the spirit oftentimes cedeth out of the very weakness of the body.” And this was the last flutter the rags of his calling made, for when the wine was fetched, he sat down to it with a relish, and grew garrulous, as was his wont. “’Tis a pity, Ryder,” says he meditatively, and cocking an eye at his glass, “to see a handsome rogue such as you be predestined to a cruel end. I have seen many go to the Tree with few compunctions, and even with a sigh of content to be quit of their dirty company. But you, in a manner, warm my heart. ’Tis grievous that you should fall upon so evil a fate, and you with such a fine buxom career before you. But it comes, for the main part, of our bringing up," he says; “I have a philosophy by which I hold in private, and which teaches me not to contemn no man. This world runs so zig-zag; ’tis like a bolting horse. No sooner are the reins in your fingers but you are flung upon your nose and left with a bloody coxcomb on the roadway. We suffer the hazard of broken bottles, out of which the wine is spilled on every corner. Vessels, Ryder,” he added sententiously, “fashioned, some for honour, and some for dishonour; and that is the way my eyes look upon life.”
“Rip me,” said I, “’tis an excellent view, your reverence, which is to say, that had you been Dick Ryder and I Prisoner-Ordinary, I should be stuffing the creases out of my stomach to-morrow evening, and you would be swinging and creaking ’tween the crows and the frogs.”
“No doubt,” agreed the Ordinary, a little uneasily, and filled his glass again. “You will understand me, Ryder,” he went on, “when I confess to you that the topsman draws me strangely. I love him. ’Tis like a lodestone to see him with the noose in his fingers, looping and festooning and twining it so delicately beneath the black gallows. Lord, how many times have I stood by, performing the sacred offices of my high calling for the advantage of poor souls as was oozing out of kicking flesh.” Here he smiled and seemed to recall the occasions with unctuous affection, but suddenly resumed: “But there is something further to my nature, the which confounds me. With this delight is entertained a strong repulsion, very antagonistic. My belly has retched at the sight of the Triple Beam, which all the while my eyes devoured with appetite. Explain that for me, Ryder, an’ you may.”
“Rot me,” said I with a laugh, “but ’tis a cheerful conversation you would pursue. Damn the topsman, and here’s to a merry meeting!”
The Ordinary lifted his glass and drank. “I like you, Ryder,” he said, with enthusiasm. “There is nothing mealy-mouthed about you. You make a rare companion to a bottle. The age of drinkers is gone out; but Starbottle and I were notorious in the Yard. A paunch of the right sort had Jerry.”
“Ah,” I put in again, “this age is degenerate, and that’s gospel.”
The Ordinary rubbed his nose. “Rotten,” says he with decision, “all rotten, saving only yourself, Ryder, which is a rare exception.”
Now all this time I had taken little part in the conversation, being content for his tongue to wag, and still plying him with liquor. But presently, as his blood warmed, he grew louder and less deliberate in his words, and began to oscillate between his usual extremes of religion and gossip. Whereupon, seeing that my opportunity was arrived, I suddenly took my main step. For in the midst of his reminiscences of the hanging of Captain Crayes, I dashed my glass down hastily with my manacled hands.
“The Devil take us!” I cried, “but here we are guzzling verjuice when we should be floating an occasion in good liquor.”
The Ordinary looked at me, drunkenly. “True,” he said. “You have not treated me well, Ryder. The wine is damned bad, as I live.”
“And the more fool I,” says I, “when there is a gross of generous burgundy a-waiting for me in the cellars of the ‘Bull’s Head,’ in the trust of Mr Shackleton.”
I regarded him anxiously, for Shackleton’s was a name he must have known very well, and the “Bull’s Head” would have aroused the suspicions of a common dungfork. But he was nobly primed, and there was never a sign in his countenance save the marks of drink in his rolling eyes.
“’Sblood!” says he, “we will drink it all.”
I shook my head. “How shall it be fetched?” I asks him dolorously.
The Ordinary paused. “I will charge my own person with the job,” he said.
“But it will not be delivered to you,” said I. The Ordinary was too drunken to consider this difficulty, and so said nothing. “Wait,” says I, feigning a thought. “If your reverence is willing for the mission, why I think we may compass it.”
“How so?” says he eagerly.
“If your reverence,” says I, “will proceed to the ‘Bull’s Head’ and offer a message to the landlord, I have no doubt it may be managed. And this is what you shall say, namely, a demand for a dozen of Captain Ryder’s rare old burgundy, set by for occasions, and Captain Ryder’s lamentations, but he would drink a toast to the lads at the ‘Pack Horse’ to-morrow an’ he had not other business with his Majesty. ’Tis a civil farewell to ’em.”
The Ordinary got upon his legs. “I will discharge it at once,” he said with a hiccough.
“Do not forget the terms,” says I, “or the landlord, as like as not, will send you packing,” and I repeated them slowly a second time. The Ordinary solemnly repeated them after me, and then, shambling to the door, was gone.
I wager ’twas an uncomfortable hour I expended upon his leaving, for it was odds but he would forget his mission, or that Shackleton would not understand, or that, maybe, he would be stopped by an over-zealous turnkey. Therefore it was with great satisfaction that I heard him return; and in he comes with a rush, his long legs flying, and a parcel of bottles under his arms.
“They keep a close watch upon you, to-night, my poor Ryder,” he says, “but I have explained unto the jigger-dubbers as we must spend the evening together for spiritual consolation and advice,” and he cackled with laughter.
But at the sight of the bottles I was well-nigh losing my head for the first time, and, paying no heed to him, “Let me have ’em,” says I eagerly.
The Ordinary drew himself up and put a finger to his nose. “Softly, softly, Captain,” said he, “’tis my privilege as the superior and your ghostly comforter to make the experiment first.” So saying, he sat down upon the floor a long way from me, and deliberately selecting a bottle knocked the neck off it with extraordinary neatness. At this my heart was in my mouth for a moment, but the next second I knew ’twas all right, for tipping the edges against his lips the Ordinary drank and gurgled as he drank. This done, he jerked himself towards me, saying: “’Tis a rare vintage, my Ryder, and I cannot conceive how my stomach abided those swipes.”
I clutched the bottles from him one by one, leaving him to his swilling, and examined them carefully, feigning to observe the marks; but soon an alarm took me, for what I was in search of was not there.
“Bah!” says I, “the knave has fobbed you off. This is not his best.”
The Ordinary stared. “’Tis well enough,” said he, “and there’s half a dozen more without.”
“Why, fetch ’em in,” cried I, with new hope, “maybe ’tis the tap I love.”
The Ordinary, stimulated thereby, obeyed without a word; and no sooner was the first bottle in my hands than I saw at once that Shackleton had taken my meaning, and I’ll warrant I laid it by with a mighty cheerful feeling in my heart. And with that I turned, smiling, to the Ordinary, and gave him a health, to which he responded with drunken gravity.
Then befell a scene the recollection of which even now makes me merry. For I was myself in a lively mood, now that things were assured for me, and the Ordinary, heated with the drink he had already swallowed, and gloating upon the good liquor, soared beyond his previous behaviour in the extravagance of his meanderings. He had not a spark of humour in his body, but was as serious as a Judge.
“You will wonder, Ryder,” says he, seated very comfortable, “why I, who was ordained for great things, am come to this deplorable state. Females, my lad, cracks, cockatrices, for a start, and an uncommon devotion to the bottle, the which it is pleasing to consider, I have now conquered.”
“Well, here’s another glass on it,” said I, with a laugh.
The Ordinary dipped his beak like a didapper. “’Tis a sore pity you are bound for Hell-fire, Ryder,” he said; “but so ’tis—where their worms dieth not—a parlous state, lamentable, indeed, for a Christian to contemplate,”
“Does your reverence mark me out for Satan?” I asked whimsically.
He rolled his eyes, and shook his head lugubriously. “Undoubtedly, you are chosen for burning, Ryder,” he declared. “I have given your case careful and prayerful thought. But the mercy of God which endureth for ever will be void before an addicted sinner like yourself. The Devil has hardened your heart, as he hardened the heart of Pharaoh, and of old Clinch, that was hanged in chains at Hampstead in 1673. He was a rare one was Clinch; a prettier hand at a job I never met. I have known him to take two thousand guineas in a day between here and Portsmouth.”
“I ha’ done better myself,” says I, for I was tired of this laudation of parties like Clinch and Starbottle; “I have took ten thousand in an hour or so.”
The Ordinary turns his eyes on me. “For the which you have lost your immortal soul,” he said solemnly. “Bethink you, Ryder, how little a thing is life. Rather lay up for yourself treasure in Heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through and steal. The advice, maybe, comes late, seeing that your hours are numbered; but, as I have not had the honour of your acquaintance previously, I have lacked the opportunity to put you upon the narrow way that leadeth to life.”
“O damn preaching,” says I; “let us drink.”
The Ordinary smiled. “What I like about you, Ryder,” he says, “is your generous hand. You must have heaped up riches. ’Twas a pretty business, yours; and all to fall into the hands of a wench.”
But I would not take that from him, as I let him know. “Leave talking of Polly,” I cried angrily, “or irons or no irons, I’ll knap your ugly nose off”
“You are too hot, Ryder,” says he, edging away drunkenly; “I meant no offence. Faith, I mean nothing but well by you, in proof whereof I will drink to a neat turn-off to-morrow.” He drank at his words, and though I was angry I could not forbear laughing.
“O well,” I says, “I’ll join you there.”
“That’s well,” he says. “Friends should not quarrel, specially as their fellowship must be so soon determined,” and smacked his lips. “Lord, Ryder,” says he, gazing at the ceiling, “you’re but a young hand, smart for your age, no doubt, but lacking the master’s cunning. There was that job at Petersfield, now—Clinch would never have undertook that, nor Starbottle neither. ’Twas your impetuosity misled you. For my part I should ha’ waited for the fall of dark, catched ’em up three leagues t’other side, nicked ’em in the forest, and then, as comfortable as you like, I should ha’ had ’em under my pistols, with never a star to witness and wooden ears to hear. ’Twould ha’ been as easy as dismembering a pint of wine.”
He was now fair set upon his hobby, and I knew that he would not be drawn from the wine so long as he could fist a bottle. But I was minded to get to work, and be quit of the oaf, and so, says I, “Your reverence will perceive that the sands of my life run out, and the night is far spent. An’ it suit you, sure, I will engage for the remainder in watch and prayer, lest I enter into temptation.”
At the sound of this he pulled up and surveyed me with solemnity. “Aye,” says he, “Ryder, fall to your prayers, for thou shalt be hanged as high as Haman afore breakfast.”
“Leave me, then,” says I, “and take those pipkins with you, for what has a poor devil like me to do with mortal pleasures?”
“True,” he stutters. “There’s no further use in them for you, and as ’tis a pity to despise the kindly creatures of God, I will e’en put up with them myself.”
So saying, and hugging the remnant of the dozen to his breast, he staggered to the door, which, being unlocked from without, was once more closed upon me. You may imagine that it was not long before I had forth my particular flask, and fetched out of its inwards a sharp file and a short whittle. With the former I set to work forthwith, and after three hours’ hard labour had eaten well through the irons. After which, concealing the knife about me, I lay back and slept sound.
I was awoke about sunrise by the coming of the dubsman who, with a few rough words of condolence, bade me to prepare for the cart. This was easy done, and presently I was taken forth by his mates, one of whom ventured to rally me upon my fortunes in ugly terms. I would have taken the brute a clout under his jaw, if I had not been restrained by considerations of prudence. As it was, all I did was of a sudden to go down upon my knees and plead for his pardon. The turnkeys grinned, and the same fellow was for lifting me up with his foot, when in comes the Ordinary, looking the most dismal ruffian you can imagine in the three kingdoms, but his eyes very determined and business-like.
“Hold, Roper,” says he, sharply; “you would forget yourself;” and then to me, “I am glad, Ryder, to perceive that you are come to a resigned and dutiful spirit on this day of reckoning.”
I rolled my eyes, and murmured some hocus-pocus to myself, with my nose to the ceiling, and the Ordinary looking edified, took a pinch of snuff. But after that I was pushed along, and came next into the open, where a great crowd was collected. At the sight of me there was some noise, and then what does I do but suddenly flops upon my knees again.
“Your reverence, I would wish to pray,” says I.
“Back there,” cried the Ordinary, waving his arm authoritatively, and gesticulating to my shepherds to stop. There was a roar from the crowd, and then there fell a hush, for ’twas scarce the conduct that had been looked for in me. Then I was gotten into the cart, with the Ordinary by me, and we set forth at a doleful pace for the Uxbridge Road. Down I pops on my knees once more.
“I would ask mercy,” says I.
His reverence stared a little, but quickly composing himself, “Aye, you have need of mercy,” he says, and lifts his own hands to Heaven.
Now this proved diverting to the escort, of whom the self-same Sheriff that had witnessed against me rode near by on a white horse. But I let ’em laugh, for I swore under my breath to visit them with a surprise presently. ’Twas a rare piece of fun to them, no doubt, that Dick Ryder was turned puritan, and Shackleton’s lads, too, must have stared. For, by that same token, when we were at length off Soho, to the accompaniment of many groans and cheers, and a great concourse of people, I saw, sure enough, that Shackleton had took my meaning, for there was a string of ’em in accordance with my signal, outside the “Pack Horse.” Here once again I fell upon my knees, and this time the Ordinary, who was being carried away by his growing passion, as we neared the Tree, fell with me, calling out his prayers aloud. And just then, glinting out of the tail of my eye I caught sight of Timothy Grubbe, all in a grin by the roadway. That somehow put the rowels on me, and with a swift movement of my arms I loosened the darbies upon my wrists and legs, and flinging them off with a clank into the cart, whipped out the gully and with a bound was over the edge and into the road, leaving the poor Ordinary upside down, with his long legs kicking in the air like a beetle fallen upon his back. The act fell with such suddenness that it took them all by surprise, but at the cry that was raised the escort reined in with some confusion. Once upon his legs, however, Galloping Dick was a match for any escort, and sending the nearest off his nag with a knock in the belly, I merely sent the steel in a flying stab at my old friend, the Sheriff, and was through the ring ere ever they might lift a weapon. A great roar broke from the assembly, but the ranks gave way upon the Soho side, as I ran through full tilt. “Bravo, Dick!” cries someone, and with that a shout goes up, and ’twas “Bravo, Dick!” all round. Shackleton’s lads carved out a lane for me smartly enough, and ere the escort could pierce the crowd I was through the “Pack Horse” and out upon a private back-alley, as I knew, in the twinkling of an eye.
And that, as it chanced, was the method of my escape, which was for long notorious in the country, and concerning which many erroneous tales have been in circulation.