CHAPTERLXXXIV.PEACE’S LAWLESS CAREER—CAPTURE, TRIAL, AND CONVICTION—HIS ATTEMPTED ESCAPE FROM WAKEFIELD.We must return again to the hero of our story. To say the truth the life of this man is little more than a record of his escapades, troubles, and trials, and a detail of the various robberies in which he was engaged. The scoundrel’s hypocrisy forms a large element in his character.He was professedly a religious man; the neighbours thought him so, and possibly he thought so too; so he associated with the good folk who congregated in the sacred edifice, but never made himself conspicuous.Peace trifled with Fate. She had blessed him with worldly goods, though it must be confessed that they were not his own, and his consummate impudence led to his apprehension.One of the inspectors who had been concerned in his capture, expressed his opinion of Peace’s character in these words:—“There is not another demon in Europe like him, unless it’s the Czar. What sort of scoundrels they have in Asia I don’t know.”The words were graphic, but they were spoken with such vehemence as to show that even the London police were surprised at the revelations which were made.Another said, “He mistook his hunting-ground; there is not sufficient room for brigandage in England; he ought to have gone to Sicily.” The general opinion of the police was one rather of wonder mixed with surprise, but with a certain admiration for the fellow’s cleverness in his profession.The more inquiries that are made into the past history of Peace, the more does it appear that he was a head and shoulders above the ordinary criminal. He appears to have had ingrained in his nature a cruelty of mind and firmness of purpose which nothing could baffle. He always objected to poverty, and as he did not seem to be over fond of hard work—though at times he certainly did follow his business of a picture-frame maker with something like assiduity—he chose a career of crime as the most fitted to maintain him in luxury.When eighteen years of age he lived with his mother at Walker-street, Sheffield, and was employed in Millsand’s rolling mill.At this time he developed a passionate love for music, the instrument on which he most excelled being the violin. He was welcomed at the various public-houses in the vicinity on account of the readiness with which he was always willing to exhibit his accomplishment without direction, and there are many people residing now in Sheffield who can remember with pleasure evenings spent in Peace’s company.He was at this time known by a little goat-carriage in which he was accustomed to drive the child who was his pupil, and who was introduced to the reader in a previous chapter.This singular equipage usually attracted great attention, and many no doubt remember him by his goat excursions.His course from this time became a downward one, and from one excess he fell into another. He was living with his wife and stepson on good terms, and ostensibly his business was that of a picture-frame maker.He became acquainted with a neighbour who was notoriously dishonest, and the pair spent a good deal of time together.They planned a daring robbery of wine, which they managed to successfully carry out. The booty was concealed in a field until the hue and cry should have ceased.For some considerable time he and his accomplice managed to carry on their depredations with impunity; but justice, however, at length overtook them, and again Peace was brought to the bar of justice.Indeed he passed, as we have already signified, a very considerable portion of his time in prison; but penal servitude in his case, as in so many other instances, did not appear to have a deterrent effect.No sooner was he released than after a short period of honest industry he again had recourse to his thieving propensity. We subjoin a report of his trial and sentence.BURGLARY AT RUSHOLME.George Parker, alias Charles Peace (aged 30), and Alfred Newton (aged 25), were charged with having burglariously entered the house of Elizabeth Brooks, at Rusholme, near Manchester, and stolen therefrom a quantity of silver plate and other property. Mr. Higginson prosecuted; Mr. Fearnley defended the prisoner Parker, and Newton was defended by Mr. Campbell Foster.Mr. John Aitken, a gentleman residing with Miss Brooks, stated that about six o’clock on the morning of the 3rd of June he discovered that an entrance had been effected into the dining room by forcing open the window, and upon examination it was discovered that a coat, some papers, and a cigar case belonging to himself, and a picture, a cash-box, fourteen silver spoons, and two sugar tongs, the property of Miss Brooks, had been stolen. Information was given to the police, and a search being made in the fields near the house, nearly the whole of the property was found in an old sewer. Officers were set to watch the place, and on the prisoners approaching the spot with a hamper for the purpose of removing the property, they were apprehended, and after a violent resistance safely lodged in Bridewell. The missing cigar-case was found in the possesion of Parker, who stated in the first instance that he found it, and afterwards that it had bean given to him.On behalf of the prisoner Parker witnesses were called to prove that he came from Sheffield to Manchester only a few hours before he and Newton were captured, and several witnesses were called to prove that Newton was in Sheffield at the very time that the burglary was committed, and did not leave that town for Manchester until the next morning.It was contended on behalf of the latter prisoner that he would have no motive for committing the crime with which he was charged, as he was a well-to-do tradesman, having money in the bank. The explanation given of their attempting to remove the stolen property from the sewer was that they had accidentally found it whilst taking a walk together.Both prisoners were found guilty of receiving the property knowing it to have been stolen.A former conviction was proved against Parker, and he was sentenced to six years’ penal servitude. Newton was sentenced to fifteen months’ imprisonment with hard labour.Peace was sent to the Old Trafford Gaol. We must pass over the period of his imprisonment for this offence, as other and more important events in his life have to be chronicled.Peace, though a desperate character, could appear as meek and mild a man as ever handled a six-shooter.The result of his playing the good boy was that he was let out on ticket-of-leave, and society once more suffered for the relaxation of the law’s severity.After his Old Trafford sentence he returned to Sheffield, and took a small shop in Kenyon-alley. There he used to amuse his acquaintances by showing the dexterity with which he could pick the most stubborn lock. He soon afterwards resumed his old practices, proving the truth of the old adage, “Once a thief always a thief.”He carried on his business for some time in Kenyon-alley, and it was while here that he displayed some considerable amount of ability as an actor. Mr. John Tait, schoolmaster at Consett, gave an account in theConsett Guardianof a visit Peace paid to his school. He says, “Many of my old scholars well remember Peace performing the gravedigger scene in “Hamlet.” His acting was admirable, but the contortions of his countenance and the amazing transformations he effected in his visage baffle all description.” Mr. Tait further states he visited Mr. Dawson’s school at Spennymuir about the same time, and performed the same part as he did at his school, with the addition of decamping with two musical instruments he had borrowed, and attempting to persuade a girl to elope with him.His life in the several convict prisons in which he was confined would fill a volume, but as we have given an account of his sojourn at Preston and Dartmoor, this will suffice for the present.In serving his time at different periods, Peace made the acquaintance of the prisons of Millbank, Chatham (where he was flogged), and Gibraltar.His handiness caused him then as at other times to be employed as a sort of general utility man about the prisons, doing odd jobs in which tact and dexterity were needed.It was after his earlier convictions that Peace was sent to Gibraltar, where, with other convicts he was employed on Government work, and was there known to be anything but a quiet sort of man to have in charge.This, however, must be considered an exception to the rule, as in most cases he was tolerably well conducted when undergoing the various terms of imprisonment.At Gibraltar he especially incurred the hatred of a servant there, named Baynes, who, he found, was stealing firewood.It appeared that Government allowed firewood in certain proportions for the use of the men stationed there, and Peace, after watching him, caught him in the act of taking firewood and disposing of the same.He informed the authorities of this, and the result was that Baynes was discharged. However, by some means or other the latter became employed as a warder at one of the great convict establishments, and subsequently our hero found himself under his care.It may be imagined that, though a convict’s life is far from a pleasant one, that of Peace was, if anything, more unpleasant than usual. The warder paid off one or two old scores, and never let an opportunity pass of showing his aversion, and making Peace’s life as uncomfortable as possible.However, in the due course of time, the convict was discharged, and returned to Sheffield.In the summer of the year before his arrest at Blackheath, Peace was in the City on business, and had occasion to pass over London Bridge. His hands were not covered, for at this time he wore no gloves; he was simply clean shaven, and well dressed. Midway on the bridge, who should meet him but the warder who so much detested him?Of all the men he would rather not have faced, this, with the exception of a Sheffield detective, was the one.However, he walked straight on, and though the warder looked at him, and actually turned, he never stopped, and thus once more Peace escaped detection and apprehension. Had he been “tackled” there and then, doubtless he would have made a desperate resistance, and what the result would have been can only be a matter of conjecture—for at this time he never went out unarmed.When in confinement Peace, during his leisure moments, used to employ himself in studying mechanics. He was, as we have already signified, exceedingly fond of watching machinery in motion, and had a good idea, with regard to its essentials—he having, in the earlier part of his life, worked at a rolling mill.At Dartmoor he suggested some very important improvements in the machinery used there.His notions were tried, and then adopted, and up to the present time they have not been superseded, there having been no improvement upon them.Indeed, many of his inventions were adopted in other of the convict establishments.Whatever Peace undertook, whether it was a burglary or a piece of other handiwork, he always did it well, and in that sense he may be said to have been a successful man, but in that sense alone.During his imprisonment for the Rusholme robbery his poor wife had a hard time of it. In addition to the boy, Willie Ward, she had a child by Peace to look after.The lonely wife had to sell up her home to provide the means of defence at his trial, and afterwards she began to keep a shop—the little bow-windowed shop so well known in Kenyon-alley. Hither came, one night in the summer of 1864, the returned convict, released on ticket-of-leave.It was now that Peace again commenced the picture-frame making, which was the ostensible business of the remainder of his life, and for a time he seems to have been industrious and to have done well.The wretched criminal had many good chances of placing himself in a respectable position, but was so steeped in crime that he would not avail himself of the chances thrown into his way.For some time he led a more creditable life; he worked for Closer’s, in Gibraltar-street, and afterwards he was manager for Peters, in Westbar-green. Then he engaged a workshop at the end of Kenyon-alley, and found so much to do that from having only a boy he employed two journeymen to help him.In this way he got a good business together, and the place being too small, he made the unfortunate venture of taking a shop in West-street, two doors from Rockingham-street.The moment he got there his luck seemed to turn, and the takings were not so great in a week as they had been in Kenyon-alley in a day.This exasperated him, for he was not a man who could ever do upon a small income. What he did with all the money he obtained by his extensive robberies must for ever remain a mystery.Not satisfied with the business in West-street he gave the shop up, and migrated, with his family, to Manchester. He took with him a stock of frames, but he had not been there a fortnight when he was once more in the hands of the officers of the law for doing a job at a house in Lower Broughton. He was caught in the act, and his excuse for such clumsiness was that he, who was usually strictly temperate, had partaken of several glasses of whiskey and water, and did not know what he was doing.We subjoin an extract from a Manchester paper, containing a brief report of the trial and conviction of Peace:—George Parker, alias Charles Peace, was indicted for breaking into the dwelling-house of Mr. W. R. Gemmell, Addison-terrace, Victoria Park, on the night of the 20th of August. Mr. Gorst prosecuted; and Mr. Torr defended.The servants and Mr. Gemmell were disturbed about 4 o’clock in the morning by a noise outside the house. On going downstairs they found that some person had got in through the scullery window, and that £3 7s.4d.in money, an opera glass, a pipe, and other things, had been stolen from the dining-room. The prisoner was arrested near the house, about five o’clock, by Police-constable Norris, who found upon him the whole of the stolen property, and several burglarious tools.Mr. Torr raised a point as to whether the case was one of burglary or of simple robbery from a dwelling-house. It appeared that the scullery window was a horizontal sliding one; and his lordship ruled that the mere sliding back of the window, whether fastened or not, was sufficient to constitute a burglary. It was not necessary that anything should be broken—the mere act of removing anything that prevented an entrance was enough. The jury found the prisoner guilty of burglary.The prisoner, a grey-headed man, begged in piteous accents for mercy for himself and his children.His lordship said he found that the prisoner was convicted at Liverpool in 1859, and sentenced to six years’ imprisonment; in 1854 he was sentenced to four years’ imprisonment; and before that he had been convicted of housebreaking. If he had really been penitent, it was not likely that he would have committed the present offence, and that, too, in a manner which showed that he was prepared to go all lengths in housebreaking. Not only, however, did he commit this burglary, but on the very same night he broke into another house, from which he stole some plate; but that charge would not be gone into. Under the circumstances, his lordship thought he could do no less than sentence him to be kept in penal servitude for the term of seven years. The prisoner then implored permission to be allowed to see his family, and his lordship said the proper authorities would decide that point.The court then rose.Peace, when he parted with his wife after his conviction, was sadly borne down. He bitterly regretted having indulged in strong drink. He had indeed put an enemy in his mouth to steal away his brains.“It’s no use blubbering,” he said to his weeping wife; “it’s done and can’t be helped. I was a fool to muddle myself, and make such a miserable mess of the business; but drink will knock over any man. Look here, now, aint it aggravating to be lagged for years because a chap was stupid enough to be boozing in the morning? It’s hard lines——”“It’s hard for me, as well as yourself,” returned his companion. “What is to become of us?”“You must do the best you can, old girl; and when I return I’ll make it up to you. I’ll lead a new life, and cut this sort of business.”“It’s time you did, Charles. If I thought——”“Thought be hanged!” interrupted the convict, petulantly; “I tell you I will, and so there’s an end of the matter.”“Seven years is a long time.”“I know that, you stupid; I know it from sad experience, and don’t want you to remind me of it. All this is sad enough, but my trouble is about you. It is not so much for myself that I care, but for you. Not, mind you, that a seven years’ stretch is a thing to be proud of or pleased with. It’s a hard sentence, that’s what it is. Ain’t it, guv’nor?”This last observation was made to a warder who had charge of him.“I don’t know that it is, considering all things,” returned the warder.“Oh, no; you chaps never do think a cove gets more than he deserves.”“Well, you see, there were previous convictions against you—that’s why you’ve got it so hot.”“I was driven to it. Business was bad, and I was without a mag.”“That’s no reason for laying your hands upon other people’s property,” suggested the warder; “but I don’t want to pain you by my reproaches. I am sorry for your misfortune—sorry for your wife and child’s sake.”“Thank you, sir; you are very good, I’m sure,” observed Mrs. Peace, wiping the fast-falling tears from her swollen eyelids.“It is not the man only who suffers—it is his family,” said the warder. “They are to be pitied the most.”“What’s the use of pity?” cried Peace. “Did you ever know it do any good? It aint worth a rap—pity indeed. No one will help her or me—not that I know of.”“I hope there is some one. Have you any friends?” This last observation was addressed to the woman.“No, none. None that can give me any assistance. Those I know are as poor as myself.”“Now, then, prisoners, this way!” shouted out a man in the lobby in a stentorian voice. “This way for prisoners.”Peace bade a hasty farewell to his wife, kissed his infant daughter, and was conducted to the “Black Maria,” which was standing at one of the side doors of the Court-house.Mrs. Peace returned home in a very wretched frame of mind, as may be readily imagined. She did not know how to eke out a living for a short time after the conviction of her husband.She kept a little shop in Long Millgate, Manchester, but before long she went back to Sheffield, and got employment in charing, and in the bottling department of a wine merchant. There were some few who took compassion on her, and strove to put something in her way.She was an industrious frugal woman, who did her best under most trying and disheartening circumstances.At first she lived in Prippet-lane, but afterwards in Orchard-street, where Peace’s mother lived.In 1865, shortly before leaving Kenyon-alley, there had been a son—John Charles—born, but he did not live to see the return of his father.Peace was taken to Wakefield gaol. The usual formalities were gone through, which were much the same as those described in some of the earlier chapters of this work.Peace, as we have observed, was a handy man enough, and this was soon found out by the authorities of Wakefield prison.For the first few weeks after his introduction he was set to work at oakum-picking; but as time went on, and the warders and deputy-governor became better acquainted with his habits, he was set to work at whitewashing, painting, and doing other odd jobs in the prison. He contrived to make himself generally useful, and in addition to this he succeeded in impressing the chaplain with the fact that he was a very devout person, who had seen the error of his ways, and who was moreover duly impressed with the necessity there was for him to reform.He had been convicted thrice; this fact he could not conceal; but when once he had another chance given him he said he would avail himself of it, and that nothing in the world should ever induce him to stray again from the path of rectitude.He talked so plausibly, entering into elaborate disquisitions upon certain portions of the Scriptures, that the chaplain was fairly imposed upon by the hypocritical prisoner.Some repairs were being done in the prison, and Peace was one of the gang employed for this purpose. He worked industriously with his mates for some days.Although he was a cunning, clever rascal, and was unscrupulous and daring to boot, he does not appear to have rivalled the celebrated Jack Sheppard, as far as attempts at escaping from prison are concerned.As he was at work the thought crossed his mind that he might succeed in effecting his escape, and when once this idea entered his head he did not rest till he laid out his plan of operation.The repairs he was executing gave him an opportunity of smuggling a short ladder into his cell. No one for a moment suspected what he was meditating, and, indeed, it would appear that much more latitude was allowed him than usually falls to the share of a convict.He managed to secure a piece of zinc, and took an opportunity of nicking it so that it would answer the purpose of a saw. When shut up for the night he set industriously to work.The cell in which he was confined was not of a modern structure, with stone walls and an arched stone roof, such as are now invariably used in all our convict prisons.The roof was plaster; in the centre of it ran a beam. Peace had ascertained this before he began his operations. It did not take him long to make a hole in the ceiling. When this had been done he set to work with his zinc saw to cut through the beam.The cell was one of the top ones; it was in close proximity to the roof. This he had also ascertained—if he could once get on the roof, he felt the rest would be an easy matter.The chances are that he would not have succeeded in any case, but he was bent on his project, and was in a state of nervous excitement until it was carried out.“I’ll do them yet,” he murmured. “If I gain the roof I shall be able to give them the slip, and there will be one prisoner less in Wakefield gaol—that’s all. Ha, ha!” he laughed, at the prospect of doing his janitors.For the greater part of the night he was at work, but the progress he made was so slow, in consequence of the clumsy instrument with which he worked, that daylight came before he had made a hole sufficiently large for him to pass through.“The warders will be round presently,” he ejaculated; “and if I am not clean off before they make their appearance I am lost.”He set to work with renewed vigour; the perspiration fell in thick beads from his forehead and temples. An exclamation of delight escaped him: the aperture was sufficiently large for his purpose.He crept through the hole, and then seemed to breathe more freely. He laid hold of the top rail of the ladder, which he was in the act of drawing up after him, when the cell door was opened, and an official exclaimed in a voice of alarm—“Halloa there—what’s this? Come down!”Peace made no reply. The moments were now precious to him. The officer advanced and endeavoured to seize the ladder. Peace gave him a blow with it in the chest, and knocked him down.The man uttered an exclamation of rage and pain. But Peace did not wait for further parley: he drew up the ladder and ran along the roof in the greatest state of excitement.After running over the roof he got on to the prison wall, and he was making his way along there when a terrible misfortune befel him: the bricks were loose, and it was impossible for him to keep his balance or maintain his foothold. He fell. It was supposed that he had fallen outside.There was by this time a hue and cry after him. Consternation sat on the visages of the warders, and the whole place was soon in an uproar.The deputy-governor asked what was the matter. The warders said that a prisoner had escaped.“How and by what means?” cried the deputy-governor.Nobody appeared to know. Davis, the warder who had been pushed down by Peace, not chosing to stop and explain matters, hastened at once into the governor’s presence, and made him acquainted with the facts which had come under his knowledge. After this he ran round the outside of the prison in search of Peace, whom he did not succeed in finding.Peace had really fallen inside the prison wall, not far from where some servants were looking out from the door of the governor’s house; but, notwithstanding their close proximity to him, they had not seen him either before or after his fall, the reason for this being that their attention was directed away from him.The general impression was at this time that our hero had succeeded in making his escape, and the governor and deputy-governor were greatly incensed at what they termed the carelessness of the men in charge of the convicts.The prison officials were in no enviable frame of mind; they expected to be called over the coals, and were ransacking their brains for excuses to offer.Peace, finding that the governor’s servants had not observed him, determined upon a bold stroke. With the cunning of a hunted fox he slipped past the room in which they were at this time, entered the governors’ house, and ran upstairs.No one for a moment supposed that he was loitering about the premises. Indeed, everyone was fairly puzzled, and could not in any way account for his sudden and mysterious disappearance.People were started off at once in quest of the fugitive.Upon Peace reaching one of the upstair rooms of the house, he stripped off his prison clothes and dressed himself in a suit of the governor’s.This done, he watched patiently for an opportunity of escape, but none came.A throng of persons were in the lower rooms of the habitation, and, for the present at least, escape was impossible.Even if he had the temerity to drop from the window, he would be sure to be recaptured, for there were numbers of persons—policemen and warders—gathered round the walls of the gaol.Peace was wild with fury. He was within sight of liberty, which was, however, denied him.He thought it best to remain concealed in his hiding-place till the aspect of affairs changed.But no change appeared likely to take place.An hour passed.Then another half hour, at the expiration of which the room door was suddenly opened, and several piercing screams proceeded from a maid-servant, in whose room Peace was secreted.He strove in vain to silence the girl by placing his hand over her mouth for the purpose of stifling her cries.But the attempt proved futile. She was too much alarmed, and her voice was so shrill that it would have awakened one of the seven sleepers.“Hold your deuced tongue, you little fool!” exclaimed Peace. “Nobody will hurt you.”But the mischief was already done. It is just possible that the maid might have connived at his escape if she had considered twice about the matter; as it was, he was lost.He knew and felt this, as the noise of ascending footsteps fell upon his ears.The governor, with a cohort of prison officials, now entered the apartment.Peace cut such a rueful figure, and presented altogether such a comical appearance in the governor’s clothes, which were a world too wide for him, in addition to being too long, in this respect resembling two towns on the Continent, namely Toulouse and Toulon, that more than one of the party could not refrain from laughing, the governor first setting the example himself.“So, sir,” said he, this is how you repay the kindness shown to you—is it?”“Oh, I am very sorry for what I’ve done,” said Peace, in a whining tone of voice, “but liberty is sweet, and penal servitude is a sore trial. I hope you will take a merciful view of the matter, for I don’t suppose it would have made much difference to anybody if I had got clean away—as it is I am to be pitied.”“You are a hypocritical, worthless fellow,” observed the governor; “and the sooner we are rid of you the better. You are not worthy of consideration, and as to kindness, it’s thrown away upon you. But whose clothes is the rascal wearing?” he observed, as it suddenly occurred to him that the garments looked very much like his own.“He’s got on your clothes, sir,” said one of the warders.“Upon my word, his impudence exceeds all bounds,” cried the governor in a fury.“I couldn’t find any others to put on,” whined Peace. I’ll take them off at once.”He began to undress, slipped out of the garments in question, and put on his prison attire.“Has he any accomplices?” inquired the governor.“I think not, sir,” answered Davis.“I have a great mind to recommend a sound flogging.”“Oh, pray don’t, sir; I ask your pardon. Pray have pity on me, if you please. I declare most positively that I intended to lead a new life, to reform, if I had got back into the world, and I intend to do so, under any circumstances. I pledge my word as to this.”“Your word!” exclaimed the governor, in ineffable disgust. “Your word, indeed! There, take him away; place him in one of the refractory cells.”Upon hearing these words Peace made a most piteous appeal to the governor, who, in reply, told him that he might think himself fortunate at being spared a flogging.The refractory or punishment cells, as they are termed, have double doors, which are kept locked to effectually prevent any communication from without. The prisoner, on entering one of these dark cells, which do not admit a single beam of light when the doors are closed upon him, finds everything as silent as the grave.The furniture of these wretched places consists of an iron bedstead, securely fixed in the floor, and a water closet.There is also a bell to communicate with the officers of the prison, and a trap in the door to convey food, as in the other cells.When under confinement in these places the prisoners are kept upon bread and water.The bedding at night consists of a straw mattrass and a rug, handed in at nine o’clock in the evening and taken away in the morning, when a tub of water is given to the prisoners for the purpose of performing their ablutions.Peace was conducted back to the gaol by the warders, one of whom unlocked the door of one of the refractory cells, and the wretched prisoner was thrust into the dark and cheerless receptacle.Without doubt even a temporary or short imprisonment in a dark cell is a terrible punishment to most men.When Peace heard the door slammed to his heart sank within him. A cold shudder passed through his frame as he breathed the mephitic black air, which seemed to be more like a fluid than an atmosphere.His allowance of bread and water had been given him as he made the acquaintance for the first time of his dark prison-house.“Oh!” he exclaimed; “and to think it should come to this! Had it not been for those loose bricks I should be breathing the fresh air now—be at liberty—but this is, indeed, most horrible. Ugh! this wretched darkness—this appalling gloom!”He sat down on the side of his bed and pressed his hands to his temples, which were throbbing painfully. He remained for some time lost in thought.“I am but a poor, silly fool after all,” he presently ejaculated. “Why should a man like me shudder at the darkness. What does it matter when one’s asleep whether there be light or not? How long am I to remain here, I wonder, and what will be their next move?”He endeavoured in vain to penetrate the gloom—endeavoured to make out the objects in his cell, but all to no purpose.It was the first time in his life that he had been immured in a refractory cell—he had heard the horrors of the place described by those who had suffered confinement in such places—now he had to learn them by his own bitter experience.“After all it is better than being bashed (flogged),” said he, “but it is bad enough, and a little of it goes a long way.”“If I keep still I shall be benumbed with cold. I must endeavour to get some exercise.”He groped to the wall, and keeping his hand on it, went round and round like a caged wolf. This exercise seemed to afford him some temporary relief, which, however, was but of a transient nature. He groaned and gnashed his teeth—the silence and gloom seemed almost insupportable. He sat himself once more on the side of his bed.“What have I done that I should be punished thus?” he ejaculated. “Endeavour to gain my liberty. Every person would do that if he saw a chance; he’d be a born idiot if he did not.”He sat rocking himself to and fro—trying not to think of anything, for now the miserable nature of his position seemed to fall upon him with additional force.“If they would only let me have one ray of light, however feeble, I would not complain. Nay, I would be satisfied, but this impenetrable gloom is more than mortal man can bear. I shall go mad. In a short time they will let me out of this place a howling maniac.”He stretched himself on his bed, and endeavoured to sleep, but every now and then he started as if an adder had stung him; he started and groaned, then he turned round, covered his face with his handkerchief and remained quiet for awhile.If he could only sleep he would be satisfied, but he found this impossible. The place was cold, damp, and cheerless.He arose and crept towards the door of the cell. What would he give to see it opened and have free passage accorded him?He listened at the door for some time; he could not detect the faintest sound, save the beatings of his own heart.He shouted out as loudly as he could, and his voice reverberated through the cell, making strange and uncouth echoes.He beat his fist violently against the door, the only effect of which was to bruise his hands; no one answered—there was nothing for him but darkness, silence, and solitude.“They have no compassion, no feeling, and have left me here to die!” he ejaculated. “Oh, the merciless wretches!”A thousand fugitive thoughts flitted through his brain; the incidents of his life were pictured before him with inconceivable rapidity.He had some feelings of remorse, and made good resolutions for his future conduct, which were afterwards broken, like others he had made when in trial and suffering, and now remorse and memory contracted themselves on one dark spot in Charles Peace’s history.Fear came upon him, an icy tremour crept through his frame, and a feeling of faintness came over him.Once more the past rushed by with tenfold force. All this was bad enough, but worse followed.He fancied something supernatural passed him like a cold blast.His limbs shook as with palsy, and his teeth chattered. Thick beads of perspiration oozed from his forehead and temples, and coursed down his cheeks.He cried most piteously for help. He said the cell was full of evil spirits—uncouth forms were flitting about him—horrible faces were grinning hideously at him. He screamed and cursed, and prayed, and dashed himself frantically against the door, and ran round his cell like a mad person. But no one came to his assistance. He flung himself once more on his bed, and uttered a plaintive moan.How long a time he had passed in his miserable prison house he could not possibly tell—to him it appeared an age. He was, however, aroused from his state of lethargy by the cell door being suddenly flung open, and when this had been done he beheld Davis—the man he had knocked down with the ladder—peering in. The warder tossed in the rug which was to cover him for the night.Peace sprang from his rude couch, and rushed towards the door.“You’ll kill me, that’s what you’ll do,” he said, in a whining voice.“How long am I to be shut up in this cursed place? Tell me that. How long?”“I don’t know—the governor has not determined.”“It’s cruel—monstrous, inhuman.”“It’s your own fault, you’ve nobody to blame but yourself.”“Don’t go. Pray, don’t go.”“What do you want?”“I’m not well—want to see the doctor.”“You are all right. Don’t think to gammon me again.”“It isn’t gammon. I pledge you my word that it’s the solemn truth. May I see the governor?”“He’s not in the way just now, and I don’t suppose he would see you if he were. I am sorry for you, and thought better things of you. You’ve had every indulgence.”“I know it, and am grateful for it.”The warder laughed.“Don’t jeer at my misfortunes. May I have a light?”“Certainly not; I can answer that question. No lights are allowed in the refractory cells. You have your answer, and so——”The warder suddenly slammed the door to, and Peace was left in darkness again.“Wretches—barbarians—inhuman monsters!” he ejaculated, and in the bitterness of the moment he felt disposed to cry.The prison authorities were, however, more considerate and merciful to him than perhaps he had any reason to expect.After two days’ confinement in the refractory cell he was taken out and placed in an ordinary prison cell, and in a few days after this he left the gaol with a batch of convicts, who were bound for Millbank. The officials at Wakefield were but too glad to be rid of him.
We must return again to the hero of our story. To say the truth the life of this man is little more than a record of his escapades, troubles, and trials, and a detail of the various robberies in which he was engaged. The scoundrel’s hypocrisy forms a large element in his character.
He was professedly a religious man; the neighbours thought him so, and possibly he thought so too; so he associated with the good folk who congregated in the sacred edifice, but never made himself conspicuous.
Peace trifled with Fate. She had blessed him with worldly goods, though it must be confessed that they were not his own, and his consummate impudence led to his apprehension.
One of the inspectors who had been concerned in his capture, expressed his opinion of Peace’s character in these words:—
“There is not another demon in Europe like him, unless it’s the Czar. What sort of scoundrels they have in Asia I don’t know.”
The words were graphic, but they were spoken with such vehemence as to show that even the London police were surprised at the revelations which were made.
Another said, “He mistook his hunting-ground; there is not sufficient room for brigandage in England; he ought to have gone to Sicily.” The general opinion of the police was one rather of wonder mixed with surprise, but with a certain admiration for the fellow’s cleverness in his profession.
The more inquiries that are made into the past history of Peace, the more does it appear that he was a head and shoulders above the ordinary criminal. He appears to have had ingrained in his nature a cruelty of mind and firmness of purpose which nothing could baffle. He always objected to poverty, and as he did not seem to be over fond of hard work—though at times he certainly did follow his business of a picture-frame maker with something like assiduity—he chose a career of crime as the most fitted to maintain him in luxury.
When eighteen years of age he lived with his mother at Walker-street, Sheffield, and was employed in Millsand’s rolling mill.
At this time he developed a passionate love for music, the instrument on which he most excelled being the violin. He was welcomed at the various public-houses in the vicinity on account of the readiness with which he was always willing to exhibit his accomplishment without direction, and there are many people residing now in Sheffield who can remember with pleasure evenings spent in Peace’s company.
He was at this time known by a little goat-carriage in which he was accustomed to drive the child who was his pupil, and who was introduced to the reader in a previous chapter.
This singular equipage usually attracted great attention, and many no doubt remember him by his goat excursions.
His course from this time became a downward one, and from one excess he fell into another. He was living with his wife and stepson on good terms, and ostensibly his business was that of a picture-frame maker.
He became acquainted with a neighbour who was notoriously dishonest, and the pair spent a good deal of time together.
They planned a daring robbery of wine, which they managed to successfully carry out. The booty was concealed in a field until the hue and cry should have ceased.
For some considerable time he and his accomplice managed to carry on their depredations with impunity; but justice, however, at length overtook them, and again Peace was brought to the bar of justice.
Indeed he passed, as we have already signified, a very considerable portion of his time in prison; but penal servitude in his case, as in so many other instances, did not appear to have a deterrent effect.
No sooner was he released than after a short period of honest industry he again had recourse to his thieving propensity. We subjoin a report of his trial and sentence.
BURGLARY AT RUSHOLME.
George Parker, alias Charles Peace (aged 30), and Alfred Newton (aged 25), were charged with having burglariously entered the house of Elizabeth Brooks, at Rusholme, near Manchester, and stolen therefrom a quantity of silver plate and other property. Mr. Higginson prosecuted; Mr. Fearnley defended the prisoner Parker, and Newton was defended by Mr. Campbell Foster.
Mr. John Aitken, a gentleman residing with Miss Brooks, stated that about six o’clock on the morning of the 3rd of June he discovered that an entrance had been effected into the dining room by forcing open the window, and upon examination it was discovered that a coat, some papers, and a cigar case belonging to himself, and a picture, a cash-box, fourteen silver spoons, and two sugar tongs, the property of Miss Brooks, had been stolen. Information was given to the police, and a search being made in the fields near the house, nearly the whole of the property was found in an old sewer. Officers were set to watch the place, and on the prisoners approaching the spot with a hamper for the purpose of removing the property, they were apprehended, and after a violent resistance safely lodged in Bridewell. The missing cigar-case was found in the possesion of Parker, who stated in the first instance that he found it, and afterwards that it had bean given to him.
On behalf of the prisoner Parker witnesses were called to prove that he came from Sheffield to Manchester only a few hours before he and Newton were captured, and several witnesses were called to prove that Newton was in Sheffield at the very time that the burglary was committed, and did not leave that town for Manchester until the next morning.
It was contended on behalf of the latter prisoner that he would have no motive for committing the crime with which he was charged, as he was a well-to-do tradesman, having money in the bank. The explanation given of their attempting to remove the stolen property from the sewer was that they had accidentally found it whilst taking a walk together.
Both prisoners were found guilty of receiving the property knowing it to have been stolen.
A former conviction was proved against Parker, and he was sentenced to six years’ penal servitude. Newton was sentenced to fifteen months’ imprisonment with hard labour.
Peace was sent to the Old Trafford Gaol. We must pass over the period of his imprisonment for this offence, as other and more important events in his life have to be chronicled.
Peace, though a desperate character, could appear as meek and mild a man as ever handled a six-shooter.
The result of his playing the good boy was that he was let out on ticket-of-leave, and society once more suffered for the relaxation of the law’s severity.
After his Old Trafford sentence he returned to Sheffield, and took a small shop in Kenyon-alley. There he used to amuse his acquaintances by showing the dexterity with which he could pick the most stubborn lock. He soon afterwards resumed his old practices, proving the truth of the old adage, “Once a thief always a thief.”
He carried on his business for some time in Kenyon-alley, and it was while here that he displayed some considerable amount of ability as an actor. Mr. John Tait, schoolmaster at Consett, gave an account in theConsett Guardianof a visit Peace paid to his school. He says, “Many of my old scholars well remember Peace performing the gravedigger scene in “Hamlet.” His acting was admirable, but the contortions of his countenance and the amazing transformations he effected in his visage baffle all description.” Mr. Tait further states he visited Mr. Dawson’s school at Spennymuir about the same time, and performed the same part as he did at his school, with the addition of decamping with two musical instruments he had borrowed, and attempting to persuade a girl to elope with him.
His life in the several convict prisons in which he was confined would fill a volume, but as we have given an account of his sojourn at Preston and Dartmoor, this will suffice for the present.
In serving his time at different periods, Peace made the acquaintance of the prisons of Millbank, Chatham (where he was flogged), and Gibraltar.
His handiness caused him then as at other times to be employed as a sort of general utility man about the prisons, doing odd jobs in which tact and dexterity were needed.
It was after his earlier convictions that Peace was sent to Gibraltar, where, with other convicts he was employed on Government work, and was there known to be anything but a quiet sort of man to have in charge.
This, however, must be considered an exception to the rule, as in most cases he was tolerably well conducted when undergoing the various terms of imprisonment.
At Gibraltar he especially incurred the hatred of a servant there, named Baynes, who, he found, was stealing firewood.
It appeared that Government allowed firewood in certain proportions for the use of the men stationed there, and Peace, after watching him, caught him in the act of taking firewood and disposing of the same.
He informed the authorities of this, and the result was that Baynes was discharged. However, by some means or other the latter became employed as a warder at one of the great convict establishments, and subsequently our hero found himself under his care.
It may be imagined that, though a convict’s life is far from a pleasant one, that of Peace was, if anything, more unpleasant than usual. The warder paid off one or two old scores, and never let an opportunity pass of showing his aversion, and making Peace’s life as uncomfortable as possible.
However, in the due course of time, the convict was discharged, and returned to Sheffield.
In the summer of the year before his arrest at Blackheath, Peace was in the City on business, and had occasion to pass over London Bridge. His hands were not covered, for at this time he wore no gloves; he was simply clean shaven, and well dressed. Midway on the bridge, who should meet him but the warder who so much detested him?
Of all the men he would rather not have faced, this, with the exception of a Sheffield detective, was the one.
However, he walked straight on, and though the warder looked at him, and actually turned, he never stopped, and thus once more Peace escaped detection and apprehension. Had he been “tackled” there and then, doubtless he would have made a desperate resistance, and what the result would have been can only be a matter of conjecture—for at this time he never went out unarmed.
When in confinement Peace, during his leisure moments, used to employ himself in studying mechanics. He was, as we have already signified, exceedingly fond of watching machinery in motion, and had a good idea, with regard to its essentials—he having, in the earlier part of his life, worked at a rolling mill.
At Dartmoor he suggested some very important improvements in the machinery used there.
His notions were tried, and then adopted, and up to the present time they have not been superseded, there having been no improvement upon them.
Indeed, many of his inventions were adopted in other of the convict establishments.
Whatever Peace undertook, whether it was a burglary or a piece of other handiwork, he always did it well, and in that sense he may be said to have been a successful man, but in that sense alone.
During his imprisonment for the Rusholme robbery his poor wife had a hard time of it. In addition to the boy, Willie Ward, she had a child by Peace to look after.
The lonely wife had to sell up her home to provide the means of defence at his trial, and afterwards she began to keep a shop—the little bow-windowed shop so well known in Kenyon-alley. Hither came, one night in the summer of 1864, the returned convict, released on ticket-of-leave.
It was now that Peace again commenced the picture-frame making, which was the ostensible business of the remainder of his life, and for a time he seems to have been industrious and to have done well.
The wretched criminal had many good chances of placing himself in a respectable position, but was so steeped in crime that he would not avail himself of the chances thrown into his way.
For some time he led a more creditable life; he worked for Closer’s, in Gibraltar-street, and afterwards he was manager for Peters, in Westbar-green. Then he engaged a workshop at the end of Kenyon-alley, and found so much to do that from having only a boy he employed two journeymen to help him.
In this way he got a good business together, and the place being too small, he made the unfortunate venture of taking a shop in West-street, two doors from Rockingham-street.
The moment he got there his luck seemed to turn, and the takings were not so great in a week as they had been in Kenyon-alley in a day.
This exasperated him, for he was not a man who could ever do upon a small income. What he did with all the money he obtained by his extensive robberies must for ever remain a mystery.
Not satisfied with the business in West-street he gave the shop up, and migrated, with his family, to Manchester. He took with him a stock of frames, but he had not been there a fortnight when he was once more in the hands of the officers of the law for doing a job at a house in Lower Broughton. He was caught in the act, and his excuse for such clumsiness was that he, who was usually strictly temperate, had partaken of several glasses of whiskey and water, and did not know what he was doing.
We subjoin an extract from a Manchester paper, containing a brief report of the trial and conviction of Peace:—
George Parker, alias Charles Peace, was indicted for breaking into the dwelling-house of Mr. W. R. Gemmell, Addison-terrace, Victoria Park, on the night of the 20th of August. Mr. Gorst prosecuted; and Mr. Torr defended.
The servants and Mr. Gemmell were disturbed about 4 o’clock in the morning by a noise outside the house. On going downstairs they found that some person had got in through the scullery window, and that £3 7s.4d.in money, an opera glass, a pipe, and other things, had been stolen from the dining-room. The prisoner was arrested near the house, about five o’clock, by Police-constable Norris, who found upon him the whole of the stolen property, and several burglarious tools.
Mr. Torr raised a point as to whether the case was one of burglary or of simple robbery from a dwelling-house. It appeared that the scullery window was a horizontal sliding one; and his lordship ruled that the mere sliding back of the window, whether fastened or not, was sufficient to constitute a burglary. It was not necessary that anything should be broken—the mere act of removing anything that prevented an entrance was enough. The jury found the prisoner guilty of burglary.
The prisoner, a grey-headed man, begged in piteous accents for mercy for himself and his children.
His lordship said he found that the prisoner was convicted at Liverpool in 1859, and sentenced to six years’ imprisonment; in 1854 he was sentenced to four years’ imprisonment; and before that he had been convicted of housebreaking. If he had really been penitent, it was not likely that he would have committed the present offence, and that, too, in a manner which showed that he was prepared to go all lengths in housebreaking. Not only, however, did he commit this burglary, but on the very same night he broke into another house, from which he stole some plate; but that charge would not be gone into. Under the circumstances, his lordship thought he could do no less than sentence him to be kept in penal servitude for the term of seven years. The prisoner then implored permission to be allowed to see his family, and his lordship said the proper authorities would decide that point.
The court then rose.
Peace, when he parted with his wife after his conviction, was sadly borne down. He bitterly regretted having indulged in strong drink. He had indeed put an enemy in his mouth to steal away his brains.
“It’s no use blubbering,” he said to his weeping wife; “it’s done and can’t be helped. I was a fool to muddle myself, and make such a miserable mess of the business; but drink will knock over any man. Look here, now, aint it aggravating to be lagged for years because a chap was stupid enough to be boozing in the morning? It’s hard lines——”
“It’s hard for me, as well as yourself,” returned his companion. “What is to become of us?”
“You must do the best you can, old girl; and when I return I’ll make it up to you. I’ll lead a new life, and cut this sort of business.”
“It’s time you did, Charles. If I thought——”
“Thought be hanged!” interrupted the convict, petulantly; “I tell you I will, and so there’s an end of the matter.”
“Seven years is a long time.”
“I know that, you stupid; I know it from sad experience, and don’t want you to remind me of it. All this is sad enough, but my trouble is about you. It is not so much for myself that I care, but for you. Not, mind you, that a seven years’ stretch is a thing to be proud of or pleased with. It’s a hard sentence, that’s what it is. Ain’t it, guv’nor?”
This last observation was made to a warder who had charge of him.
“I don’t know that it is, considering all things,” returned the warder.
“Oh, no; you chaps never do think a cove gets more than he deserves.”
“Well, you see, there were previous convictions against you—that’s why you’ve got it so hot.”
“I was driven to it. Business was bad, and I was without a mag.”
“That’s no reason for laying your hands upon other people’s property,” suggested the warder; “but I don’t want to pain you by my reproaches. I am sorry for your misfortune—sorry for your wife and child’s sake.”
“Thank you, sir; you are very good, I’m sure,” observed Mrs. Peace, wiping the fast-falling tears from her swollen eyelids.
“It is not the man only who suffers—it is his family,” said the warder. “They are to be pitied the most.”
“What’s the use of pity?” cried Peace. “Did you ever know it do any good? It aint worth a rap—pity indeed. No one will help her or me—not that I know of.”
“I hope there is some one. Have you any friends?” This last observation was addressed to the woman.
“No, none. None that can give me any assistance. Those I know are as poor as myself.”
“Now, then, prisoners, this way!” shouted out a man in the lobby in a stentorian voice. “This way for prisoners.”
Peace bade a hasty farewell to his wife, kissed his infant daughter, and was conducted to the “Black Maria,” which was standing at one of the side doors of the Court-house.
Mrs. Peace returned home in a very wretched frame of mind, as may be readily imagined. She did not know how to eke out a living for a short time after the conviction of her husband.
She kept a little shop in Long Millgate, Manchester, but before long she went back to Sheffield, and got employment in charing, and in the bottling department of a wine merchant. There were some few who took compassion on her, and strove to put something in her way.
She was an industrious frugal woman, who did her best under most trying and disheartening circumstances.
At first she lived in Prippet-lane, but afterwards in Orchard-street, where Peace’s mother lived.
In 1865, shortly before leaving Kenyon-alley, there had been a son—John Charles—born, but he did not live to see the return of his father.
Peace was taken to Wakefield gaol. The usual formalities were gone through, which were much the same as those described in some of the earlier chapters of this work.
Peace, as we have observed, was a handy man enough, and this was soon found out by the authorities of Wakefield prison.
For the first few weeks after his introduction he was set to work at oakum-picking; but as time went on, and the warders and deputy-governor became better acquainted with his habits, he was set to work at whitewashing, painting, and doing other odd jobs in the prison. He contrived to make himself generally useful, and in addition to this he succeeded in impressing the chaplain with the fact that he was a very devout person, who had seen the error of his ways, and who was moreover duly impressed with the necessity there was for him to reform.
He had been convicted thrice; this fact he could not conceal; but when once he had another chance given him he said he would avail himself of it, and that nothing in the world should ever induce him to stray again from the path of rectitude.
He talked so plausibly, entering into elaborate disquisitions upon certain portions of the Scriptures, that the chaplain was fairly imposed upon by the hypocritical prisoner.
Some repairs were being done in the prison, and Peace was one of the gang employed for this purpose. He worked industriously with his mates for some days.
Although he was a cunning, clever rascal, and was unscrupulous and daring to boot, he does not appear to have rivalled the celebrated Jack Sheppard, as far as attempts at escaping from prison are concerned.
As he was at work the thought crossed his mind that he might succeed in effecting his escape, and when once this idea entered his head he did not rest till he laid out his plan of operation.
The repairs he was executing gave him an opportunity of smuggling a short ladder into his cell. No one for a moment suspected what he was meditating, and, indeed, it would appear that much more latitude was allowed him than usually falls to the share of a convict.
He managed to secure a piece of zinc, and took an opportunity of nicking it so that it would answer the purpose of a saw. When shut up for the night he set industriously to work.
The cell in which he was confined was not of a modern structure, with stone walls and an arched stone roof, such as are now invariably used in all our convict prisons.
The roof was plaster; in the centre of it ran a beam. Peace had ascertained this before he began his operations. It did not take him long to make a hole in the ceiling. When this had been done he set to work with his zinc saw to cut through the beam.
The cell was one of the top ones; it was in close proximity to the roof. This he had also ascertained—if he could once get on the roof, he felt the rest would be an easy matter.
The chances are that he would not have succeeded in any case, but he was bent on his project, and was in a state of nervous excitement until it was carried out.
“I’ll do them yet,” he murmured. “If I gain the roof I shall be able to give them the slip, and there will be one prisoner less in Wakefield gaol—that’s all. Ha, ha!” he laughed, at the prospect of doing his janitors.
For the greater part of the night he was at work, but the progress he made was so slow, in consequence of the clumsy instrument with which he worked, that daylight came before he had made a hole sufficiently large for him to pass through.
“The warders will be round presently,” he ejaculated; “and if I am not clean off before they make their appearance I am lost.”
He set to work with renewed vigour; the perspiration fell in thick beads from his forehead and temples. An exclamation of delight escaped him: the aperture was sufficiently large for his purpose.
He crept through the hole, and then seemed to breathe more freely. He laid hold of the top rail of the ladder, which he was in the act of drawing up after him, when the cell door was opened, and an official exclaimed in a voice of alarm—
“Halloa there—what’s this? Come down!”
Peace made no reply. The moments were now precious to him. The officer advanced and endeavoured to seize the ladder. Peace gave him a blow with it in the chest, and knocked him down.
The man uttered an exclamation of rage and pain. But Peace did not wait for further parley: he drew up the ladder and ran along the roof in the greatest state of excitement.
After running over the roof he got on to the prison wall, and he was making his way along there when a terrible misfortune befel him: the bricks were loose, and it was impossible for him to keep his balance or maintain his foothold. He fell. It was supposed that he had fallen outside.
There was by this time a hue and cry after him. Consternation sat on the visages of the warders, and the whole place was soon in an uproar.
The deputy-governor asked what was the matter. The warders said that a prisoner had escaped.
“How and by what means?” cried the deputy-governor.
Nobody appeared to know. Davis, the warder who had been pushed down by Peace, not chosing to stop and explain matters, hastened at once into the governor’s presence, and made him acquainted with the facts which had come under his knowledge. After this he ran round the outside of the prison in search of Peace, whom he did not succeed in finding.
Peace had really fallen inside the prison wall, not far from where some servants were looking out from the door of the governor’s house; but, notwithstanding their close proximity to him, they had not seen him either before or after his fall, the reason for this being that their attention was directed away from him.
The general impression was at this time that our hero had succeeded in making his escape, and the governor and deputy-governor were greatly incensed at what they termed the carelessness of the men in charge of the convicts.
The prison officials were in no enviable frame of mind; they expected to be called over the coals, and were ransacking their brains for excuses to offer.
Peace, finding that the governor’s servants had not observed him, determined upon a bold stroke. With the cunning of a hunted fox he slipped past the room in which they were at this time, entered the governors’ house, and ran upstairs.
No one for a moment supposed that he was loitering about the premises. Indeed, everyone was fairly puzzled, and could not in any way account for his sudden and mysterious disappearance.
People were started off at once in quest of the fugitive.
Upon Peace reaching one of the upstair rooms of the house, he stripped off his prison clothes and dressed himself in a suit of the governor’s.
This done, he watched patiently for an opportunity of escape, but none came.
A throng of persons were in the lower rooms of the habitation, and, for the present at least, escape was impossible.
Even if he had the temerity to drop from the window, he would be sure to be recaptured, for there were numbers of persons—policemen and warders—gathered round the walls of the gaol.
Peace was wild with fury. He was within sight of liberty, which was, however, denied him.
He thought it best to remain concealed in his hiding-place till the aspect of affairs changed.
But no change appeared likely to take place.
An hour passed.
Then another half hour, at the expiration of which the room door was suddenly opened, and several piercing screams proceeded from a maid-servant, in whose room Peace was secreted.
He strove in vain to silence the girl by placing his hand over her mouth for the purpose of stifling her cries.
But the attempt proved futile. She was too much alarmed, and her voice was so shrill that it would have awakened one of the seven sleepers.
“Hold your deuced tongue, you little fool!” exclaimed Peace. “Nobody will hurt you.”
But the mischief was already done. It is just possible that the maid might have connived at his escape if she had considered twice about the matter; as it was, he was lost.
He knew and felt this, as the noise of ascending footsteps fell upon his ears.
The governor, with a cohort of prison officials, now entered the apartment.
Peace cut such a rueful figure, and presented altogether such a comical appearance in the governor’s clothes, which were a world too wide for him, in addition to being too long, in this respect resembling two towns on the Continent, namely Toulouse and Toulon, that more than one of the party could not refrain from laughing, the governor first setting the example himself.
“So, sir,” said he, this is how you repay the kindness shown to you—is it?”
“Oh, I am very sorry for what I’ve done,” said Peace, in a whining tone of voice, “but liberty is sweet, and penal servitude is a sore trial. I hope you will take a merciful view of the matter, for I don’t suppose it would have made much difference to anybody if I had got clean away—as it is I am to be pitied.”
“You are a hypocritical, worthless fellow,” observed the governor; “and the sooner we are rid of you the better. You are not worthy of consideration, and as to kindness, it’s thrown away upon you. But whose clothes is the rascal wearing?” he observed, as it suddenly occurred to him that the garments looked very much like his own.
“He’s got on your clothes, sir,” said one of the warders.
“Upon my word, his impudence exceeds all bounds,” cried the governor in a fury.
“I couldn’t find any others to put on,” whined Peace. I’ll take them off at once.”
He began to undress, slipped out of the garments in question, and put on his prison attire.
“Has he any accomplices?” inquired the governor.
“I think not, sir,” answered Davis.
“I have a great mind to recommend a sound flogging.”
“Oh, pray don’t, sir; I ask your pardon. Pray have pity on me, if you please. I declare most positively that I intended to lead a new life, to reform, if I had got back into the world, and I intend to do so, under any circumstances. I pledge my word as to this.”
“Your word!” exclaimed the governor, in ineffable disgust. “Your word, indeed! There, take him away; place him in one of the refractory cells.”
Upon hearing these words Peace made a most piteous appeal to the governor, who, in reply, told him that he might think himself fortunate at being spared a flogging.
The refractory or punishment cells, as they are termed, have double doors, which are kept locked to effectually prevent any communication from without. The prisoner, on entering one of these dark cells, which do not admit a single beam of light when the doors are closed upon him, finds everything as silent as the grave.
The furniture of these wretched places consists of an iron bedstead, securely fixed in the floor, and a water closet.
There is also a bell to communicate with the officers of the prison, and a trap in the door to convey food, as in the other cells.
When under confinement in these places the prisoners are kept upon bread and water.
The bedding at night consists of a straw mattrass and a rug, handed in at nine o’clock in the evening and taken away in the morning, when a tub of water is given to the prisoners for the purpose of performing their ablutions.
Peace was conducted back to the gaol by the warders, one of whom unlocked the door of one of the refractory cells, and the wretched prisoner was thrust into the dark and cheerless receptacle.
Without doubt even a temporary or short imprisonment in a dark cell is a terrible punishment to most men.
When Peace heard the door slammed to his heart sank within him. A cold shudder passed through his frame as he breathed the mephitic black air, which seemed to be more like a fluid than an atmosphere.
His allowance of bread and water had been given him as he made the acquaintance for the first time of his dark prison-house.
“Oh!” he exclaimed; “and to think it should come to this! Had it not been for those loose bricks I should be breathing the fresh air now—be at liberty—but this is, indeed, most horrible. Ugh! this wretched darkness—this appalling gloom!”
He sat down on the side of his bed and pressed his hands to his temples, which were throbbing painfully. He remained for some time lost in thought.
“I am but a poor, silly fool after all,” he presently ejaculated. “Why should a man like me shudder at the darkness. What does it matter when one’s asleep whether there be light or not? How long am I to remain here, I wonder, and what will be their next move?”
He endeavoured in vain to penetrate the gloom—endeavoured to make out the objects in his cell, but all to no purpose.
It was the first time in his life that he had been immured in a refractory cell—he had heard the horrors of the place described by those who had suffered confinement in such places—now he had to learn them by his own bitter experience.
“After all it is better than being bashed (flogged),” said he, “but it is bad enough, and a little of it goes a long way.”
“If I keep still I shall be benumbed with cold. I must endeavour to get some exercise.”
He groped to the wall, and keeping his hand on it, went round and round like a caged wolf. This exercise seemed to afford him some temporary relief, which, however, was but of a transient nature. He groaned and gnashed his teeth—the silence and gloom seemed almost insupportable. He sat himself once more on the side of his bed.
“What have I done that I should be punished thus?” he ejaculated. “Endeavour to gain my liberty. Every person would do that if he saw a chance; he’d be a born idiot if he did not.”
He sat rocking himself to and fro—trying not to think of anything, for now the miserable nature of his position seemed to fall upon him with additional force.
“If they would only let me have one ray of light, however feeble, I would not complain. Nay, I would be satisfied, but this impenetrable gloom is more than mortal man can bear. I shall go mad. In a short time they will let me out of this place a howling maniac.”
He stretched himself on his bed, and endeavoured to sleep, but every now and then he started as if an adder had stung him; he started and groaned, then he turned round, covered his face with his handkerchief and remained quiet for awhile.
If he could only sleep he would be satisfied, but he found this impossible. The place was cold, damp, and cheerless.
He arose and crept towards the door of the cell. What would he give to see it opened and have free passage accorded him?
He listened at the door for some time; he could not detect the faintest sound, save the beatings of his own heart.
He shouted out as loudly as he could, and his voice reverberated through the cell, making strange and uncouth echoes.
He beat his fist violently against the door, the only effect of which was to bruise his hands; no one answered—there was nothing for him but darkness, silence, and solitude.
“They have no compassion, no feeling, and have left me here to die!” he ejaculated. “Oh, the merciless wretches!”
A thousand fugitive thoughts flitted through his brain; the incidents of his life were pictured before him with inconceivable rapidity.
He had some feelings of remorse, and made good resolutions for his future conduct, which were afterwards broken, like others he had made when in trial and suffering, and now remorse and memory contracted themselves on one dark spot in Charles Peace’s history.
Fear came upon him, an icy tremour crept through his frame, and a feeling of faintness came over him.
Once more the past rushed by with tenfold force. All this was bad enough, but worse followed.
He fancied something supernatural passed him like a cold blast.
His limbs shook as with palsy, and his teeth chattered. Thick beads of perspiration oozed from his forehead and temples, and coursed down his cheeks.
He cried most piteously for help. He said the cell was full of evil spirits—uncouth forms were flitting about him—horrible faces were grinning hideously at him. He screamed and cursed, and prayed, and dashed himself frantically against the door, and ran round his cell like a mad person. But no one came to his assistance. He flung himself once more on his bed, and uttered a plaintive moan.
How long a time he had passed in his miserable prison house he could not possibly tell—to him it appeared an age. He was, however, aroused from his state of lethargy by the cell door being suddenly flung open, and when this had been done he beheld Davis—the man he had knocked down with the ladder—peering in. The warder tossed in the rug which was to cover him for the night.
Peace sprang from his rude couch, and rushed towards the door.
“You’ll kill me, that’s what you’ll do,” he said, in a whining voice.
“How long am I to be shut up in this cursed place? Tell me that. How long?”
“I don’t know—the governor has not determined.”
“It’s cruel—monstrous, inhuman.”
“It’s your own fault, you’ve nobody to blame but yourself.”
“Don’t go. Pray, don’t go.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m not well—want to see the doctor.”
“You are all right. Don’t think to gammon me again.”
“It isn’t gammon. I pledge you my word that it’s the solemn truth. May I see the governor?”
“He’s not in the way just now, and I don’t suppose he would see you if he were. I am sorry for you, and thought better things of you. You’ve had every indulgence.”
“I know it, and am grateful for it.”
The warder laughed.
“Don’t jeer at my misfortunes. May I have a light?”
“Certainly not; I can answer that question. No lights are allowed in the refractory cells. You have your answer, and so——”
The warder suddenly slammed the door to, and Peace was left in darkness again.
“Wretches—barbarians—inhuman monsters!” he ejaculated, and in the bitterness of the moment he felt disposed to cry.
The prison authorities were, however, more considerate and merciful to him than perhaps he had any reason to expect.
After two days’ confinement in the refractory cell he was taken out and placed in an ordinary prison cell, and in a few days after this he left the gaol with a batch of convicts, who were bound for Millbank. The officials at Wakefield were but too glad to be rid of him.