"Felons’ Cell, Jan. 10th, 1800.“Dear William,“You may guess my surprise to hear you say that John Cook knew nothing about you; that he invented a lie to get me to steal the horse. This accords, however, with my beloved mistress’s opinion. Oh! how glad I am that I did not let out the secret that I had money of yours in hand! I should have lost everything if I had. He, a villain, induced me to go to London with the hope of seeing you at the Dog and Bone, Lambeth. He told me that you were hiding from the fear of arrest, and had confided to him your place of safety. He even showed me a letter purporting to come from you. Oh! what an artful villain!—what punishment he deserves!“But, dear William, make yourself easy about the fine. I will sendfor my uncle Leader before the time of your imprisonment expires, and the hundred and thirty guineas shall be given up to you. He shall pay the fine for you, and shall give you the remainder. You will own now that I am trustworthy. Oh! how happy I am that I did not make away with it, nor suffer others to do so! I kept it for you, and it comes into use at the moment it is most wanted. Nobody need know how it is disposed of; only remember your poor Margaret, that she longs for the shortening of her confinement, that she may join herself with your fortunes wherever they may be.“You will soon regain your liberty. I may have to complete my seven years here. But will you be faithful and wait for me? You promise fairly. You say you will live at Sudbourn, and try to get an honest living. Every hour of the day I am thinking about you; and at night I dream sometimes that I am sailing upon the ocean with you; sometimes that I am living with my father and brother. But dreams are deceitful. I hope you will never prove such to me again. I am willing to join my fate to yours whenever I obtain my release. Pray God that may be soon. Oh! that it could come on the day of your own release! but come or not then, believe me ever"Your affectionateMargaret Catchpole.”
"Felons’ Cell, Jan. 10th, 1800.
“Dear William,
“You may guess my surprise to hear you say that John Cook knew nothing about you; that he invented a lie to get me to steal the horse. This accords, however, with my beloved mistress’s opinion. Oh! how glad I am that I did not let out the secret that I had money of yours in hand! I should have lost everything if I had. He, a villain, induced me to go to London with the hope of seeing you at the Dog and Bone, Lambeth. He told me that you were hiding from the fear of arrest, and had confided to him your place of safety. He even showed me a letter purporting to come from you. Oh! what an artful villain!—what punishment he deserves!
“But, dear William, make yourself easy about the fine. I will sendfor my uncle Leader before the time of your imprisonment expires, and the hundred and thirty guineas shall be given up to you. He shall pay the fine for you, and shall give you the remainder. You will own now that I am trustworthy. Oh! how happy I am that I did not make away with it, nor suffer others to do so! I kept it for you, and it comes into use at the moment it is most wanted. Nobody need know how it is disposed of; only remember your poor Margaret, that she longs for the shortening of her confinement, that she may join herself with your fortunes wherever they may be.
“You will soon regain your liberty. I may have to complete my seven years here. But will you be faithful and wait for me? You promise fairly. You say you will live at Sudbourn, and try to get an honest living. Every hour of the day I am thinking about you; and at night I dream sometimes that I am sailing upon the ocean with you; sometimes that I am living with my father and brother. But dreams are deceitful. I hope you will never prove such to me again. I am willing to join my fate to yours whenever I obtain my release. Pray God that may be soon. Oh! that it could come on the day of your own release! but come or not then, believe me ever
Not long after the date of this letter, application was made to the Secretary of State for her pardon; but, unfortunately for her, the same causes which had operated against her before still prevailed. The crime of horse-stealing was at this date at its highest pitch, and depredators of this kind became so bold, that it was thought necessary to give a positive denial to the application in Margaret’s favour. The prospect of her release, therefore, did not appear a bright one, and every month seemed to make it less probable.
The time for the departure of Laud out of prison now drew nigh, and Margaret wrote to her uncle,requesting him to come and see her, which he did; and she then gave him full powers to withdraw the 130 guineas from Mr. Smith, and requested him to pay £100 into the hands of Mr. Ripshaw on a certain day; namely, the 5th of March, the day previous to Laud’s term of imprisonment expiring.
Mr. Leader was well assured that she would never draw the money, except to restore it to Will Laud. He asked her the plain question. She gave him an honest answer. She told him that Will was then in prison, and that his liberty depended upon the punctuality of the payment. Her honesty with her uncle saved her from detection, for, in all probability, had not Mr. Leader had more prudence than she had, it might have been suspected by the gaoler. He at once suggested that Mr. Smith, who was not known to have any connexion with her, should be requested to pay the fine to Mr. Ripshaw, in behalf of the prisoner. It struck Margaret, the moment it was mentioned, and she felt surprised that the hurry and anxiety of her own feelings should have so greatly blinded her as to leave her destitute of common prudence in this matter.
It was on the 3rd of March, in the year 1800, that Margaret was destined to undergo the severest temptation she had ever yet experienced. She had been employed in washing for the prisoners, and was engaged hanging out the linen in the passage on one of the clothes-horses used for that purpose, when she was accosted from the debtors’ side in a well-known voice, “Margaret! what a capital ladder one of those horses would make, if set against the wall!”
She turned round, and there stood Will Laud. Cautiously she looked along the passage to see if any one was near. She pretended to be busily engaged; at the same time she said,—
“Ah, William! I understand you. I wish I could make my escape with you, and I would; but I fear the thing is too difficult.”
“You might manage it, Margaret, when the governor goes to Bury with the prisoners.”
“How, William! How?”
“You have the horse, and you have the linen line. Look around the wall, and see if you cannot find a place of escape. You must be tired of your captivity. I owe my liberty to you; and if I can once get you out of this place, no power on earth shall separate us again.”
“But where should I go, William, if I got out?”
“To my sister’s at Sudbourn, Lucy Keeley. I will tell her to expect you.”
“That would do. I will look round and see if it can be done. On the 19th or 20th of this month, Mr. Ripshaw goes to Bury with the prisoners. On Monday the 24th, and Tuesday the 25th, are our two great washing days. It must be one of those nights. Will you be waiting for me at the end of the lane, near St. Helen’s Church?”
“I will be waiting for you, never fear. I will have a sailor’s jacket and hat to disguise you in.”
“Well, the trial is worth the risk. I will confide in you once more, Laud; but if you deceive me, then, indeed, I care not what becomes of me. But I will trust you. Go!—There is some one coming.”
Laud departed, and Margaret busied herself with the linen. That day she had many things given her to mend. She contrived also to get a candle, under the pretence of working late. And such was the confidence which was placed in her, and such the quantity of work she performed, that she was trusted beyond any other prisoner in the house.
Margaret knew nothing of the penalty the law would compel her to pay for breaking out of prison. She knew nothing of the bond by which the gaoler was bound, in case of the escape of any of his prisoners. She saw but her lover and liberty, and did not suppose it any great offence, even if she should be detected in the attempt.
Her uncle Leader paid her a visit on the 5th, and gave her the thirty guineas, telling her that the hundred guineas were lodged in the hands of Mr. Ripshaw for the discharge of Will Laud.
“I will give William this money myself,” thought Margaret; but she breathed not one word of her intended escape to her uncle; and the good man left her with the conscious happiness, that let her term of confinement be what it might, she had been instrumental in procuring the release of her lover.
It was a proud day for Margaret, that 6th of March, 1800. From the felons’ side she could see her lover depart out of gaol in company with Mr. Ripshaw. She saw him go to the turnkey’s lodge; and with a heart at the same time bounding with the hope of liberty, she walked quietly round the felons’ yard, looking anxiously up at those long spikes to see where the widest place could be found for her to get her body through. That very hour she discovered a place where one of the spikes had been broken off. She looked at it and sighed. She was very thoughtful about it. It dwelt upon her mind night and day, till she had fully resolved to make the attempt at that very spot.
At night, and early in the morning, she was at work for herself. Out of one sheet she contrived to make a smock-frock, such as shepherds wear over their clothes. Out of the other she made a pair of sailor’s trousers. These she laid upon her bed in such an ingenious manner, that no one going into her cell would discover any difference in the usual make of it.
Anxiously did she watch the hours for the departure of Mr. Ripshaw with the prisoners for trial at Bury. In the very cell next to her own was a felon to be taken away. The anxious time came, and Margaret saw the governor and prisoners take their departure.
Meantime, Laud, directly he left the gaol, went to his sister’s house at Sudbourn. He reached that place the same night. He told his sister who it was that had paid the fine for him, and thus completely won her heart for Margaret. His plan was fixed to get off with Margaret in a smuggler’s boat, and get a cast to Holland, where he intended to marry and settle. He toldhis sister his plan, and she approved it, and promised to receive Margaret.
He was not long in ascertaining what boats were expected on the coast. He had an interview with one David Shaw, the master of a cutter belonging to Captain Merrells, and with him came to an understanding that, some day after the 25th, when wind and weather should suit, he should send a boat ashore for him. A red handkerchief tied round his hat should be the signal that he was ready. He told him that he should be accompanied by a friend, whom he wished to go over the water with him. All these things were arranged, and, as far as they went, were in some sense honourable. In the meantime he promised to assist in landing any cargoes along the shore. And this part of the contract he performed.
On the 19th of March, Mr. Ripshaw, with seven prisoners, departed for Bury. The business of the assizes began on Thursday, the 20th, and did not terminate until that day week, the 27th. On Monday and Tuesday the wash took place. On these occasions the female convicts are all locked up in one large room, from seven o’clock in the morning until seven in the evening; their food being brought to them in the washing-room. At seven in the evening they all go into the felons’ yard for exercise and air. They usually give their signal that the wash is finished by rapping the door about seven o’clock. This evening, Tuesday, the 25th, Margaret contrived by various means to prolong the wash till nearly eight o’clock, and as she had some kind of acknowledged authority and influence among her fellow-convicts, she insisted upon the signal not being given till the work was completely finished; so that at eight o’clock it was quite dark. They were let out of the room into the felons’ squo; yard at that time for one half hour. Some were accustomed to saunter about, or to have a game of romps. Some, when the season admitted, would weed the flower-beds; for Mr. Ripshaw was a great fancy florist, and used to raise the best ranunculuses, carnations, and polyanthuses, of any person in the town. His garden adjoined the felons’ walk, and was only separated from it by a very low paling. Margaret had continual access to the garden, and used to take considerable interest in the culture of the plants.
She was greatly disappointed to find that all the linen-horses stood on the stone area, between the debtors’ and felons’ yards. She had hoped that they would have been carried by the turnkey to the drying ground in the garden, as usual, ready for the linen in the morning. Owing to some cause or other, they were not there that night.
This was a sad disappointment, for she had made up her mind to escape that very night. Could she be suspected? Had anybody betrayed her? No, it was impossible. As the turnkey passed the palings she cried out to him, “You have not put out the horses for us to-night?”
“No, Margaret,” he replied, “we have all been too busy cleaning the cells and yards; but they shall be put out the first thing in the morning.”
The reply was both satisfactory and unsatisfactory. It convinced her she was not suspected; but declared that she must expect no help from the linen-horses. She was glad, however, to see that the lines were on the posts for the coarse linen, and the crotches, or props, in their proper places.
She looked around for something to help her. The gaol wall was nearly twenty-two feet high, and thechevaux de frisethree feet from the point of one revolving spike to its extreme point. What could she get to assist her? At one time she thought of pulling up a portion of the paling for a ladder. She tried her strength at it, but it was too much for her. She then turned her eye upon a large frame, which was used for the flower-beds. It covered a long bed, and the awning usually placed upon it to keep the sun off the flowers in the summer was not there. She tried her strength at this, and lifted the legs uponwhich it stood about a foot upwards. This she resolved to make her ladder. She looked up at the narrow spot where the iron spike had been broken, and which was close to the shoulder or prop of thechevaux de frise. Hope beamed brightly upon her as she thought of her liberty. Margaret resolved to make the attempt at midnight. At half-past eight the convicts all went in to supper, and afterwards retired to their cells. But Margaret, the moment she reached hers, contrived to slip out of it again, with the things she had made for her disguise, into the adjoining one, which stood open; and she crept under the bed of the felon who was gone to Bury for trial. She had, as usual, closed her own door, and lay anxiously waiting in her hiding place the turnkey’s approach. She heard him coming along, and asking the several prisoners, as he came, if they were in their cells. They answered his summons, and then she heard them locked up; and now came the challenge to her own door.
“Margaret, are you there?”
She put her lips to the wall of the cell where she was, and answered, "Yes.” It sounded exactly as if she was in bed in her own cell; and to her great joy she heard the key turn in the iron lock, and the bolt shoot into its place. She breathed for a moment freely, but the next moment she experienced such a sudden revulsion as few could have borne without detection. To her confusion and dismay, the turnkey entered the very cell where she lay concealed under the bed. He walked up to the iron-grated window, and, as usual, the casement stood open for the benefit of air through the passage, and, in a soliloquizing manner, said, “Ah! poor Sarah! you will never sleep upon this bed again!”
In breathless agony did Margaret dread two things equally fatal to her project. One was, that he should hear her breath in the stillness of the night, and discover her; the other, that he should lock the door upon her. She knew that it was not usual to lock the doors of those cells which contained no prisoners, but shedreaded lest the same absence of mind which made him saunter into Sarah Lloyd’s cell should make him look the door. What a state of suspense! How did her blood course through her frame! she could hear her heart beat! She was presently relieved from her suspense, for the turnkey, having completed his duty in locking up all his prisoners, quietly departed out of the cell, and left the door, as usual, standing wide open. Never was relief more opportune or welcome than this to her overcharged heart. The clock struck the hours of nine, ten, and eleven, and Margaret had not stirred. She now rose, took her shoes in her hand, and her bundle under her arm; she then managed to tie it up with an apron-string over her shoulders, and, with the slightest tread, stole along the stone passage. A mouse would scarcely have been disturbed by her as she descended the front of steps that led to the felons’ yard.
To her great comfort she found the door unbolted; for the turnkey, having locked every one up, saw no necessity for bolting the yard door. Silently she opened it; it creaked so little, that the wind prevented any sound reaching beyond the precincts of the door. She made her way to the flower-stand in the governor’s garden, lifted the frame out of the ground and set it up endways directly under the broken spike. It reached a little more than half way up the wall, being about thirteen feet long. She then went and took the linen line off the posts, and made a running noose at one end of it. She then took the longest clothes-prop she could find, and passed the noose over the horn of it. She mounted the frame by the help of the prop, and standing upon it she lifted the line up and passed the noose over the shoulder of thechevaux de frise, then, pulling it tight and close to the wall, it slipped down the iron and became fixed.
Now came the greatest difficulty she had ever overcome in her life. She drew herself up by the line to the top of the wall, and laying her body directly upon the roller where the spike was broken, with the helpof one hand grasping the shoulder of iron, she balanced herself until she had pulled up all the line and let it fall down the other side of the wall; then, taking hold of the rope with both hands, she bent her body forward, and the whole body of spikes revolved, turning her literally heels over head on the outer side of the gaol wall. Was there ever such a desperate act performed by any woman before? Had not the fact been proved beyond all doubt, the statement might be deemed incredible. But Margaret Catchpole did exactly as here described; and after the oscillation of her body was over from the jerk, she quietly let herself down in perfect safety on the other side.
Just as she alighted on the earth St. Clement’s chimes played for twelve o’clock. It was a gently sloping bank from the wall, and a dry fosse, which she crossed, easily climbed over the low wooden palings against the road, and made her way for the lane against St. Helen’s church. There she found Will Laud in readiness to receive her, which he did with an ardour and devotion that told he was sincere.
They fled to an empty cart-shed on the Woodbridge road. Here Laud kept watch at the entrance whilst Margaret put on her sailor’s dress. She soon made her appearance on the road with her white trousers, hat, and blue jacket, looking completely like a British tar. They did not wait to be overtaken, but off they started for Woodbridge, and arrived at the ferry just as the dawning streaks of daylight began to tinge the east. Their intention was to cross the Sutton Walks and Hollesley Heath to Sudbourn. Unluckily for them, however, who should they meet at the ferry but old Robinson Crusoe, the fisherman, who, having been driven round the point at Felixstowe, was compelled to come up the Deben to Woodbridge for the sale of his fish. The old man gave them no sign of recognition, but he knew them both, and, with a tact that few possessed, saw how the wind blew. But without speaking to either of them, he proceeded with his basket to the town.
At this they both rejoiced, and as they took their journey across that barren tract of land, it seemed to them like traversing a flowery mead.
The morning after Margaret’s escape the turnkey was alarmed by the call of the gardener, who came early to the prison to prune some trees in the governor’s garden. He told the turnkey there was a rope hanging down the wall, as if some one had escaped during the night. They soon discovered the frame against the wall; footmarks along the beds, and the linen crotch, all told the same tale. The turnkey then ran to the men’s cells, and found them all bolted. He did the same to the women’s, and found them likewise fastened just as he left them the night before. He then examined every window. Not a bar was moved. He did this without speaking a word to any one. At the usual hour he called up the prisoners, and marched them out of their cells. Margaret’s was the last, at the end of the passage. When he opened it, no one answered his summons. He walked in; no one was there. The bed had not been slept in, and was without sheets. He then made Mrs. Ripshaw acquainted with the facts. Astonishment and alarm were depicted upon her countenance. Her husband’s absence made the circumstance the more distressing.
Search was made in every part of the gaol, but no trace of Margaret could be found. The women with whom she washed the day previously all declared that they knew nothing of her escape. They declared that they saw her go before them to the farther end of the passage to her own cell. But how could she escape and lock the door? The turnkey was quite sure he had secured her in her own cell, for that he went into the one adjoining after he had, as he supposed, lockedher up in hers. It came out, however, in the course of inquiry, that he remembered her asking him about the horses not being set out for the wash; and the women declared that Margaret had been very peremptory about not giving the signal before eight o’clock. These things seemed to indicate a design to escape, and carried some suspicion of the fact.
Mrs. Ripshaw, however, was not satisfied, but sent a swift messenger on horseback to Bury St. Edmunds, with a note to acquaint her husband with the circumstances. Mrs. Ripshaw also wrote to Mrs. Cobbold in the greatest agitation, begging of her, if she knew where she was, to give information of it, as her husband and two sureties were bound, under a penalty of five hundred pounds each, to answer for the escape of any prisonerfrom the gaol. Such a stir was created in the town of Ipswich by this event as was scarcely ever before witnessed. People flocked to the gaol to see the spot whence Peggy had made her escape, and many were the reports falsely circulated concerning her.
It is not easy to describe the grief and consternation which was truly felt by Margaret’s dearest and best friend. She knew the consequences of this rash act; that, if she was taken, it was death, without any hope of reprieve.
She ordered her carriage, and went to the gaol, and was as much, or even more astonished than the inmates of the prison could be. She soon convinced Mrs. Ripshaw that she had not the slightest idea of any such intention on the part of her late servant, neither could she tell where she was gone. She made inquiries whether she had been seen talking with any of the male prisoners; but no clue could be gained here. Mrs. Cobbold was one of those whose decided opinion was, that she must have had somebody as an accomplice; but every soul denied it. This lady returned home in the greatest distress and uncertainty. Messengers were dispatched to Nacton, to Brandiston, and even into Cambridgeshire, to inquire after her.
When Mr. Ripshaw returned from Bury, he foundsome of the magistrates in the gaol. He had formed a very strong opinion in his own mind, and requested the visiting magistrates to examine the turnkey immediately. He was summoned, and examined before Colonel Edgar, Mr. Gibson, and Mr. Neale, and closely questioned. His answers were not deemed satisfactory.
The magistrates remanded him for a time, and conversed together upon the subject. They were of opinion that somebody must have bribed the man, and that he must have let her out, and have put the things as they were found, as a blind to turn suspicion from himself.
He was again summoned, and given in custody, on suspicion of having assisted the prisoner’s escape.
In the meantime, every exertion was made to discover the prisoner, but without any success. The following hand-bill was printed and circulated in every direction:—
"FIFTY POUNDS REWARD.
“Whereas, on Tuesday night, the 25th of March, or early on Wednesday morning, Margaret Catchpole, a female convict, confined in the Ipswich gaol, made her escape therefrom, either by scaling the wall, or by the connivance of the turnkey, this is to give notice, that the above reward shall be given to any person or persons who will bring the said Margaret Catchpole to Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler; and one-half that sum to any person or persons furnishing such information as shall lead to her apprehension. And notice is hereby given, that any person concealing or harbouring the said Margaret Catchpole shall, after this notice, if detected, be, by order of the magistrates, punished as the law directs.
“N.B.—The prisoner is a tall and dark person, with short hair, black eyes, and of intelligent countenance. She had on the gaol dress, and took away with her the two sheets belonging to her bed.
“Ipswich Gaol, March 28th, 1800.”
This notice was circulated far and near, and furnished topics for conversation throughout the county.
It so happened that some of the servants of Mrs. Cobbold mentioned the subject of the reward to the old fisherman, Robinson Crusoe, as he stood at the back-door with his basket of fish.
“Well, Robin, have you heard of the reward? Have you heard of Margaret’s escape from the gaol!”
“No; but I think I have seen her, or the foul fiend has played me one of his shabby tricks.”
“Seen her, Robin! Where?”
“I saw that fellow Laud, and somebody very like her, go across the Sutton Ferry together. She might deceive anybody else, but the foul fiend showed her to me, though she was in a sailor’s dress. I told your mistress, long ago, that no good would come of Margaret.”
This news reached the parlour, and was soon communicated to Mr. Ripshaw, who quickly had an interview with Mrs. Cobbold, and from her he learned the intimacy existing between Will Laud, his late prisoner, and Margaret, and could not doubt that he had assisted in her escape. He soon ascertained the probable bearings of Laud’s destination, and lost no time in prosecuting the pursuit. He went off for Woodbridge and Sutton Ferry directly. The ferryman corroborated the testimony of old Colson as to two sailors, a slight one and a stout one, passing over the river in his boat, on the morning of the 26th. They went off directly, he said, for Eyke. Thither the gaoler pursued his course, and thence to Sudbourn.
He found out that two sailors had been seen in that neighbourhood such as he described them, and that they lodged at Mrs. Keeley’s. He took a constable along with him to the cottage, and at once demanded his prisoner. The woman at first denied all knowledge of the persons he sought, but, after threatening her with taking her off to gaol at once, she confessed that her brother and Margaret were down on the coast, waiting for a boat to carry them off to sea; she evenconfessed that Margaret slept with her only the night before, and that a report having reached them of the reward offered for her capture, she had put a smock-frock over her sailor’s jacket, and was assisting Keeley, her husband, in keeping his flock upon the marsh saltings.
The constable of Sudbourn and Mr. Ripshaw went off immediately for the saltings. They met Keeley, the shepherd, returning with his flock, to fold them upon the fallows; but no one was with him. He was a shrewd, sharp, surly fellow, and in a moment understood what was in the wind.
Mr. Ripshaw began the attack. “Constable, take that man into custody.”
“Where’s your warrant, Mr. Gaoler? ‘Old birds are not to be caught with chaff.’ Now, then, your warrant for my apprehension, and I am the man to go with you. Come, show me the warrant at once; or, you no sooner lift your hand against me than I will show you what resistance is, and you shall take the consequences of an assault upon my person.”
The fellow stood with his brawny limbs displayed before them, and his two fierce, rough-coated, short, flap-eared dogs wagging their stumps of tails, and looking earnestly in their master’s face, to see if he gave the signal for them to attack either, or both the gaoler and the constable. It was clear that they must go upon another tack.
The shepherd gave a shrill whistle to his dogs, and on they dashed, driving the sheep towards the fold.
They proceeded directly along the shingled hardware to the beach, or rather to the shore of the river-side, which in those parts much resembles the sea-shore. The revenue cutter’s boat was then going across the stream of the Alde; they hailed it, and the officer in command ordered his men to return.
It was young Barry who came on shore from the boat, and he immediately walked a little way apart with the gaoler, who explained to him the nature of his business; and painful as its connexion with Margaret Catchpole made it to Barry, his sense of duty compelled him to render the assistance required. Accordingly, they were soon seated in the stern of the boat, and were rowed by his men towards the spot, where, on the main shore, Laud and Margaret stood, anxiously watching the approach of a boat from a vessel on the sea.
There they stood, not only unconscious of approaching danger, but congratulating themselves upon the prospect of a termination of all their troubles. Joyfully did they watch the boat coming over the billows of the sea, not seeing the other boat approaching them from the river. A few minutes more, and they would have been beyond the reach of gaolers and of prisons.
Neither Laud nor Margaret saw them until they came down upon them, headed by the gaoler, whose voice Margaret instantly recognized. With a wild shriek that made the welkin ring, she rushed into the sea, and would at once have perished, had not Laud caught her, as a wave cast her back upon the beach and suddenly deprived her of sense and speech.
He stood across the seemingly lifeless body of that devoted girl, and with a pistol in each hand cocked, and presented to the foremost men, the officer and the gaoler, he exclaimed, “Let us go—we are not defrauding the revenue—you have no business with us!”
“Youmay go unhurt,” replied the gaoler, “if you will deliver up the body of Margaret Catchpole. I must and will have her in my custody.”
“If you do, Mr. Ripshaw, it shall be at the peril of your life, or the cost of mine. The first man who approaches to touch her shall be a corpse, or he shall make me one.”
There was such determination in his words and attitude, that every one saw he would not flinch. It was a painful moment for young Barry; he wished to save the life of Laud; he did not wish to risk that of any of his men; he stepped forward, and said,—
“Will Laud, let me entreat you to give up the personof Margaret Catchpole; she has escaped from the custody of the gaoler, and is under sentence of transportation. I promise that you shall depart in safety, and that she shall take no hurt. Do not force me to shed blood—wemusttake her!”
The next instant two pistols flashed, and Laud lay stretched upon the sand. He had first fired at Barry and missed him, and the next moment, in self-defence, Barry was compelled to fire in return. The ball, which was intended only to have disabled his arm, passed through his heart and killed him on the spot. So ended the career of a man who, only in the few latter days of his life, seemed steadily resolved to act fairly by the woman who had devoted her life to him, and to follow some honourable occupation in a foreign land. Poor Susan’s words at last proved true: "Margaret you will never marry William Laud.”
The bodies of Laud and Margaret were both carried by the sailors to the preventive-service boat, and laid upon the men’s cloaks at the bottom of it. After a while, Margaret began to revive, and her awakening dream was, that she was on board the smuggler’s boat, which was coming to meet them. But the men in that boat, observing the fearful odds against them, had only rested on their oars to see the fatal result which took place, and then turned back and steered for their own vessel.
Margaret looked wildly round her as the moonlight shone upon the sailors. She whispered, “Laud! Laud!” $1uo; She saw something lying in a line with herself upon the same cloaks, but could not distinguish anything but a sailor’s dress: she heard a voice at the helm which was familiar to her; she recognized it to be Barry’s; she lifted her head, and saw the banks of the river on both sides of the water. The truth seemed to flash upon her, for she fell backwards again, fainted away, and became insensible.
She and her lover were conveyed to the Ship Inn at Orford. The sailors who carried her, sensible of the devoted heart of the poor girl, seemed oppressed withheaviness, and could not refrain addressing one another, in their own peculiar style, upon the bad job of that night. Margaret became too soon and too fully acquainted with her situation. She shed tears of the deepest agony; her mind was distracted, and without consolation. She did not speak to any one; but between sobs, and groans, and lamentations upon her loss, she seemed the most melancholy picture of human woe. By what she had heard from some of the pitying sailors around her, she understood that it was young Edward Barry who had shot her lover. When he came into the room where she was seated in an arm-chair, with her head resting in an agony upon her hand, he went up to speak to her. She lifted up her hands, turned her head aside, and exclaimed—
“Begone, wretch! Did you not voluntarily promise you would never hurt him?”
“And so I would, Margaret, if he would have permitted me to do so. But he would not. He first fired at me, and then I returned it; but only with the intention of disarming him.”
“You have done a noble deed, and one which will immortalize your name, one which will form a source of happy reflection to you hereafter, most noble man of war! You have killed a harmless man, and have taken captive a poor fugitive female! Happy warrior! you will be nobly rewarded!”
“Do not reproach me, Margaret, but forgive me. I have only done my duty; and, however painful it has been, you would not reproach me, if you did but know how much I really grieved for you.”
“Your grief for me will do me about as much good as mine will poor William!" and here Margaret burst into a flood of tears, which words could not in any way repress.
A post-chaise was ordered to the inn-door, and Margaret, apparently more dead than alive, was placed within it, and the gaoler taking his seat beside her, they were conveyed immediately to Ipswich.
She was once more confined within those wallswhich she had so recently scaled; she made no secret of the manner in which she had effected her escape; she fully confessed her own work, and perfectly exonerated every other person in the gaol.
It was well for the poor turnkey that she was captured. He was immediately released from confinement, and reinstated in his office.
Margaret was now kept in almost solitary confinement, to mourn over her unhappy lot, and to reflect upon the death of one whom she had loved too well.
After the arrival of Margaret at the Ipswich gaol, several magistrates attended, at the request of Mr. Ripshaw, to take the deposition of the prisoner. She was summoned into the gaoler’s parlour, or, as it was more properly called, the “Magistrates’ Room” $2quo; The depositions of Mr. Ripshaw and of the constable of Sudbourn, were first taken down. The nature of the offence was then for the first time explained to Margaret, and its most dreadful consequences at once exposed. She was taken completely by surprise. She had no idea that, in doing as she had done, she had been guilty of anything worthy of death, and made no hesitation in telling the magistrates so. She told them, moreover, that her conscience did not accuse her of any crime in the attempt, and that she thought it a cruel and bloody law which could condemn her to death for such an act.
“But are you aware,” said Mr. Gibson, one of the visiting magistrates, "that you have broken that confidence with Mr. Ripshaw which he placed in you, and that you subjected him and his sureties to the penaltyof five hundred pounds each, had he not recovered you, and brought you back to prison?”
“Had I been aware of such a thing, I should then have thought myself as bad as if I had stolen the money, and should, indeed, have broken the confidence which, with such a knowledge, would have been placed in me, but I knew nothing of such a fact. My master, Mr. Ripshaw, was always kind and indulgent to me, and my mistress the same, but they never hinted such a thing to me. I was not aware that, with regard to my personal liberty, there was any bond of mutual obligation between me and my master. I was always locked up at the usual time, and it never was said to me, ‘Margaret, I will rely upon your honour that you will never attempt to escape.’ No promise was exacted from me, and I did not think that it was any breach of confidence to do as I have done.”
“You do not consider that you might have ruined an innocent man; that the turnkey was actually committed upon suspicion of having connived at your departure, as nobody would believe that you could have done such an act of your own accord.”
“I might not have done it of my own accord, though I certainly did it without the assistance of any human being. He, alas! is dead who persuaded me to it, though I confess it did not require any very great degree of persuasion; and I fear that, were he living now, I should almost attempt the same again.”
“There you speak contemptuously, and in a very unbecoming manner, young woman.”
“I did not mean to be disrespectful to you, gentlemen, especially as you are so kind as to explain to me the nature of the law. I only meant to express my own weakness. But may I ask what law it is that makes the act I have been guilty of so felonious as to deserve death?”
“You may ask any question you please, but you must not add defiance to your impropriety and guilt. You are sensible enough to be well assured that the magistrates here present are not your judges. Theyhave a duty to perform to their country; and they consider it a privilege and an honour that their sovereign places them in the situation of such an active service as to send prisoners before the judge; that such as transgress the laws, and render themselves unfit to enjoy rational liberty, should be punished, as men not worthy to be members of a well organized and civilized community. By the law of the land you live in, you have once been condemned to death for horse-stealing. By the mercy of your king, you have had a reprieve, and a commutation of that sentence of death for transportation for seven years. The period you have spent in gaol is part of that sentence. Now understand the law:—
“‘Any prisoner breaking out of gaol, if he resist his gaoler, may be killed on the spot, in the attempt of the gaoler to restrain him. And any person breaking out after sentence of death, shall be considered liable to that punishment for his original offence, which had been commuted, and shall suffer death accordingly. If he escape through the door of his prison, when left open, it shall not be felony, because it is the negligence of the gaoler; but if he break out, after proper caution exercised for his security, either by force in the day, or by subtlety in the night, then it shall be felony.’
“Such is the law; and though in your case, young woman, you may not consider it just, yet when you reflect upon your example to others, you will see it in a different light. If every prisoner should go unpunished who broke out of prison what continual attempts would be made to escape! I am truly sorry for your case; but the law is made for offenders; and it is our duty to send you to Bury again for trial. In the meantime, the gaoler will be upon the alert, and take good care that you do not commit the same offence again.”
Margaret thanked Mr. Gibson for his explanation. She felt very sorry, she said, if she had offended any one, and hoped they would forgive her ignorance and unintentional offence.
She was fully committed to take her trial for thesecond offence. Mr. Gibson was much astonished at her presence of mind and singularly acute understanding, as well as appropriate and becoming form of speech, which she used as naturally as she felt it. His words to one deeply interested for Margaret were, “What a pity that such a woman should not know the value of her liberty before she lost it!”
The reader knows the reason why Margaret broke out of prison, and has seen how she became a second time amenable to the laws. He will observe, that it was from her acquaintance with that desperate man, who had been the cause of misery to her and her family, from the first days of her acquaintance with him. But he was now dead. The cause was removed, and with it died every wish of her heart for life and liberty.
But it was not the place that made Margaret so unhappy. It was the void occasioned by the having no one now to love, that made her feel as if no one in the world loved her. In this she was greatly mistaken; for though her offence had occasioned much condemnation among those who were interested in her, yet they were not so lost to pity and compassion as not to feel for her sufferings. Among the foremost of those friends was her former mistress, who, in the true sense of the word, was charitable.
As soon as she heard that Margaret was retaken, she saw at once all the dreadful consequences which awaited her, and knew that she would require more than double attention and care. Her first step was an application to a magistrate (Mileson Edgar, Esq., of the Red House), for an order to visit Margaret in prison, and the application was immediately granted in the following letter from that gentleman:—
"Red House, May 10th, 1800.“My dear Madam,“Any request that you would make would be sure to meet with prompt attention from me, because I am well assured that you would not make one which I could not grant, and which, when granted, wouldnot give me pleasure to have attended to. Herewith I send you an order to Mr. Ripshaw to admit you to visit Margaret Catchpole during her confinement in the Ipswich gaol. What an extraordinary being she is! a clever, shrewd, and well-behaved person, yet strangely perverted in her judgement! She actually cannot be persuaded that she has offended against the laws of her country. You will, I trust, my dear madam, by the exercise of your influence and judgement, convince her of her folly. I am truly glad that you intend going to see her; for next to the pleasure derived from granting your request is the comfort I derive from the prospect of great benefit therein to the prisoner."Believe me, my dear madam,"Ever yours sincerely,"Mileson Edgar.“ToMrs. Cobbold, St. Margaret’s Green, Ipswich.”
"Red House, May 10th, 1800.
“My dear Madam,
“Any request that you would make would be sure to meet with prompt attention from me, because I am well assured that you would not make one which I could not grant, and which, when granted, wouldnot give me pleasure to have attended to. Herewith I send you an order to Mr. Ripshaw to admit you to visit Margaret Catchpole during her confinement in the Ipswich gaol. What an extraordinary being she is! a clever, shrewd, and well-behaved person, yet strangely perverted in her judgement! She actually cannot be persuaded that she has offended against the laws of her country. You will, I trust, my dear madam, by the exercise of your influence and judgement, convince her of her folly. I am truly glad that you intend going to see her; for next to the pleasure derived from granting your request is the comfort I derive from the prospect of great benefit therein to the prisoner.
“ToMrs. Cobbold, St. Margaret’s Green, Ipswich.”
The visit was soon paid to poor Margaret in her cell, and it was one of deep interest and importance, inasmuch as it paved the way for a better frame of mind, and deeper humility, than this wretched young woman ever before felt. On this account we shall record the particulars of the interview in detail, as related by the lady herself.
When Mrs. Cobbold entered the cell, Margaret rose and curtsied respectfully, and the next moment the big tears rolled down her cheeks, and her chest heaved with convulsive emotion, as if her heart would break. The gaoler placed a chair for the lady, and retired to the end of the passage. For a long time nothing could be heard but the occasional sobs of the prisoner. At length she spoke:—
“Oh! my dear lady, how can you look upon me? You are good to come and see me; but indeed I feel as if I was not worthy you should come. I never dared to ask it of you. I had scarcely any hope of it. It is only your goodness. I am a poor, ill-fated being, doomed to sorrow and despair!”
“Margaret, I came to see you from a sense of duty to God, and to you too: I came to try and comfort you; but how can I give consolation to you if you talk of your being ill-fated anddoomedto despair? Do not say that the doom of fate has anything to do with your present situation. You know as well as I do, that unless you had misconducted yourself, you might have been as happy now as you were when I saw you after your return from Bury. Put your sin upon yourself, and not upon your fate. You know the real cause of this unhappiness.”
“Ah! dear lady, what would you have done if you had been me and in my place?”
“I might have done as you did; but I do think, Margaret, knowing what a friend I had always been to you, that you might have placed confidence in me, and have told me Laud was in prison. I observed that you were much disturbed, and not yourself, when I last came to see you, but I could not divine the cause.”
“I was afraid to tell you, madam, lest you should persuade me to give up my acquaintance with him, and I had learned much more to his credit than I knew before.”
“And so, by following your own inclination, you have brought your lover and yourself to an untimely death. Oh, Margaret! had you confided in me, I should have persuaded you to have tried him until you had obtained your discharge from prison; then, had he been a respectable and altered man, I should have approved of your marriage.”
“But think, dear lady, how constant he had been to me for so many years! Surely his patience deserved my confidence.”
“And what good did you ever find it do you, Margaret? Look at the consequences.”
“I could not foresee them. How could I then look at them?”
“Though you were so blind as not to foresee the consequences, others, with more reflection and forethought, might have done so for you; and, assuredly, had youhinted the matter to me, I should have prevented what has happened.”
“I wish indeed, now, that I had done so. I suffer most severely in my mind, not from the fear of punishment, but because I have been the cause of William Laud’s death.”
“And he will have been the cause of your own, Margaret. Had he not persuaded you to break out of prison, he would not have been killed. He knew the penalty was death to you if you were caught, and he has met that very end to which he has now made you liable. Had he loved you lawfully and honourably, as he ought to have done, he would have waited for your free and happy discharge.”
“But it seems to me,” said Margaret, “so very strange, something so out of justice, to condemn a person to die for that which does not appear to her to be a crime. I cannot see the blood-guiltiness that I have thus brought upon myself. In God’s commandments I find it written, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ I stole the horse, and I could see that I deserved to die, because I transgressed that commandment; but I do not find it said, ‘Thou shalt not escape from prison.’”
“Now Margaret, your own reasoning will condemn you. You acknowledged that you deserved to die for stealing the horse. Now consider the difference between the sentence you were actually prepared to submit to and the one for which it was in mercy changed. Though justly condemned to death, you are permitted to live and undergo a comparatively mild punishment, yet you cannot see the duty of submitting to it. You should have endured the lesser punishment without a murmur. You appeared to receive the award of it with such thankfulness that it made all your friends rejoice for you. But how deep is their present sorrow! What will the judge say to you now when you are placed before him? Religion teaches you submission to the constituted authorities of your country; and you ought to think with humility, as you once did, that, like the thief on the cross, yousuffer justly for your crimes. To my mind, Margaret, you have no excuse whatever. It may be all very well for romantic ideas of fancy to make your lover the excuse; but you were not at liberty to choose to roam over the sea with him until you could do so with a free conscience.”
“It is not for me, dear lady, to say a word against your reasoning. I did not look upon my crime in this light.”
“You must learn to look upon your crime as one which has done injury to society. Which of your friends, who interceded for you with the judge, and gave you so good a character, can now intercede for you again? I am persuaded, Margaret, that the judge himself will think his former mercy much displaced, and that you will meet with severity and reproach at his hands.”
“Dear lady! who can give me comfort? Laud is dead, my father is dead, my brother is at a distance and will probably be so ashamed of me that he will never come to see me again. To whom, then, can I look for help? You, my dear mistress, must be hurt at my conduct, and all my friends likewise. I do not deserve their compassion, and yet I never wanted help so much. Oh! who shall comfort me now?”
“You shall have all the consolation I can give you; I will pray for you continually; I will lend you such books to read as I think may assist you; and were we not now about to remove from St. Margaret’s Green to the Cliff again, and in the midst of much bustle, I would come to see you much oftener than I can now do. My family is increasing, and your master says he must return again to the brewery and to business. But I will come and see you many times, and when I cannot come I will write such instructions as, if you pursue them diligently, may, with God’s blessing, promote your everlasting benefit. I am glad that you are sensible of your sins. This will go some way towards your deriving consolation from the Word of God. Attend to the precepts of the chaplain, who is a goodman, and understands your disposition as well as I do; I shall often communicate with the Rev. Mr. Sharp concerning you. You must indeed be very, very humble, before you can obtain that sweet peace of mind which you once possessed. It will come to you again, if you are sincerely penitent and resigned, but not without.”
“You are a dear friend, madam, to the poor destitute, and the only one now left me upon the earth. Oh! how, dear lady, can I be worthy of such kind consideration? Forgive me! oh, pray forgive me!”
“Margaret, I wish the law could as freely forgive you as I do, but you must not expect it. You must fortify your soul with religious consolation alone. Everything else will fail. You must think of far greater love than I can show to you, Margaret; love that has endured inexpressible anguish for you; love that has laid down life for you; and that will teach you how to die. You must think of your Saviour’s love—free, unsought, undeserved love. Oh, the depth of His riches! Who can estimate them as he ought? You must look up to Him during every moment of your short existence, and be never weary of praying to Him for forgiveness. But I must now leave you, Margaret. It shall not be long before I see you again. God bless you! Good-bye!”
Margaret could not speak, but she knelt down and prayed inwardly.
For the next three months Mrs. Cobbold became a frequent visitor at the gaol, and found that Margaret made the best use of her time between the period of her committal and her trial. How instructive are the minutes of her progress, which that lady made, during that most engaging period! and how blessedly employed was the enlightened mistress in communicating light to her poor benighted servant! It was now that she made amends, in her own heart, for that too common error among all who exercise power and authority: the neglect of the spiritual welfare of their dependants. She applied her powerful faculties tothe strengthening and refreshing of her servant’s mind, by humbling herself with her before God. And well was she repaid for this exertion. Abundant was the reward to herself in obtaining that experience in the ways of godliness which strengthened her own faith and increased her charity.
Margaret’s mind underwent a complete change. She might be truly said to be a resigned and patient Christian; one who, from that day to her latest moments, never lost the influence of those purest principles and most blessed hopes which were then instilled and rooted in her soul.
On the 1st of August, the day previously to her departure for Bury, Margaret received the following letter from her excellent mistress:—