The doctor stated that, if she was at that moment at liberty, he would take her into his own house. He a.s.sured his lordship that it was a romantic hope of seeing her lover, that induced her to listen to the voice of the tempter who induced her to steal the horse. He prayed for mercy for her, and handed a pet.i.tion to the court, signed by many persons who knew her early history, and bore testimony to her former good character.

Her uncle and aunt Leader next spoke in the highest terms of her general good character. Her first mistress at the Priory Farm gave her also an excellent character for honesty and humanity, and a.s.sured his lordship that it was an early but unfortunate attachment which had been the cause of this rash act; adding, that neither she nor her husband would object to take the prisoner again into their service.

Several other persons spoke in her favour, and so cordial and so earnest had been the testimony borne to her character, that in almost every breast a hope began to prevail that mercy would be extended to her.

The judge took an unusually long time for deliberation. He was in conversation with the high sheriff, but what pa.s.sed between them did not transpire. The longer he delayed his judgement, the stronger grew the hopes of mercy. At last, turning round to the body of the court, he looked for one most awful moment steadfastly at the prisoner; and, when every eye was riveted upon him, he was seen to take the black cap from beneath his desk, and to place it upon his head. That dreadful forerunner of impending condemnation struck forcibly upon the hearts of all the people a.s.sembled. Some ladies fainted, and were carried out of court. The most perfect stillness ensued, as the Lord Chief Baron addressed the unhappy creature in the following words:-- "Prisoner at the bar, I have paid attention to your address to me, and to those around you, and am glad to find that you have made a proper use of the time which has intervened between your committal to prison and the present moment. Your words show that you are by no means ignorant of your duty as a member of society, and that you are possessed of strong sense and much good feeling. I earnestly wish that your conduct had not been such as to belie that good sense which you possess. It is, however, the more inexcusable in one who, at the time she was committing an offence, must have known its heinousness. Your sin, prisoner at the bar, has found you out quickly, and judgement as speedily follows. I will not aggravate those feelings of remorse which I am sure you experience, by any longer dwelling upon the painful situation in which your crimes have placed you. I trust your own persuasive words will be long remembered by every one present, and be a warning to all how they suffer themselves to be betrayed into crime. May your early fate warn them in time to keep themselves in the path of rect.i.tude and honesty.

"I must say that, in the whole course of my judicial career, I have never met with a person who so well knew right from wrong, and who so extraordinarily perverted that gift. I must say, likewise, that I have never met with any one who has received so good a former character at such a moment as the present. The representations that have been made of your past conduct shall be forwarded to the king, with whom alone the prerogative of mercy in your case exists.

"It would be cruelty, however, in me did I not candidly tell you, that the crime for which you are now to suffer is one of such frequent, bold, and in this day, daring commission, as to defy the authority of the law; so that persons detected and brought to judgement, as you are, stand but little chance of mercy. It is not in my power to give you any hope of escaping the full punishment of the law, but I will represent your case this very night, before I sleep, to the proper quarter whence any alteration in your behalf can alone be obtained.

"I need scarcely tell you not to rely upon any false hopes which friends may hold out to you, who would grieve the more could they see the danger and distress which they thereby occasion. Let me rather entreat you to continue that attention to the interest of your soul which has already been well instructed and fortified against the present crisis. You have to prepare, prisoner at the bar, for a greater trial, a more awful moment; and I hope you will make good use of the short time which remains in preparation for eternity. You appear to have been well a.s.sisted hitherto, and the good instruction seems to have fallen upon productive ground. I hope the increase will continue to the day of your death.

"It only remains for me to fulfil my duty, by pa.s.sing the sentence of the court upon you, which is-- "That you be taken from the place where you now stand, back to the place whence you came, and thence to the place of execution, and there be hanged by the neck until you be dead; and may G.o.d have mercy upon your soul!"

At these last words tears of agony overwhelmed many in the court; but Margaret herself seemed to be less overcome by the sentence than by the kind words of the judge.

She respectfully curtsied to him and the court, and, in the act of retiring, fell into her father's arms. She was conveyed back to the gaol in a swoon.

In the meantime every exertion was made to represent her case favourably to the judge. A pet.i.tion was signed by many of the grand jury, as well as the petty jury, in her behalf, and strong hopes were entertained of a reprieve.

These things were not mentioned to the prisoner, who returned to the cell of condemned felons, to employ her time in "seeking that peace which the world cannot give."

A keeper constantly attended her, and a female sat up with her all that night. She requested to have a Bible, and pen, ink, and paper: these were granted her. She did not sleep, but read the Sacred Book, sometimes aloud, sometimes to herself. She also seemed to find great relief in writing to her friends. One letter which she wrote to her uncle, and another to her mistress, on that very night, will best evince the state of her mind and feelings.

"MY DEAR UNCLE, "This will reach you to-morrow before you leave Bury. Give my love and best thanks to my aunt and friends who spoke this day in behalf of your unhappy niece; but, when you arrive at Ipswich, be sure and call and thank that dear old gentleman, Doctor Stebbing. I know he feels very much for me, but tell him not to distress himself, as if I were to be lost for ever. Tell him I hope to see him in a better world. He has been very kind to me in those days when I was most forlorn, and my Saviour, who then guided me to him, will give him his reward. For He says, that a cup of cold water given to one of His most poor and wretched children, shall not be forgotten.

"Dear uncle, show this letter to the gentleman in whose hands you have placed the money which I gave you for such purpose, and tell him that I wish it to be restored to William Laud, its rightful owner, if he can be found, and will receive it again. If he is not found, after my death, within the s.p.a.ce of one year, I wish it to be divided into four equal portions: one for my father, one for my brother Edward, one for yourself, and one for my aunt.

"Do not mourn for me, dear uncle, for I sincerely believe in G.o.d's forgiveness of my past sins, through the merits of Jesus Christ, my Saviour. My prayer to G.o.d is, 'Increase my faith, O Lord! and pardon me, as thou didst the malefactor upon the cross;' for I feel, dear uncle, as if I was justly in that thief's condemnation. I hope soon, very soon, to be in a better state, and in a happier world. I wish you and my aunt to come to Ipswich and see me once more before I suffer. Tell my aunt I wish her to purchase something decent for my funeral. She will find some money in the corner of my box, under the linen. Oh! how little did he, who gave me that money, and who so worthily esteemed me, how little did he think that any portion of it would be devoted to such a purpose! My dear uncle, go and comfort my poor father, and my good young brother: I will write to them before another day is past. I wish my bones to lie beside my mother's and sister's, in Nacton churchyard. I am told that on Sat.u.r.day week I shall probably suffer death. G.o.d grant I may then be prepared!

"We shall all return to Ipswich as soon as the nine prisoners, whom Mr. Ripshaw brought to Bury, shall have been tried. Pray for me, dear uncle! Warn the dear children by my fate. I should like to see them myself. I wish I could impress upon their young minds the dreadful feelings of guilt which I have endured, and so prevent their commission of any crime. I am going to write now to my dear mistress, and, as you return to-morrow, you must take that letter and deliver it. G.o.d bless you, dear uncle! G.o.d's peace be with you! So no more from your poor affectionate niece, "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

"Bury Gaol, August 9th, 1797. "To MR. LEADER, Six Bells Inn, Bury."

"To MRS. COBBOLD.

"HONOURED MADAM, "My trial is over, and I dare say my dear master has already told you the fate of your unhappy servant. He cannot, however, tell you what I can, and what will better please your good heart than the account of my trial, namely, that I am not so disconsolate as many persons may think I am. No; G.o.d be praised, and thanks to those dear friends who visited me in the Ipswich gaol; and chiefly thanks to you, among them, my dear lady; my heart is consoled with the prospect of soon seeing better things than this wicked world can show me. Oh! my dear lady, I hope to see you among those bright shining spirits who live for ever in harmony and love. Oh! how happy shall we then be, free from fear of pain or grief! I have just been reading that beautiful pa.s.sage, where it is written, 'G.o.d shall wipe all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying; neither shall there be any more pain.' Oh! what a different world must that be to this; and what should make us grieve to leave this world? It is only the fear of future wrath that can prevent our joyfully looking up to heaven through the valley of death. And, dearest lady, if such a wretched being as I am can hope in that Saviour who died for me and all the world, surely, you, dear lady, must have a bright, a pleasant prospect, before you. Heaven bless you, for all your goodness to me in the days of my prosperity, but more for your Christian charity in the day of my adversity! The judge, who really, I think, reminded me of you, told me I had been well instructed; I wish he knew you, dear madam, and he would then be a.s.sured of it. Thank my kind master for his goodness to his unworthy servant. I had no hope of mercy from the first, and the judge told me not to trust in any such idea in this world. He spoke much less severely than I expected; but I was prepared for his condemnation, and I am now preparing my mind for the day of execution. I find great comfort in the Scriptures, because I have no secret pangs of unconfessed guilt, or any wish in my heart to cover or palliate my offences. My trial is over, and the same G.o.d who sustained me through it, will, I hope, preserve my spirit faithful to the last. Every moment seems valuable to me, dear lady, now that I know them to be so soon numbered; and I scarcely like to lose one even in sleep. Nature, however, is weary with fatigue and anxiety, though my spirit seems so wakeful. If I go to sleep, it will be in prayer for you and all my friends. That G.o.d may bless you and all your dear family, is the heartfelt desire of your unfortunate, though ever grateful servant, "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

"BURY GAOL, August 9th, 1797.

"P.S.--My good uncle Leader will bring this, of whom you can ask any particulars, as he was in court during my trial."

On the 11th of August, a letter arrived from the Home Office, in London, giving full powers to the judge to exercise the prerogative of mercy in her case, as he might see fit. The judge was not in court at the time, but in his own rooms. He sent immediately for the sheriff and the prosecutor, Mr. Cobbold, and explained to them the purport of the letter he had received. He thought, however, that some punishment should mark the sense of crime. He therefore commuted the sentence of death for the shortest period of transportation for seven years; and he signed the necessary doc.u.ment for such purpose. He intimated that that period might be shortened by the good conduct of the prisoner in gaol; for as there was great difficulty now in sending prisoners to the new settlement, her portion of confinement would most likely be spent in the Ipswich Gaol. The judge added, that the woman appeared to be a most sensible creature; and he made many most minute inquiries concerning her education and habits. He said that she had conducted herself during her trial in a very becoming manner, and he hoped that her punishment would end with half the term of confinement. This would depend upon the representations of the visiting magistrates.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE REPRIEVE AND REMOVAL.

The feelings of Margaret Catchpole under the new circ.u.mstances which now awaited her, will be best explained by a letter written by her to Mrs. Cobbold immediately after the communication of the happy tidings, and her consequent removal to Ipswich Gaol.

"IPSWICH GAOL, Sunday Evening, August 13th, 1797.

"HONOURED MADAM, "You have heard of your poor servant's reprieve. I had no time to write you word yesterday, because of the bustle of our return, and the general congratulations of the prisoners. Mr. Ripshaw has permitted me to have pen, ink, and paper, this evening, and I hasten to write my heart. Good Mr. Sharp has been warning me against too great exultation in my change, and very kindly says to me in words of truth: 'Sin no more, lest a worse thing come upon thee.' This was his subject in the chapel to-day. I certainly do, even now, feel very different to what I did when I wrote to you last, dear lady, from Bury. I had then made up my mind to die, and hoped to live for ever. I now make up my mind to live; but I hope not to die for ever. No, dear lady; if I thought that life being granted to me now was only to make my future dangers greater, I should grieve that I did not rather suffer before this time.

"Life is sweet and to be desired, whilst the hope of becoming good, and doing good in our time, exists. G.o.d grant that such hope may be realized in my life! Oh! my dear lady, if by living I could only imitate you more nearly, I should then be full of hope. I feel, however, that temptation will a.s.sail me, when I leave this place and enter again into the world. Here I am well taught and well guarded against many temptations. I have many dear friends too, who take such an interest in me, that I am afraid of being vain, though G.o.d has shown me I have indeed nothing to be vain of, except it be of such as you, dear lady, who take notice of such a creature as myself.

"Oh! what a happy Sabbath-day has this been to me! I am so thankful that my heart can sing psalms all the day long. I am very grateful for this paper and pen, that I may be able to speak to you, my dear madam, in this way. You taught me to read and write, and these are my great recreations. Pray lend me some good books to read, and if you would let me see some of your own dear writing, it would be a great blessing to me.

"I have now seven years' confinement to look forward to. Oh! that I may greatly improve my time! Beneath your help, what may I not gain in my prison! It may be some weeks before I see your dear, loved face, as I hear that you are very near increasing your family. I would not have you come into this place at such a time on any account. But, as I am so near you, a word or a message, just to let me know that you, my master, and family are well, would lighten my burden.

"Mr. Ripshaw has promised that I shall have plenty of employment. Work of any sort, you know, dear lady, is always agreeable to me. To be doing nothing is death to me. He tells me, moreover, that if I conduct myself well, he will not fail to represent my case to the magistrates for a shortening of the period of my captivity. I received some hint of this from the chaplains at Bury. You may be sure, dear lady, that I will do all I can to serve Mr. Ripshaw, and to merit the recommendation of the magistrates. I hope your dear children are well. I never was so happy as when nursing Master Roland; I hope I shall see him soon again.

"Pray, dear madam, give my duty to my master, and to the young ladies and gentlemen; and accept the same from your ever grateful servant, "MARGARET CATCHPOLE."

Margaret was true to her good intentions. She became very industrious and trustworthy in the service of Mrs. Ripshaw, the governor's wife; and made herself useful in every possible way to her new mistress. In fact, she became an invaluable person in the gaol. She exercised a moral influence over those of her own s.e.x who were inmates of the prison, such as no matron could hope to attain.

Her father and brother often came to see her, and occasionally they brought her a luxury which reminded her of the days of liberty--"a harvest cake."

The reader will not be surprised to learn that Margaret still, sometimes, asked after Will Laud. Her brother could give her but an indifferent account of what he heard of him; one question, however, of most vital import to the still lingering hopes of poor Margaret, namely--"Is he single still?" he could answer in the affirmative. As a set-off against this, she learned that he was still deeply engaged in smuggling transactions.

In the winter of 1797, Margaret lost her father, who was taken off by a bad fever, which at that time raged fiercely in the neighbourhood.

The following letter to her brother Edward speaks her feelings on this event:-- "IPSWICH GAOL, December 21st, 1797.

"DEAR EDWARD, "My sins appear to me doubly great, because they have prevented my fulfilling my duties to my dear father in his illness. They oppress me, because, but for them, I should have found such comfort in being able to wait upon him. Oh that I had wings to fly from this place to Nacton! if only for once to be present at the last duties we can any of us pay to those whom we love. But I cannot come, so I send you this letter. My tears fall upon it, whilst I write it. He was such a dear good old man to us all. Can I ever forget him? Never! You and he both stood near me upon my trial.

"Ah! Edward, I do think my ill-conduct has killed him. He was always so fond of me, that I think he has never recovered the shock of that day. Yet he seemed well, and rejoiced to see me, with the hope of happier and brighter times. But he is gone, and all our grief, dear brother, will be useless. If we continue to walk in the right path, we shall meet him hereafter. We shall go to him; he cannot come to us. Yet, I wish I could join you in the churchyard; but I may not leave the prison for one moment. It is an indulgence no prisoner is allowed. Mr. Ripshaw has promised me that I shall have the afternoon of to-morrow to myself, which I shall employ in reading, and thinking about the burial service.

"Dear old man! he promised to spend Christmas-day with me in my cell. He is in a happier place, where joy and peace will make every day his Christmas. I shall think of you to-morrow at two o'clock. Do you remember, Edward, the evening of our mother's funeral? Do you remember the stranger's visit, and that stranger our brother Charles? This melancholy time reminds me of him. You will have a dreary home now. Oh that I had power to make it happier!

"I am glad the Cracknells are still near you, and that they are kind to you; though their misfortunes and mine have kept pace with each other. Never mind, Edward, what cruel people say to you about their prophecies concerning my downfall. They only tell you these things to aggravate you. The time may come when they will impudently say, they prophesied my rise and progress in the world. I hope better days are coming.

"You must come and see me as soon as you can; for I feel at this time very low and sorrowful. So my dear brother, do come and see me, when you are able to spare the time. Pray for me, and I will not cease to do so for you. My dear mistress has promised to send this by an especial messenger. How kind of her to think of one so unworthy as your affectionate sister, "MARGARET CATCHPOLE."

In the spring of 1798, Edward Catchpole, finding the notoriety his sister had obtained occasioned him much annoyance, left the neighbourhood of Ipswich, and went into Cambridgeshire, where he obtained a situation as shepherd, and was always a respectable character. Poor Margaret felt this loss keenly, though a letter from him now and then cheered her spirits.[10]

Her kind friends in Ipswich made her many little presents, which she treasured up against the time she should go out. She hoped it might be in three years. Inquiries were frequently made concerning her conduct, which was uniformly orderly and good. She was the most useful person that Mrs. Ripshaw ever had in the prison.

Margaret never made use of one single shilling of that money which Laud had thrown down for her. She always thought that the time would come when it might be claimed; and looked upon it as a sort of confidential deposit, for which she was answerable. No individual could have acted with more scrupulous and faithful regard.

Time swept on, and Margaret had spent two years of good conduct in the Ipswich gaol. The magistrates had told Mr. Ripshaw they should recommend her at the Midsummer a.s.sizes, when she was mentioned in high terms to the Lord Chief Baron. But the crime of horse-stealing still continued, day by day, to be a growing evil; and, as if Margaret was made to feel the consequence of others' crimes, no mitigation of her sentence was yet granted. It had been injudiciously told her by some friend, who, no doubt, meant it kindly, that an application had been made to the judge for the shortening of the period of her imprisonment. This made her feel very anxious; and it proved a great disappointment to her when she found that the interest made in her behalf was ineffectual. Her mind was unhinged, and her spirit grew restless, anxious, and oppressed. Her mistress observed these symptoms with concern, and dreaded a return of that irritability which had formerly rendered her so miserable.

But where was William Laud? At his old trade. He was deeply concerned in that affair at Dunwich, where William Woodward and Benjamin Lawsey, two boatmen belonging to his majesty's Customs at Southwold, were beaten and thrown into the sea; and the government offered one hundred pounds reward for the apprehension of any one of the offenders. Forty empty carts were seen by these two men, standing ready for a run, with horses and men in a lane at Dunwich. The reward was offered in the county newspapers of the date of March 2nd, 1799.

Such a system of open fraud was carried on along the whole coast of Norfolk and Suffolk about this time, that the revenue of the kingdom began to suffer severely in the customs. In the month of March of the second year of her imprisonment, Mr. Gooch, officer of excise at Lowestoft, and Mr. Burdell, of Aldborough, seized 880 gallons of gin, belonging to Will Laud and his company; and the evidence brought the affair so clearly home to him that he was taken up and sentenced to be imprisoned one year in the Ipswich gaol, and to pay a fine of one hundred pounds to the king. His property was seized and confiscated; smuggled goods were found upon his premises, and he became a penniless bankrupt, and an inmate of that very prison where the devoted Margaret was suffering on his account.

FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 10: All traces of Edward Catchpole having been lost, the author is obliged to Henry T. Bourne, Esq., of Alford, in Lincolnshire, for making known to him, since the publication of the work, the circ.u.mstances which are here briefly narrated.

Edward Catchpole went into Lincolnshire, and resided some time at Sutton-in-the-Marsh. He was always fond of the sea, and for some years became mate of the Argus revenue cutter. In this vessel, he was present at the rescue of an English coal brig, from the Star, French privateer; and having put men on board the brig, sufficient to carry her into port, he pursued the privateer, brought her to close quarters, and having only twenty-seven men on board the cutter, he was overpowered, and at ten o'clock at night compelled to surrender, as the privateer had eighty-six men against him.

This was on the 18th September, 1807. He was made prisoner, and having spent seven years in confinement, he made his escape, and reached home in safety.

He was afterwards appointed chief officer of the coastguard, at Sutton-in-the-Marsh, in the county of Lincoln. Though a very brave man, and a steady officer, he did not appear to have any very serious notions of religion, until he was compelled by a serious wound to keep at home. It was the blessing of G.o.d to him, and others, that this accident happened to him, for his mind appears to have been awakened to a deep sense of his past sins, and his soul very much aroused to inquiry, by the kindness of an excellent neighbour, who dressed his wounds for him, and did her best endeavours to pour in consolation upon his broken heart.

He became sensible of his need of a Saviour; and never after forsook the help he found in his necessity, but became useful and exemplary, and even the means, by the blessing of G.o.d, of saving others of his comrades and companions. He died on the 17th of December, 1836, after affording to all around him, a Christian example of patience under suffering affliction.

He was interred in the churchyard at Sutton, and a stone at the head of his grave contains the following inscription:-- IN MEMORY OF EDWARD CATCHPOLE, A NATIVE OF IPSWICH, IN THE COUNTY OF SUFFOLK, AND LATE CHIEF OFFICER OF THE COASTGUARD STATIONED AT THIS PLACE, WHO DIED DECEMBER THE 17TH, 1836, AGED 58 YEARS.

Sutton-in-the-Marsh, Jan. 1847.]

CHAPTER XXV.

THE ESCAPE.

Margaret had not heard of the capture of Laud; and he, even in his then degraded condition, looked upon it as a thing not to be desired that she should hear of. She had been engaged in washing for Mrs. Ripshaw. At that time the large linen-horses belonging to the gaol stood in the pa.s.sage between the debtors' and felons' yards. Margaret had occasion to remove those horses into the drying-ground. For this purpose she had to pa.s.s through the governor's apartment into the thoroughfare between these two yards. A strong palisade of oak, with sharp tenter-hooks on their tops, stood on each side of this stone pa.s.sage, leading from the turnkey's lodge to the governor's rooms at the centre of the prison. As Margaret was in the act of removing one of these horses, she saw a sailor standing by the wall on the debtors' side. A sailor in prison would interest her at any time; but this sailor looked so very like Will Laud that she stood still with astonishment. He evidently saw her, and as he approached toward the place where she stood, her heart was convulsively beating, and a tremor came over her limbs. He came nearer: it was Laud. She saw him again after the lapse of years; him whom her earliest and warmest feelings had acknowledged as her lover. She had never in her heart deserted him for an hour; yet he had hardly ever been constant to anything. He approached, however, and Margaret, pretending to be engaged in removing the linen-horses, felt her hands and feet tremble exceedingly. She heard the well-known voice, which sounded like music in her ears, say, "Margaret, is that you? How are you, Peggy?" She tried all she could to summon courage to speak, but her heart was so full, her breast heaved so rapidly, that she could not utter a word; tears stood in her eyes, and she tried to smile through them; but, in the act of lifting one of those great horses off the pegs, her hands and knees could not support the weight, but down fell the horse upon her, and cast her, with considerable force and clatter upon the stone-flag pavement.

The noise of the fall brought out the governor and the turnkey at the same moment, who, both concluding that the weight had overpowered her, ran to her a.s.sistance, whilst the sailor, well knowing he could be of no use, walked quietly away. No one in the gaol knew that he was Margaret's lover. She was carried into the governor's house. The turnkey said he had often removed the horses, considering they were too heavy for a female to lift, though they were frequently carried by them. Margaret told Mr. Ripshaw that the over-exertion had for a moment produced a dizziness in her head, and a sudden faintness came upon her before she fell. She dreaded, however, lest any one should imagine the real cause of her accident. Her friend, the surgeon of the gaol, Mr. George Stebbing, was sent for; and when he saw her he bled her, considering that she had received some internal injury. It was a good thing he did so, for it reduced her to such real weakness as confined her some days to her bed, and afforded time for reflection.

Mrs. Ripshaw had promised Mrs. Cobbold, that if Margaret should be ill at any time she would let her know it, and she now fulfilled that promise. She sent her a note to tell her how the accident occurred, and how she was. Mrs. Cobbold came immediately, and found her in an unaccountable state of agitation. She at once asked Margaret if anything particular had occurred, but she elicited nothing satisfactory.

No one in the gaol except Margaret knew Will Laud, and no one took any particular notice of him but her. A letter, which was afterwards found upon his person, shows how truly that poor girl had loved so unworthy a man. Opportunities of occasional words were at different times offered and seized upon by them, though these were few and far between. By these, however, Margaret learned that he was a ruined man, sentenced to a year's imprisonment, and to pay a fine of one hundred pounds to the king; that in all probability his confinement might be for years, as everything he possessed had been confiscated; his boats, ships, and stock, had been seized; and yet imprisonment was to continue till the penalty was paid.

The letter which Margaret wrote to him about this period, and contrived to give into his hands, showed how deeply she entered into his past as well as present feelings, and is a n.o.ble specimen of her devoted affection:-- "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 send for 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. n.o.body 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 G.o.d 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 affectionate "MARGARET CATCHPOLE."

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 a.s.sured 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 dest.i.tute 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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sage 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 quant.i.ty 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 told his 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 ash.o.r.e 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 a.s.sist in landing any cargoes along the sh.o.r.e. 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 a.s.sizes 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' 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 pa.s.sed 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."