Newgate

Newgate—Newgate, the Queen's prison, Gazed through its dark windows at St. Sepulchre's And the prisoners heard the ancient church bells, chiming Chiming—chiming—chiming— All that day. For it was Easter; Easter and April.

When November fogs came rolling in, Or when December winds blew bitterly, Newgate was the very House of Misery; But April was its added curse. April! with sunlight or sudden sweet rain Falling against iron bars. April—with little new lambs again, And apple-flowers in the orchards; April with hawthorne a-bloom and primroses starring the lanes; And all the old enchantments on the air. Ah then! Then if a full moon silvered a grated door, Or if a nightingale's song drifted in,— They fastened the madmen to the floor With double chains, For on such nights they had double strength: And on the death-cells they set a double watch,— So strange a magic the moon made At Newgate.

But to-day, it was a blue morning, shot with gold. Even so, within the prison the light was grey. Grey. There the walls were always damp, And the footworn flagstones were mottled with mould, Of the color of fear. Ashen-grey, it showed, or ashen-blue, or ashen-violet. A color without a name. Everything in Newgate was tinted with a shade of it: The prisoners' faces, their hands and their hair. Like an intangible pall it covered even their garments, And could not be washed away. Now, on this Easter Monday morning, The pallid prisoners heard St. Sepulchre's bells; Where they toiled they listened; Where they lay ill and idle, they listened; And where they waited for death. "Easter!" the bells rang joyously, "It is Easter! The Lord hath risen! He hath risen from the dead! Hallelujah! There is no death for He hath conquered! No death!—No death! No death!— 'Lift up your heads, O ye gates And the King of Glory will come in!' Easter! It is Easter! April! April! April! April!—" So they seemed to say—ringing on madly, The old bells— For it was their great festival and England's spring holiday.

The highwayman looked at the sky through his barred window, And he listened with the rest. Few prisoners could reach this window—try they ever so desperately, But the highwayman was tall, and strong and young. They had taken him red-handed on the London road,— And this not for the first time: Hitherto he had escaped his captors, And now three officers of the law had been killed in his taking. Therefore by reason of this, and that, and the other,— Sonorously charged against him in Her Majesty's High Court of Justice,— He had been swiftly tried, condemned, and sentenced To be hung on the morrow, at daybreak, On Tyburn Hill.

For his greater humiliation he would hang with a common sheep-stealer. He! The boldest outlaw in the country! Elizabeth Herself had been told of his taking. The Court—then at White-hall—had laughed over it: He had been so defiant a fellow and so vastly successful! There were stories told of him at every fireside. Moreover he had been scornful of the gentry; Scornful of the nobility also—if it came to that. He had many times blithely jested as he took their purses, Thus taking their dignity with their gold. And his doublet, and hose and ruffled linen,— His cordovan long-boots,— His velvet cloak and feathered hat, Had been finer than most gentlemen wore. And he had boasted in taverns of having nine lives Like a cat,— But he had always made a mock of life, everywhere, Saying that those who held it lightly held it longest. "Egad! He was well taken," they swore at Court. They wished him joy of his other eight lives When this one went out on Tyburn. "So perish all masked men o' the road," They said. "God knew the good English law was slow in taking thieves, But 'twas swift to act—once it had them," They said. "A gibbet for every one of them, and a short shrift," They said.

Thus his name was bandied about Whitehall A full half-hour. And it was spoken in castles, and taverns, And little wayside Inns and cottages. There were those who wept hidden tears at this news of him, For he had many and motley friends. And some went white and stared unspeaking—at nothing. But these mostly were women. Coachmen who often took the road to London, breathed more freely;. And some drank to his quick death on the morrow, As though they themselves had taken him Single-handed.

None of this disturbed the highwayman looking through his barred window And harkening to the bells. An old prison priest, a Franciscan friar, who had seen many men die, Stood near, and watched him from out his brown hooded habit. The bells went on and on,—more slowly now. "Christ, the Lord, is risen to-day!" rang the ancient tune, "Halleluiah! Halleluiah!—" they quivered and were still. A deep silence followed. A long silence. Then the highwayman broke it, whistling softly. It was the melody of a little new love song—the rage in London. He smiled as he whistled. Suddenly he stopped, turned to the priest; and looked hard at him. "'Tis a right sweet world gone wrong, holy father," he said, "Yet, by the Rood! I like not this leaving it. The Heavens—or Hells—the Church provides for us, Are damned uncertain places. We may, or may not, find them. But the green Earth is real. We get a foothold on it, and 'tis all we know. So, methinks, it be pity to leave it over soon. This body o' mine is too strong to need long rest, Should there be naught but—sleep. And it is April,—the witching month, good friar. Cast back in thy dolorous mind; Cans't not find a thing called 'Love' or that which was Youth? I grant thou art but the shell of a man, But something must once have lived in thee beside pity and prayer. Something passing sweet, peradventure! Nay then! Forego thinking on't,— I would not torture thee with memory. Thou art a patient kindly soul, and the look in thine eyes, Doth trouble me. What need hast thou to look so grief-stricken? It is not thee, they will hang. But come close!—Closer.— Harken! Know you not some loop-hole hereabout— Some hidden outlet a trapped thing might find? Come!—You know the windings of Newgate,— What way of escape will you show me—to-night, when dark falls, For much gold?"

The brown friar trembled like a withered leaf in the wind. "Ah! My Son! My Son!" he cried breathlessly, "count not on escape. Racking might follow—an they caught thee! Without thy cell, the guard hath been doubled, And it is doubled on the prison walls. 'Tis but seldom they take thy kind—alive. And thou hast cost them many lives, in this capture. Newgate to-day is hedged about with guards who will be relieved by more Till daybreak. There is no way from the cell save by this iron door And yonder archery window—too narrow for passing. In truth most bitterly I grieve for thee—I scarce know why For thou hast greatly merited punishment.— Yet, were't possible, I would take thy place on Tyburn. No prisoner hath so deeply stirred me to pity—and many were pitiful. Thy face, or thy youth, or thy way of smiling, Or what I know not,— Gives me a new pity, a sorrow intolerable to bear. If this be sin, then, Christ forgive me! But I will not bring thee false hope,—earthly hope, For there is none. And I will not ask what turned thee to evil ways. Perchance 'twas something evil done thee, in the first place; Or of two roads you took the wrong one, by mischance,— And in the dark. Whatever it was, God will deal with that. But, oh, I pray thee, confess thy sins! Set thine own soul free! Life is short, and Heaven long, Beloved, So repent, as did the thief upon the cross. Repent—and thou wilt be forgiven. Ay! So saith the Lord! Repeat thy rosary but once, and I will go."

The highwayman glanced down at the bent figure, as though he scarcely noted it, Then at some thought, he laughed lightly. The sound swept through the grated iron door, and out through the prison. Never had Newgate echoed to so sweet a sound as far back as the priest could remember. "I laugh not at thee—old friar," the man said, presently,— But at myself. I have fooled myself to the top o' my bent,—this time, I—who fooled so many. The end of the game is other than I counted on, And was brought about by a careless move. I was off guard for once. Mind not my laughter. 'Tis my way to be merry; Especially when things go amiss,— And they have gone damnably amiss this time, as you perceive.

But the law is the law. I have no grudge against it. 'Twas my business to keep out of its drag-net. And I have no grudge against life either,—I would fain have my full three score and ten years of it. Its sweetness makes up for its bitter, So I have found. Yet as for confession;—nathless the time is overshort For that, father—even were I of the mind. My sins be like the leaves of the trees in number. All the uncomfortable Jewish laws I have broken More or less—well, rather more than less peradventure. The one regarding 'false witness' had a distaste for me So I respected it. But I have robbed outrageously—though I grant you, Chiefly, like the outlaw of Sherwood Forest from the rich. In the taking of purses, and the like, men oft chanced to die. This not by my desire, good father; But 'they rushed upon their fate,' As some poet hath it,— (Nay, count not this 'confession' as the Church calls it, 'Tis too general.) But I tell thee, it is true, by reason o' me some died swiftly. Ay, poor souls, so swiftly they said no prayer of any creed. They could not even sign the Cross, for lack of time. Now, I would have you believe I regret these dead men, Cut off untimely, by reason of my adventuring.

So, say masses for their souls, If thereby they may be released from whatever they feared—beyond death. I leave to thee a vast deal of treasure, old friar, a vast deal— Seeing I cannot convey it hence. And I will tell thee straightway where 'tis hidden. Newgate hath ears! Step nearer!— Nearer still. So!—So!—There thou hast the secret entire. Lock it in thy memory. And give no one the key. Thine is a face to be trusted, else had I not trusted thee. Harbour no scruples. I know not to whom the guineas belong. 'T'was taken—a jewel here,—a purse there,— A box o' gems going up to London to be re-set; The flotson and jetson o' the highroad. The jewels have been turned into gold. All, all into gold. So spend it,—and trouble not whence it came. Feed thy poor;—cover them from the cold; And burn candles and say prayers for the quickly slain. As for me—old shaking priest—as for me— Marry! I will depart with my pack o' sins on my back. And the way I have lived is the way I will die. Come!—Wouldst have me a hypocrite?— Then! Hark thee! Were I to live—Verily I would still take the road. 'Tis a merry life—if a short one. But one thing—one thing, I do ask of thee; For sake of Christ's mercy look you to my body when 'tis cut down. Me 'seemeth it is best to be dead when one is counted dead, And I desire to take no sigh—no beat of the heart into my grave. Convicts be thrust all too quickly into the Earth, So 'tis said. Od'so! of this one thing I have an unspeakable horror. Now the Queen hath newly decreed that no gibbet shall long bear its burden During Easter week. 'Tis a law now in force,—as perhaps you know? Therefore I deeply pray thee—look well to me— After. But, good father, I have a sudden thought! It may work out as I would desire. Listen. Ask for my body thyself—for burial. Use the name I be called by; though it is not mine. I own no name save my Mother's. She, sweet soul, was of the common folk Who sin the common sins,—occasionally,— And be punished in the common way. Always. She is long since gone, but he who is my father, lives. Most amazing to relate, he holds high authority Under the Queen! His titles be many and too tedious to tell over. But he is old; much older than she would be now Had she lived. And he is broken by cares o' State and weary o' life Like thee—old friar! Furthermore, Fate hath played him a scurvy trick. I—I born out o' wedlock—I be his only son. 'Tis in a fashion amusing—think'st not so? Life hath given him everything—everything,— Save the thing he wanted most; a son; An heir to his titles and estates That must all now go to one he deeply hates. This is gossip o' the tavern near his Castle; but quite true gossip. He knows not of me, save that I was born. That much indeed he knows so said my Mother. She died,—and I—I fended for myself like a wild thing o' the woods. None kept track of me, or held me those young days. But of this irregular birth of mine I hold proof. Ay! certain proof. This ring I wear he gave to my Mother. Observe it well! It bears his carven Coat of Arms. He would remember this ring—and her—until his death. She was not one easily to be forgotten. And further, I have letters written her by his own hand. One there is regarding me, when I was a year old,— Or thereabouts. These letters none could gainsay. You will find the little packet of them hidden with the treasure Where I told thee. But there is a greater proof of who I am; I am as like—as marvellous like this man as youth can be to age! Even now to send to him might bring release—quick release, For he hath great influence with Elizabeth, And the bar sinister is not unknown at Court. Peradventure—and all things considered—what think you?— I might be better than no son at all? In all the road adventures none saw my face, None could more than surmise who was behind the mask. Never have I taken life save in fair fighting; man to man. Some fools would have it so—against my will. A highwayman I am—not a murderer. But robbers be not all on the open road. In truth, no. Even at Whitehall may be discovered a few here and there Though of a different stripe. And this courtier who is my father knows the sins of the Court. The little sins—and the scarlet sins. I do not think he would be overcome by mine. Particularly an they could be well hidden—. Still, good friar, I will not send to him. His pride is mine, though I wear not his name, And to petition his favour likes me not. Therefore I tell thee this dull tale of old unfaith and sorrow But for one reason. Should they, on thy request, refuse to allow thee my body for burial, Use his name—and say who I am. The Sheriff will then permit it with small ado, I take oath! Into the question of my identity he would not court inquiry After execution. No! No! Not that; if I know him. Also methinks my trial was somewhat hasty. He might not care for that investigation neither. I think they will accede to thee quite heartily. God knows thou hast served the prison long And asked little, So I desperately pray thee, take me away from them—afterwards! Look to me,—See I breath not. Lay me under the sky, and not under Newgate flagstones— The dreadful flagstones i' the prison yard Under which all the hanged men lie. Do this, and I will return to thank thee in some way; Ay! Bring thee word of the beyond thou art so anxious about, Should it be possible! 'Tis a strange bargain—but full o' interest, And my part of it I will keep in good faith. Now go—Thou dost look faint. But stand by me at to-morrow's dawn—as thou hast promised. I will watch for thee on Tyburn. In truth I think the Christ will not be less kind Than thou art—dear friar. And now again—I bid thee go."

The dawn had laid its rose-leaf light on the sea; It had painted with pearl and amethyst Old Tyburn Hill. The dew still jewelled the cobwebs on the grass, And a lark was singing ecstatically far overhead, When a motley group of Londoners melted away Towards the City. They were disappointed and sour-visaged, and grumbled, among themselves. For they had risen so early, and seen so little. "It had been a monstrous dull hanging," they complained. "Not worth the trouble of crossing a road." The two felons,—the famous highwayman, And the sheep-stealer, Had died swiftly, and without any ado. The sheep-stealer was a half-wit Who dumbly submitted as was his duty, to the law. And the highwayman showed naught but a vast indifference. The only sport had been from an old Franciscan friar Who trembled so violently during the execution His hands dropped his beads. The small curious crowd had lingered until all was over, But when the Newgate physician with hand on their wrists Pronounced first one,—and then the other robber,—dead, There was no further use to wait. Dead men were dead men, and all alike, Sheep-stealers, and notorious highwaymen; And even Kings for that matter. All alike, Their cutting down would be accomplished quickly,— It being Easter week and the new law now in force,— And there was little to see in that. "Elizabeth had too many fancies," they gossiped Moving away. She grew odd and unreasonable; It had come that she could not endure the sight o' gibbet-prey Blowing in the wind.— A wholesome sight for all evil-doers, as was well known, And consequently to be endured by even the Queen. It made for law, and order and peace, In England. The Queen should marry," they whispered. "She grew full o' whims—and tempers," they said, And discontentedly went onward.

The sun was but a little above the sky-line, When the two robbers lay covered side by side On the bright grass. The gaol physician, having done his duty, had hastily gone, And the hangman was at his heels. Only the friar, the Sheriff, and two grave-diggers— In a rough cart, drawn by a rough pony,— Remained. The friar knelt by the highwayman, drew back the covering, And skilfully cut the rope from his throat. All his trembling was done, and his old hands did not falter. "I pray you Master Sheriff," he said, rising, "Give me this man's body for burial. I have served Newgate long. I have given God's absolution, many times to men about to die, At scenes I will not mention. Our Order being poor—-and now nearly disbanded in England— Has yet asked nothing. Now I ask this one thing, in your power to grant. I greatly desire this man shall not be buried at Newgate, But in a little garden outside our Monastery walls. 'Tis not holy ground there—but common earth. Let me take him, I pray thee. He was an outlaw, but one of rare courage, Amazing courage,—for he could have saved his life I firmly believe, had he so determined! Therefore this grace I pray you grant him For my sake, or rather the sake of any little work I have done At Newgate." "No? You do not see fit to allow it?

Then Master Sheriff, there is more I must tell thee. This highwayman was the bastard son, Of one in high authority at Whitehall; One the Queen greatly honours, and favours, and trusts. There are proofs of it I can show thee, shortly,— Or take elsewhere. The wind carries names, so move nearer—So. This is his father's title—commonly known, But he hath other titles by reason of various Court offices. Now look you at this man's face—Master Sheriff. Study it well, I pray thee." The Sheriff glanced down, and shuddered. "Thine is a true word, Father!" he exclaimed. "This dead man—even as he is—is like the old Duke. Ay! Marvellous like! Marvellous like! I am convinced, and ask to see no further proof. I desire no trouble brewed over this; No question to be broached as to his identity. No question at all of this or that, regarding him. I wish no rumour started that the trial was short, Or the execution hasty, as sometimes rumours go, Nay, God forbid! I want no report that he was the old Duke's son, Whether his natural son or no.— Whether true or no.— Take him. Take him away quickly. I myself will silence any question at Newgate. Bury him in thy outer garden, and say naught. By Heaven! My honours are bought too dearly With the horrors of this office. Make an ending.—Take him away.—And keep thy lips sealed."

So the two robbers were put in the prison cart, And one was taken to the Monastery near by, While the other went on to Newgate's flagged yard. The low-ceiled hall in the Monastery Was cool and empty: For it was the hour of devotion. They had laid the highwayman on an oaken bench In the hall. There the friar who knew him, came to him, Alone. Beyond the garden walls,—in the little outer garden— Two lay-brothers dug a grave, and spoke nothing, As they had been commanded. In the Chapel the monks chanted long Latin prayers, And the sound of their voices floated through the silence, To where the old friar knelt by the oaken bench. Presently he rose and uncovered the highwayman's face. Then he held a small bright steel mirror to the ashen lips. "No mist," he said, watching. "No mist. No littlest mist."— The mirror shone like silver undimmed. He waited; then again held it as before. "No. No mist." Softly he drew open the man's linen shirt, Its lace ruffles torn to shreds in his capture. "I must listen at the heart," he muttered to himself. "So I promised,—so I promised. I must listen long—" And then suddenly the priest who had gone in silence Through that dread sunrise, Gave a sharp cry,—A sharp broken cry.— For he saw over the heart of the highwayman A crucifix! It was tattooed plainly—beautifully—on the white skin, A picture of wonder, the length of a man's hand; And beneath it were pricked in red, the words, "Jesu pity me!" This, the priest knew, was the fashion of some sailors And soldiers of the time, whose end might be sudden And with no spoken prayer. Slowly he bent down and touched the Cross With his lips, And with that touch he seemed to feel,—No! he felt— The faint beating of a heart. The faint, faint, beating. "O Christ!" he cried. "He is not dead. Without breath—he yet is not dead. His spirit hath come again into his body As did the spirits of Lazarus, and of the little maid. Bring him back. Bring him back. Dear Christ! Bring him back. He hath sinned—but he hath suffered—oh, grievously. And he hath prayed. I know Thou hast seen his prayer, scarred here upon his heart. Sweet Jesu! It is the week of resurrection,—of resurrection! And it is the month of love.— It is April,—April.—"

So he fell to weeping and praying, and withal doing what he could To bring back breath to that young body. Long he prayed, with tears, a rain of tears, And ceaselessly he did what he could. Little by little—oh, very slowly,— The highwayman came back. They had not quite quenched the little flame We call life; Or else God had relighted it; The old friar knew not which— But many weeks went by before it burned brightly. They kept him to themselves, the good brothers, And they were silent—for they knew his story. To them he was God's Miracle— A living proof of resurrection. Looking at him their souls were uplifted in praise. For some great purpose he had been brought back They agreed. Ay! For some inscrutable purpose.— Thus, they wondered, and waited, and prayed for him.

So in peace and quiet the Summer went by— And now the hunter's moon was a thin silver crescent, In the evening sky. The highwayman had grown strong again, and restless With the restlessness of wild things caged. It was then the old friar of Newgate heard of a ship About to sail to the Americas. In the Monastery garden when the leaves were falling,— Gold, and russet, and red,— He told of it. "'Tis a good road out for thee, my son," he said. "The best way out methinks. The sea-road! The blue sea-road That leads to new lands! They need more sailors on this ship;— It carries some of Sir Walter's men, to the Virginian Coast. And they need men in the far world. Men of courage, and high spirit. It is surely thy way out."

"Then will I take it, faithful one," he answered. "By the Crown! I knew thou wouldst find some road I could take. The Americas! The Virginian Coast! Sir Walter's men! There is magic in the very words. New life, they mean to me; new life, and liberty, And pleasant adventuring, that hath no evil in it. It doth entrance me to think on't. But thee; thee I do dread to leave."

The friar smiled as at something very sweet. "Not so, my Son," he replied. "I sail also. There be teachers of Christ needed in the new world. Ay! Simple men like myself. For some reason they have chosen me to go. So I sail with thee,—my work at Newgate Being finished."