Chapter V: Introduction (5)

However it was, he owned he had about £22 in money, and something that would yield money—I suppose it was plate; but he would not tell me what it was, or where it was. But he said he durst not go to fetch it, for he should be betrayed and seized, so he would venture without it. “Sure,” says he, “we shall come back again some time or other.”

I honestly produced all the money I had, which was £16 and some odd shillings. “Now,” says I, “if we are good husbands, and travel frugally, this will carry us quite out of danger.” For we had both been assured that when we came out of England we should be both safe, and nobody could hurt us, though they had known us; but we neither of us thought it was so many weary steps to Scotland as we found it.

I speak of myself as in the same circumstances of danger with brother Jacque; but it was only thus: I was in as much fear as he, but not in quite as much danger.

I cannot omit that, in the interval of these things, and a few days before I carried my money to the gentleman in Tower Street, I took a walk all alone into the fields, in order to go to Kentish Town and do justice to the poor old nurse. It happened that, before I was aware, I crossed a field that came to the very spot where I robbed the poor old woman and the maid, or where, I should say, Will made me rob them. My heart had reproached me many a time with that cruel action, and many a time I promised to myself that I would find a way to make her satisfaction and restore her money, and that day I had set apart for the work, but was a little surprised that I was so suddenly upon the unhappy spot.

The place brought to my mind the villainy I had committed there, and something struck me with a kind of wish—I cannot say prayer, for I knew not what that meant—that I might leave off that cursed trade, and said to myself, “Oh that I had some trade to live by! I would never rob no more, for sure ’tis a wicked, abominable thing.”

Here indeed I felt the loss of what just parents do, and ought to do, by all their children—I mean, being bred to some trade or employment; and I wept many times that I knew not what to do or what to turn my hand to, though, I resolved to leave off the wicked course I was in.

But to return to my journey. I asked my way to Kentish Town, and it happened to be of a poor woman that said she lived there; upon which intelligence I asked if she knew a woman that lived there whose name was Smith. She answered yes, very well; that she was not a settled inhabitant, only a lodger in the town, but that she was an honest, poor, industrious woman, and by her labour and pains maintained a poor diseased husband, that had been unable to help himself some years.

“What a villain have I been,” said I to myself, “that I should rob such a poor woman as this, and add grief and tears to her misery, and to the sorrows of her house!” This quickened my resolution to restore her money; and not only so, but I resolved I would give her something over and above her loss. So I went forward, and by the direction I had received, found her lodging with very little trouble. Then asking for the woman, she came to the door immediately; for she heard me ask for her by her name of a little girl that came first to the door. I presently spoke to her: “Dame,” said I, “was not you robbed about a year ago, as you was coming home from London, about Pindar of Wakefield?” “Yes, indeed I was,” says she; “and sadly frighted into the bargain.” “And how much did you lose?” said I. “Indeed,” says she, “I lost all the money I had in the world. I am sure I worked hard for it; it was money for keeping a nurse-child that I had then, and I had been at London to receive it.” “But how much was it, dame?” said I. “Why,” says she, “it was 22s. 6½d.; 21s. I had been to fetch, and the odd money was my own before.”

“Well, look you, good woman, what will you say if I should put you in a way to get your money again? for I believe the fellow that took it is fast enough now, and perhaps I may do you a kindness in it, and for that I came to see you.” “Oh dear!” says the old woman, “I understand you, but indeed I cannot swear to the man’s face again, for it was dark; and, besides, I would not hang the poor wretch for my money; let him live and repent.” “That is very kind,” says I—“more than he deserves from you; but you need not be concerned about that, for he will be hanged whether you appear against him or not; but are you willing to have your money again that you lost?” “Yes, indeed,” says the woman, “I should be glad of that; for I have not been so hard put to it for money a great while as I am now; I have much ado to find us bread to eat, though I work hard early and late;” and with that she cried.

I thought it would have broken my very heart, to think how this poor creature worked and was a slave at near threescore, and that I, a young fellow of hardly twenty, should rob her of her bread to support my idleness and wicked life; and the tears came from my eyes in spite of all my struggling to prevent it, and the woman perceived it too. “Poor woman,” said I, “’tis a sad thing such creatures as these should plunder and strip such a poor object as thou art. Well, he is at leisure now to repent it, I assure you.” “I perceive, sir,” says she, “you are very compassionate indeed. I wish he may improve the time God has spared him, and that he may repent, and I pray God give him repentance. Whoever he is, I forgive him, whether he can make me recompense or not, and I pray God forgive him. I won’t do him any prejudice, not I.” And with that she went on praying for me.

“Well, dame, come hither to me,” says I; and with that I put my hand into my pocket, and she came to me. “Hold up your hand,” said I; which she did, and I told her nine half-crowns into her hand. “There, dame,” said I, “is your 22s. 6d. you lost. I assure you, dame,” said I, “I have been the chief instrument to get it off him for you; for, ever since he told me the story of it among the rest of his wicked exploits, I never gave him any rest till I made him promise me to make you restitution.” All the while I held her hand and put the money into it I looked in her face, and I perceived her colour come and go, and that she was under the greatest surprise of joy imaginable.

“Well, God bless him,” says she, “and spare him from the disaster he is afraid of, if it be His will. For sure this is an act of so much justice, and so honest, that I never expected the like.” She run on a great while so, and wept for him when I told her I doubted there was no room to expect his life. “Well,” says she, “then pray God give him repentance and bring him to heaven; for sure he must have something that is good at the bottom; he has a principle of honesty at bottom to be sure, however he may have been brought into bad courses by bad company or evil example, or other temptations; but I daresay he will be brought to repentance one time or other before he dies.”

All this touched me nearer than she imagined; for I was the man that she prayed for all this while, though she did not know it, and in my heart I said amen to it. For I was sensible that I had done one of the vilest actions in the world in attacking a poor creature in such a condition, and not listening to her entreaties when she begged so heartily for that little money we took from her.

In a word, the good woman so moved me with her charitable prayers that I put my hand in my pocket again for her: “Dame,” said I, “you are so charitable in your petitions for this miserable creature that it puts me in mind of one thing more which I will do for him, whether he ordered me or not; and that is, to ask your forgiveness for the thief in robbing you. For it was an offence and a trespass against you, as well as an injury to you; and therefore I ask your pardon for him. Will you sincerely and heartily forgive him, dame? I do desire it of you;” and with that I stood up, and, with my hat off, asked her pardon. “O sir!” says she, “do not stand up, and with your hat off to me. I am a poor woman; I forgive him, and all that were with him; for there was one or more with him. I forgive them with all my heart, and I pray God to forgive them.”

“Well, dame, then,” said I, “to make you some recompense for your charity, there is something for you more than your loss;” and with that I gave her a crown more.

Then I asked her who that was who was robbed with her. She said it was a servant-maid that lived then in the town, but she was gone from her place, and she did not know where she lived now. “Well, dame,” says I, “if ever you do hear of her, let her leave word where she may be found; and if I live to come and see you again, I will get the money off him for her too. I think that was but little, was it?” “No,” says she; “it was but 5s. 6d.,” which I knew as well as she. “Well,” says I, “dame, inquire her out if you have an opportunity;” so she promised me she would, and away I came.

The satisfaction this gave me was very much; but then a natural consequence attended it, which filled me with reflection afterwards; and this was, that, by the same rule, I ought to make restitution to all that I had wronged in the like manner; and what could I do as to that? To this I knew not what to say, and so the thought in time wore off; for, in short, it was impossible to be done. I had not ability, neither did I know any of the people whom I had so injured; and that satisfying me for the present, I let it drop.

I come now to my journey with Captain Jacque, my supposed brother. We set out from London on foot, and travelled the first day to Ware; for we had learnt so much of our road that the way lay through that town. We were weary enough the first day, having not been used at all to travelling; but we made shift to walk once up and down the town after we came into it.

I soon found that his walking out to see the town was not to satisfy his curiosity in viewing the place, for he had no notion of anything of that kind, but to see if he could light of any purchase. For he was so natural a thief that he could see nothing on the road but it occurred to him how easily that might be taken, and how cleverly this might be carried off, and the like.

Nothing offered in Ware to his mind, it not being market-day; and as for me, though I made no great scruple of eating and drinking at the cost of his roguery, yet I resolved not to enter upon anything, as they called it, nor to take the least thing from anybody.

When the captain found me resolved upon the negative, he asked me how I thought to travel. I asked him what he thought of himself, that was sure to be hanged if he was taken, how small soever the crime was that he should be taken for. “How can that be?” says he; “they don’t know me in the country.” “Ay,” says I; “but do you think they do not send up word to Newgate as soon as any thief is taken in the country, and so inquire who is escaped from them, or who is fled, that they may be stopped? Assure yourself,” says I, “the gaolers correspond with one another, with the greatest exactness imaginable; and if you were taken here but for stealing a basket of eggs, you shall have your accuser sent down to see if he knows you.”

This terrified him a little for a while, and kept him honest for three or four days; but it was but for a few days indeed, for he played a great many rogue’s tricks without me; till at last he came to his end without me too, though it was not till many years after, as you shall hear in its order. But as these exploits are no part of my story, but of his, whose life and exploits are sufficient to make a volume larger than this by itself, so I shall omit every thing but what I was particularly concerned in during this tedious journey.

From Ware we travelled to Cambridge, though that was not our direct road. The occasion was this: in our way, going through a village called Puckeridge, we baited at an inn, at the sign of the Falcon, and while we were there a countryman comes to the inn, and hangs his horse at the door while he goes in to drink. We sat in the gateway, having called for a mug of beer, and drank it up. We had been talking with the hostler about the way to Scotland, and he had bid us ask the road to Royston. “But,” says he, “there is a turning just here a little farther. You must not go that way, for that goes to Cambridge.”

We had paid for our beer, and sat at the door only to rest us, when on the sudden comes a gentleman’s coach to the door, and three or four horsemen. The horsemen rode into the yard, and the hostler was obliged to go in with them. Says he to the captain, “Young man, pray take hold of the horse” (meaning the countryman’s horse I mentioned above), “and take him out of the way, that the coach may come up.” He did so, and beckoned me to follow him. We walked together to the turning. Says he to me, “Do you step before and turn up the lane. I’ll overtake you.” So I went on up the lane, and in a few minutes he was got up upon the horse and at my heels. “Come, get up,” says he; “we will have a lift, if we don’t get the horse by the bargain.”

I made no difficulty to get up behind him, and away we went at a good round rate, it being a good strong horse. We lost no time for an hour’s riding and more, by which time we thought we were out of the reach of being pursued. And as the country man, when he should miss his horse, would hear that we inquired the way to Royston, he would certainly pursue us that way, and not towards Cambridge. We went easier after the first hour’s riding, and coming through a town or two, we alighted by turns, and did not ride double through the villages.

escaping Escaping with the purloined horse.

Now, as it was impossible for the captain to pass by anything that he could lay his hand on and not take it, so now, having a horse to carry it off too, the temptation was the stronger. Going through a village where a good housewife of the house had been washing, and hung her clothes out upon a hedge near the road, he could not help it, but got hold of a couple of good shirts that were but about half dry, and overtook me upon the spur; for I walked on before. I immediately got up behind, and away we galloped together as fast as the horse would well go. In this part of our expedition his good luck or mine carried us quite out of the road, and having seen nobody to ask the way of, we lost ourselves, and wandered I know not how many miles to the right hand, till, partly by that means and partly by the occasion following, we came quite into the coach-road to Cambridge from London by Bishop-Stortford. The particular occasion that made me wander on was thus: the country was all open cornfields, no enclosures; when, being upon a little rising ground, I bade him stop the horse, for I would get down and walk a little to ease my legs, being tired with riding so long behind without stirrups. When I was down and looked a little about me, I saw plainly the great white road, which we should have gone, at near two miles from us.

On a sudden looking a little back to my left, upon that road, I saw four or five horsemen riding full speed, some a good way before the others, and hurrying on, as people in a full pursuit.

It immediately struck me: “Ha! brother Jacque,” says I, “get off the horse this moment, and ask why afterwards.” So he jumps off. “What is the matter?” says he. “The matter!” says I. “Look yonder; it is well we have lost our way. Do you see how they ride? They are pursuing us, you may depend upon it. Either,” says I, “you are pursued from the last village for the two shirts, or from Puckeridge for the horse.” He had so much presence of mind that, without my mentioning it to him, he puts back the horse behind a great white thorn-bush, which grew just by him; so they could by no means see the horse, which, we being just at the top of the hill, they might otherwise have done, and so have pursued that way at a venture.

But as it was impossible for them to see the horse, so was it as impossible for them to see us at that distance, who sat down on the ground to look at them the more securely.

The road winding about, we saw them a great way, and they rode as fast as they could make their horses go. When we found they were gone quite out of sight, we mounted and made the best of our way also; and indeed, though we were two upon one horse, yet we abated no speed where the way would admit of it, not inquiring of anybody the way to anywhere till, after about two hours’ riding, we came to a town, which, upon inquiry, they called Chesterford. And here we stopped, and asked not our way to any place, but whither that road went, and were told it was the coach-road to Cambridge; also that it was the way to Newmarket, to St. Edmund’s Bury, to Norwich and Yarmouth, to Lynn, and to Ely, and the like.

We stayed here a good while, believing ourselves secure; and afterwards, towards evening, went forward to a place called Bournbridge, where the road to Cambridge turns away out of the road to Newmarket, and where there are but two houses only, both of them being inns. Here the captain says to me, “Hark ye, you see we are pursued towards Cambridge, and shall be stopped if we go thither. Now Newmarket is but ten miles off, and there we may be safe, and perhaps get an opportunity to do some business.”

“Look ye, Jacque,” said I, “talk no more of doing business, for I will not join with you in anything of that kind. I would fain get you to Scotland before you get a halter about your neck. I will not have you hanged in England, if I can help it; and therefore I won’t go to Newmarket, unless you will promise me to take no false steps there.” “Well,” says he, “if I must not, then I won’t; but I hope you will let us get another horse, won’t you, that we may travel faster?” “No,” says I, “I won’t agree to that; but if you will let me send this horse back fairly, I will tell you how we shall hire horses afterwards, for one stage, or two, and then take them as far as we please: it is only sending a letter to the owner to send for him, and then, if we are stopped, it can do us but little hurt.”

“You are a wary, politic gentleman,” says the captain, “but I say we are better as we are; for we are out of all danger of being stopped on the way after we are gone from this place.”

We had not parleyed thus long, but, though in the dead of the night, came a man to the other inn door—for, as I said above, there are two inns at that place—and called for a pot of beer; but the people were all in bed, and would not rise. He asked them if they had seen two fellows come that way upon one horse. The man said he had, that they went by in the afternoon, and asked the way to Cambridge, but did not stop only to drink one mug. “Oh!” says he, “are they gone to Cambridge? Then I’ll be with them quickly.” I was awake in a little garret of the next inn, where we lodged, and hearing the fellow call at the door, got up and went to the window, having some uneasiness at every noise I heard; and by that means heard the whole story. Now, the case is plain, our hour was not come, our fate had determined other things for us, and we were to be reserved for it. The matter was thus. When we first came to Bournbridge, we called at the first house, and asked the way to Cambridge, drank a mug of beer and went on, and they might see to turn off to go the way they directed. But night coming on, and we being very weary, we thought we should not find the way; and we came back in the dusk of the evening, and went into the other house, being the first as we came back, as that where we called before was the first as we went forward.

You may be sure I was alarmed now, as indeed I had reason to be. The captain was in bed and fast asleep, but I wakened him, and roused him with a noise that frighted him enough. “Rise, Jacque,” said I; “we are both ruined; they are come after us hither.” Indeed, I was wrong to terrify him at that rate; for he started, and jumped out of bed, and ran directly to the window, not knowing where he was, and, not quite awake, was just going to jump out of the window, but I laid hold of him. “What are you going to do?” says I. “I won’t be taken,” says he. “Let me alone. Where are they?”

This was all confusion; and he was so out of himself with the fright, and being overcome with sleep, that I had much to do to prevent his jumping out of the window. However, I held him fast, and thoroughly wakened him, and then all was well again, and he was presently composed.

Then I told him the story, and we sat together upon the bedside, considering what we should do. Upon the whole, as the fellow that called was apparently gone to Cambridge, we had nothing to fear, but to be quiet till daybreak, and then to mount and be gone.

Accordingly, as soon as day peeped we were up; and having happily informed ourselves of the road at the other house, and being told that the road to Cambridge turned off on the left hand, and that the road to Newmarket lay straight forward—I say, having learnt this, the captain told me he would walk away on foot towards Newmarket; and so, when I came to go out, I should appear as a single traveller. And accordingly he went out immediately, and away he walked; and he travelled so hard that when I came to follow, I thought once that he had dropped me; for though I rode hard, I got no sight of him for an hour. At length, having passed the great bank called the Devil’s Ditch, I found him, and took him up behind me, and we rode double till we came almost to the end of Newmarket town. Just at the hither house in the town stood a horse at a door, just as it was at Puckeridge. “Now,” says Jack, “if the horse was at the other end of the town I would have him, as sure as we had the other at Puckeridge;” but it would not do; so he got down and walked through the town on the right-hand side of the way.

He had not got half through the town but the horse, having somehow or other got loose, came trotting gently on by himself, and nobody following him. The captain, an old soldier at such work, as soon as the horse was got a pretty way before him, and that he saw nobody followed, sets up a run after the horse, and the horse, hearing him follow, ran the faster. Then the captain calls out, “Stop the horse!” and by this time the horse was got almost to the farther end of the town, the people of the house where he stood not missing him all the while.

Upon his calling out, “Stop the horse!” the poor people of the town, such as were next at hand, ran from both sides the way and stopped the horse for him, as readily as could be, and held him for him till he came up. He very gravely comes up to the horse, hits him a blow or two, and calls him dog for running away, gives the man twopence that catched him for him, mounts, and away he comes after me.

This was the oddest adventure that could have happened, for the horse stole the captain, the captain did not steal the horse. When he came up to me, “Now, Colonel Jacque,” says he, “what say you to good luck? Would you have had me refuse the horse, when he came so civilly to ask me to ride?” “No, no,” said I; “you have got this horse by your wit, not by design; and you may go on now, I think. You are in a safer condition than I am, if we are taken.”

The next question was what road we should take. Here were four ways before us, and we were alike strangers to them all. First, on the right hand, and at about a little mile from the town, a great road went off to St. Edmund’s Bury; straight on, but inclining afterwards to the right, lay the great road to Barton Mills and Thetford, and so to Norwich; and full before us lay a great road, also, to Brandon and Lynn; and on the left lay a less road to the city of Ely, and into the fens.

In short, as we knew not which road to take, nor which way to get into the great north road, which we had left, so we, by mere unguided chance, took the way to Brandon, and so to Lynn. At Brand, or Brandon, we were told that, passing over at a place called Downham Bridge, we might cross the fen country to Wisbeach, and from thence go along that bank of the river Nene to Peterborough, and from thence to Stamford, where we were in the northern road again; and likewise, that at Lynn we might go by the Washes into Lincolnshire, and so might travel north. But, upon the whole, this was my rule, that, when we inquired the way to any particular place, to be sure we never took that road, but some other which the accidental discourse we might have should bring in. And thus we did here; for, having chiefly asked our way into the northern road, we resolved to go directly for Lynn.

We arrived here very easy and safe, and while we was considering of what way we should travel next we found we were got to a point, and that there was no way now left but that by the Washes into Lincolnshire, and that was represented as very dangerous; so an opportunity offering of a man that was travelling over the fens, we took him for our guide, and went with him to Spalding, and from thence to a town called Deeping, and so to Stamford in Lincolnshire.

This is a large, populous town, and it was market-day when we came to it; so we put in at a little house at the hither end of the town, and walked into the town.

Here it was not possible to restrain my captain from playing his feats of art, and my heart ached for him. I told him I would not go with him, for he would not promise, and I was so terribly concerned at the apprehensions of his venturous humour that I would not so much as stir out of my lodging; but it was in vain to persuade him. He went into the market, and found a mountebank there, which was what he wanted. How he picked two pockets there in one quarter of an hour, and brought to our quarters a piece of new holland of eight or nine ells, a piece of stuff, and played three or four pranks more in less than two hours; and how afterward he robbed a doctor of physic, and yet came off clear in them all—this, I say, as above, belongs to his story, not mine.

I scolded heartily at him when he came back, and told him he would certainly ruin himself, and me too, before he left off, and threatened in so many words that I would leave him, and go back and carry the horse to Puckeridge where we borrowed it, and so go to London by myself.

He promised amendment; but as we resolved (now we were in the great road) to travel by night, so it being not yet night, he gives me the slip again, and was not gone half-an-hour but he comes back with a gold watch in his hand: “Come,” says he, “why ain’t you ready to go? I am ready to go as soon as you will;” and with that he pulls out the gold watch. I was amazed at such a thing as that in a country town; but it seems there was prayers at one of the churches in the evening, and he, placing himself as the occasion directed, found the way to be so near the lady as to get it from her side, and walked off with it unperceived.

The same night we went away by moonlight, after having the satisfaction to hear the watch cried, and ten guineas offered for it again. He would have been glad of the ten guineas instead of the watch, but durst not venture carry it home. “Well,” says I, “you are afraid, and you have reason. Give it me; I will venture to carry it again.” But he would not let me, but told me that when he came into Scotland we might sell anything there without danger; which was true indeed, for there they asked us no questions.

We set out, as I said, in the evening by moon light, and travelled hard, the road being very plain and large, till we came to Grantham, by which time it was about two in the morning, and all the town, as it were, dead asleep. So we went on for Newark, where we reached about eight in the morning, and there we lay down and slept most of the day; and by this sleeping so continually in the day-time I kept him from doing a great deal of mischief, which he would otherwise have done.

From Newark we took advice of one that was accidentally comparing the roads, and we concluded that the road by Nottingham would be the best for us; so we turned out of the great road, and went up the side of the Trent to Nottingham. Here he played his pranks again in a manner that it was the greatest wonder imaginable to me that he was not surprised, and yet he came off clear. And now he had got so many bulky goods that he bought him a portmanteau to carry them in. It was in vain for me to offer to restrain him any more; so after this he went on his own way.

At Nottingham, I say, he had such success that made us the hastier to be going than otherwise we would have been, lest we would have been baulked, and should be laid hold of. From thence we left the road, which leads to the north again, and went away by Mansfield into Scarsdale, in Yorkshire.

I shall take up no more of my own story with his pranks; they very well merit to be told by themselves. But I shall observe only what relates to our journey. In a word, I dragged him along as fast as I could, till I came to Leeds, in Yorkshire. Here, though it be a large and populous town, yet he could make nothing of it; neither had he any success at Wakefield; and he told me, in short, that the north-country people were certainly all thieves. “Why so?” said I. “The people seem to be just as other people are.” “No, no,” says he; “they have their eyes so about them, and are all so sharp, they look upon everybody that comes near them to be a pickpocket, or else they would never stand so upon their guard. And then again,” says he, “they are so poor, there is but little to be got; and I am afraid,” says he, “the farther we go north, we shall find it worse.” “Well,” says I, “what do you infer from thence?” “I argue from thence,” says he, “that we shall do nothing there, and I had as good go back into the south and be hanged as into the north to be starved.”

Well, we came at length to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Here, on a market-day, was a great throng of people, and several of the townspeople going to market to buy provisions; and here he played his pranks, cheated a shopkeeper of £15 or £16 in goods, and got clear away with them; stole a horse, and sold that he came upon, and played so many pranks that I was quite frighted for him. I say for him, for I was not concerned for myself, having never stirred out of the house where I lodged—at least not with him, nor without some or other with me belonging to the inn that might give an account of me.

Nor did I use this caution in vain; for he had made himself so public by his rogueries that he was waylaid everywhere to be taken, and had he not artfully at first given out that he was come from Scotland and was going toward London, inquiring that road, and the like, which amused his pursuers for the first day, he had been taken, and in all probability had been hanged there. But by that artifice he got half a day’s time of them; and yet, as it was, he was put so to it that he was fain to plunge, horse and all, into the river Tweed, and swim over, and thereby made his escape. It was true that he was before upon Scots ground (as they call it), and consequently they had no power to have carried him off, if anybody had opposed them; yet, as they were in a full chase after him, could they have come up with him they would have run the risk of the rest, and they could but have delivered him up if they had been questioned about it. However, as he got over the Tweed, and was landed safe, they could neither follow him, the water being too high at the usual place of going over, nor could they have attempted to have brought him away if they had taken him. The place where he took the river was where there is a ford below Kelso, but the water being up, the ford was not passable, and he had no time to go to the ferry-boat, which is about a furlong off, opposite to the town.

Having thus made his escape, he went to Kelso, where he had appointed me to come after him. I followed with a heavy heart, expecting every hour to meet him upon the road in the custody of the constables and such people, or to hear of him in the gaol; but when I came to a place on the border called Woller-haugh-head, there I understood how he had been chased, and how he made his escape.

When I came to Kelso he was easy enough to be found; for his having desperately swam the Tweed, a rapid and large river, made him much talked of, though it seems they had not heard of the occasion of it, nor anything of his character; for he had wit enough to conceal all that, and live as retired as he could till I came to him.

I was not so much rejoiced at his safety as I was provoked at his conduct; and the more, for that I could not find he had yet the least notion of his having been void of common-sense with respect to his circumstances, as well as contrary to what he promised me. However, as there was no beating anything into his head by words, I only told him that I was glad he was at last gotten into a place of safety, and I asked him then how he intended to manage himself in that country. He said in few words he did not know yet. He doubted the people were very poor; but if they had any money he was resolved to have some of it.

“But do you know, too,” says I, “that they are the severest people upon criminals of your kind in the world?” He did not value that, he said, in his blunt, short way; he would venture it. Upon this I told him that, seeing it was so, and he would run such ventures, I would take my leave of him and be gone back to England. He seemed sullen, or rather it was the roughness of his untractable disposition. He said I might do what I would, he would do as he found opportunity. However, we did not part immediately, but went on towards the capital city. On the road we found too much poverty and too few people to give him room to expect any advantage in his way; and though he had his eyes about him as sharp as a hawk, yet he saw plainly there was nothing to be done; for as to the men, they did not seem to have much money about them; and for the women, their dress was such that, had they any money, or indeed any pockets, it was impossible to come at them; for, wearing large plaids about them and down to their knees, they were wrapped up so close that there was no coming to make the least attempt of that kind.

Kelso was indeed a good town, and had abundance of people in it; and yet, though he stayed one Sunday there, and saw the church, which is very large and thronged with people, yet, as he told me, there was not one woman to be seen in all the church with any other dress than a plaid, except in two pews, which belonged to some nobleman, and who, when they came out, were so surrounded with footmen and servants that there was no coming near them, any more than there was any coming near the king surrounded by his guards.

We set out, therefore, with this discouragement, which I was secretly glad of, and went forward to Edinburgh. All the way thither we went through no considerable town, and it was but very coarse travelling for us, who were strangers; for we met with waters which were very dangerous to pass, by reason of hasty rains, at a place called Lauderdale, and where my captain was really in danger of drowning, his horse being driven down by the stream, and fell under him, by which he wetted and spoiled his stolen goods that he brought from Newcastle, and which he had kept dry strangely, by holding them up in his arms when he swam the Tweed. But here it wanted but little that he and his horse had been lost, not so much by the depth of the water as the fury of the current. But he had a proverb in his favour, and he got out of the water, though with difficulty enough, not being born to be drowned, as I shall observe afterwards in its place.

We came to Edinburgh the third day from Kelso, having stopped at an inn one whole day, at a place called Soutrahill, to dry our goods and refresh ourselves. We were oddly saluted at Edinburgh. The next day after we came thither, my captain having a desire to walk and look about him, asked me if I would go and see the town. I told him yes; so we went out, and coming through a gate that they call the Nether Bow, into the great High Street, which went up to the Cross, we were surprised to see it thronged with an infinite number of people. “Ay,” says my captain, “this will do.” However, as I had made him promise to make no adventures that day, otherwise I told him I would not go out with him, so I held him by the sleeve, and would not let him stir from me.

Then we came up to the Market Cross, and there besides the great number of people who passed and repassed, we saw a great parade or kind of meeting, like an exchange of gentlemen, of all ranks and qualities, and this encouraged my captain again, and he pleased himself with that sight.

It was while we were looking, and wondering at what we saw here, that we were surprised with a sight which we little expected. We observed the people running on a sudden, as to see some strange thing just coming along; and strange it was indeed: for we see two men naked from the waist upwards run by us as swift as the wind, and we imagined nothing but that it was two men running a race for some mighty wager. On a sudden we found two long, small ropes or lines, which hung down at first, pulled straight, and the two racers stopped, and stood still, one close by the other. We could not imagine what this meant, but the reader may judge at our surprise when we found a man follow after, who had the ends of both those lines in his hands, and who, when he came up to them, gave each of them two frightful lashes with a wire whip or lash, which he held in the other hand. And then the two poor naked wretches run on again to the length of their line or tether, where they waited for the like salutation; and in this manner they danced the length of the whole street, which is about half-a-mile.

This was a dark prospect to my captain, and put him in mind, not only of what he was to expect if he made a slip in the way of his profession in this place, but also of what he had suffered when he was but a boy, at the famous place called Bridewell.

But this was not all; for, as we saw the execution, so we were curious to examine into the crime too; and we asked a young fellow who stood near us what the two men had done for which they suffered that punishment. The fellow, an unhappy, ill-natured Scotchman, perceived by our speech that we were Englishmen, and by our question that we were strangers, told us, with a malicious wit, that they were two Englishmen, and that they were whipped so for picking pockets, and other petty thieveries, and that they were afterwards to be sent away over the border into England.

Now this was every word of it false, and was only formed by his nimble invention to insult us as Englishmen; for when we inquired further, they were both Scotchmen, and were thus scourged for the usual offences for which we give the like punishment in England. And the man who held the line and scourged them was the city hangman, who (by the way) is there an officer of note, has a constant salary, and is a man of substance; and not only so, but a most dexterous fellow in his office, and makes a great deal of money of his employment.

This sight, however, was very shocking to us; and my captain turned to me: “Come,” says he, “let us go away; I won’t stay here any longer.” I was glad to hear him say so, but did not think he had meant or intended what he said. However, we went back to our quarters, and kept pretty much within, only that in the evenings we walked about. But even then my captain found no employment, no encouragement. Two or three times, indeed, he made a prize of some mercery and millinery goods; but when he had them he knew not what to do with them, so that, in short, he was forced to be honest in spite of his goodwill to be otherwise.

We remained here about a month, when, on a sudden, my captain was gone, horse and all, and I knew nothing what was become of him. Nor did I ever see or hear of him for eighteen months after, nor did he so much as leave the least notice for me, either whither he was gone or whether he would return to Edinburgh again or no.

I took his leaving me very heinously, not knowing what to do with myself, being a stranger in the place; and, on the other hand, my money abated apace too. I had for the most part of this time my horse upon my hands to keep; and as horses yield but a sorry price in Scotland, I found no opportunity to make much of him; and, on the other hand, I had a secret resolution, if I had gone back to England, to have restored him to the owner, at Puckeridge, by Ware. And so I should have wronged him of nothing but the use of him for so long a time; but I found an occasion to answer all my designs about the horse to advantage.

There came a man to the stabler—so they call the people at Edinburgh that take in horses to keep—and wanted to know if he could hear of any returned horses for England. My landlord, so we called him, came bluntly to me one day, and asked me if my horse was my own. It was an odd question, as my circumstances stood, and puzzled me at first; and I asked why, and what was the matter. “Because,” says he, “if it be a hired horse in England, as is often the case with Englishmen who come to Scotland, I could help you to send it back, and get you something for riding.” So he expressed himself.

I was very glad of the occasion, and, in short, took security there of the person for delivering the horse safe and sound, and had 15s. sterling for the riding him. Upon this agreement, I gave order to leave the horse at the Falcon, at Puckeridge, and where I heard, many years after, that he was honestly left, and that the owner had him again, but had nothing for the loan of him.

Being thus eased of the expense of my horse, and having nothing at all to do, I began to consider with myself what would become of me, and what I could turn my hand to. I had not much diminished my stock of money, for though I was all the way so wary that I would not join with my captain in his desperate attempts, yet I made no scruple to live at his expense, which, as I came out of England only to keep him company, had been but just, had I not known that all he had to spend upon me was what he robbed honest people of, and that I was all that while a receiver of stolen goods. But I was not come off so far then as to scruple that part at all.

In the next place, I was not so anxious about my money running low, because I knew what a reserve I had made at London. But still I was very willing to have engaged in any honest employment for a livelihood, for I was sick indeed of the wandering life which I had led, and was resolved to thieve no more. But then two or three things which I had offered me I lost, because I could not write or read.

This afflicted me a great while very much; but the stabler, as I have called him, delivered me from my anxiety that way by bringing me to an honest but a poor young man, who undertook to teach me both to write and read, and in a little time too, and for a small expense, if I would take pains at it. I promised all possible diligence, and to work I went with it, but found the writing much more difficult to me than the reading.

However, in half a year’s time, or thereabouts, I could read, and write too, tolerably well, insomuch that I began to think I was now fit for business. And I got by it into the service of a certain officer of the customs, who employed me for a time; but as he set me to do little but pass and repass between Leeds and Edinburgh, with the accounts which he kept for the farmers of the customs there, leaving me to live at my own expense till my wages should be due, I run out the little money I had left, in clothes and subsistence, and a little before the year’s end, when I was to have £12 English money, truly my master was turned out of his place; and, which was worse, having been charged with some misapplications, was obliged to take shelter in England, and so we that were servants, for there were three of us, were left to shift for ourselves.

This was a hard case for me in a strange place, and I was reduced by it to the last extremity. I might have gone for England, an English ship being there. The master proffered me to give me my passage (upon telling him my distress), and to take my word for the payment of 10s. when I came there. But my captain appeared just then under new circumstances, which obliged him not to go away, and I was loth to leave him. It seems we were yet further to take our fate together.

I have mentioned that he left me, and that I saw him no more for eighteen months. His rambles and adventures were many in that time. He went to Glasgow, played some remarkable pranks there, escaped almost miraculously from the gallows; got over to Ireland, wandered about there, turned raparee, and did some villainous things there, and escaped from Londonderry, over to the Highlands in the north of Scotland; and about a month before I was left destitute at Leith by my master, behold! my noble Captain Jacque came in there, on board the ferry-boat from Fife, being, after all adventures and successes, advanced to the dignity of a foot-soldier in a body of recruits raised in the north for the regiment of Douglas.