Chapter IX Old Newgate
We have all read, and we all know by hearsay, how, till within the last century, the prisons were worse than the lowest hovels. We know and honour the men and women by whose influence humanity was brought to bear upon them. What they must have been two centuries earlier passes all imagination.
We learn from old chronicles that as far back as 1218 the prison of Newgate existed. It was built in the portal of the new gate of the city, and from that fact took its name. Two centuries later it was rebuilt by the executors of the famous Sir Richard Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and his statue with his cat stood in a niche. This building was destroyed in the great fire of which we shall soon be telling. It was here, in old Newgate, that Colonel Newbolt was imprisoned—a noisome place, within high, dark, stone walls, without windows, where the prisoners were crowded together irrespective of age or sex. At the time we are writing of, it was crowded to excess. To obtain a wisp of straw to lie upon at night, and the space necessary for a litter, meant a hand-to-hand fight between the occupants.
The jailers reaped a rich harvest, charging fabulous prices for the merest necessaries. There was no provision made for sickness, not even for the ordinary decencies of life; men and women of every class were herded together.
It is easy to imagine Colonel Newbolt’s feelings when he was thrust into this den. On the first day he bore it with a certain amount of equanimity, feeling assured that he would be released on the morrow; but when two or three days passed by, and all the money he had on his person was expended, he was seriously disquieted, wondering why Reginald or some other of his friends did not come to his rescue. He could not know that Reginald had been daily at the prison, and had expended a considerable sum of money in pleading with the jailers for news of his father. He was dismissed with the assurance that his father’s name was not on the prison list; they could not find the man.
This answer was given purposely. It would not have suited the jailers to find their man too soon, for then the enquiry money would cease to fall into their pockets, so they sent Reginald to Aldersgate and to smaller jails, of which there were several. Four days had elapsed after his father’s arrest before Reginald was admitted into the prison and allowed to interview him.
He was horrified when he saw him. From a hale, fine-looking soldier he had dwindled into an old man, with sunken eyes and haggard face. His lace ruffles and jabot had been torn to shreds. He had had no change of linen, the lappets of his coat had been wrenched away, his head was bare, and his hair bleached.
He staggered as he came into the guard-room, and in his impotent rage shook his fist in Reginald’s face.
“What do you mean, sirrah,” he cried, “by leaving me in this condition?”
“Father, I did not leave you,” said Reginald, tears gathering in his eyes. “I have been here daily, and could get no news of you. They have sent me about to the right and to the left; only to-day have I found you.”
“The rascals!” said the colonel in a low voice, fearful of being overheard. “I am starved, Reginald,” he continued, “I am unclean. I would sooner die than remain thus; ay, they will kill me before they bring me to trial. Is this what the king promised us? Is this the royal clemency?”
“Hush, Father, hush!” said Reginald, for in his excitement he had raised his voice. “I have brought gold; I will see what I can do for you.”
He looked round, and seeing a keeper whose face seemed less evil than the others, he beckoned to him.
Slowly and sullenly the man came forward.
“Look here!” said Reginald, “if you can find the smallest cell in which my father can be alone I will give you fifty crowns.”
“If you offered me a hundred I couldn’t do it,” said the man; “the place is crowded from top to bottom, and more prisoners are coming in every hour.”
“But surely there must be some place less horrible than the one I am now in,” said Colonel Newbolt. “I am herded with the scum of the earth. I hear nothing but cursing and swearing all the live-long day and throughout the night. I am covered with vermin. I will give thee a hundred crowns, sirrah, if thou wilt get me out of this.”
The man thrust his hands into his pockets. A hundred crowns was an offer he did not often get.
“I am sick, sick unto death,” continued the colonel.
“Then I will report you to the head keeper,” said the man quickly, “and he will report you to the governor, and he will—I don’t know what he’ll think proper to do.”
“In the meantime must I go back to that hell?” said the colonel. “Give me a knife and let me cut my throat!”
“We don’t have that sort of thing done here,” answered the jailer; “we keep no knives and no ropes inside the jail.”
“Listen!” said Reginald. “Surely there must be some place, some cell in which there are three or four privileged prisoners, where you could manage to put my father until I take measures for his removal. Go at once and speak to the head jailer.”
Saying this, Reginald put money into the man’s hand. “Not a groat more do you get,” he said, “if you do not succeed, but I will double it if you do.”
He turned away, and, taking his father by the arm, succeeded in finding a seat in a far corner of the room.
“See, Father, I have brought you food!” he said. He cut the strings of a basket which he had been carrying and drew forth a pasty, some white bread, and a flask of brandy.
The prisoner flew at the brandy. Reginald was forced to stop him.
“Gently, Father, gently,” he said, “you will make yourself ill; there is no hurry.” And he handed him bread and meat, which he ate ravenously.
The keepers, noting that the young man wore the king’s uniform, and that the old man, even in his soiled clothes, had an air of distinction, let them be. Besides, Reginald was generous with his money; he knew there was no other means by which to gain a little respite.
When his father had eaten and drunk, more perhaps than was good for him, he laid his head back on the wall and went to sleep. Reginald kept watch over him. Once or twice the keepers came up and would have roused him and sent him back to the common prison, but Reginald pleaded:
“Let him be a little longer,” he said; “I am waiting for a message from the governor.” Again money passed from hand to hand, and they were let alone.
Not till the day was far advanced did the first keeper return.
“The governor will see you,” he said; “follow me.”
Reginald looked at his father. If he roused him now would he be sensible?
“Father!” he said, bending over him.
The colonel started and opened his eyes, but his mind seemed to be wandering. He stood up, gave the word of command, as if he had been on parade, then, looking round him, he said: “Where am I? What does it mean?”
“He is in delirium,” said Reginald in a low voice to the keeper. “Take hold of him on one side and I will take him on the other; the governor can judge for himself.” So they crossed the room, the old man muttering and talking to himself, until they came to the governor’s room.
To Reginald’s surprise, he proved to be an old friend of his father’s, who, however, had kept fairly quiet, and had not been in any way offensive either to the Commonwealth or to the king’s Government. It was not in his power to remedy the state of the prison, and he had no thought of attempting to do so. A prison was a prison in those days. Prisoners, if refractory, were chained up like wild beasts and kept on bread and water. They lived or died, as the case might be; some went under at once, others, thanks to stronger constitutions, managed to survive, until they were dragged on hurdles to execution, or by some lucky chance found their way out of that prison-house, brutalized, hating both God and man.
When the governor, looking up, saw Reginald and his father, he said shortly:
“When I heard your name, I wondered what Newbolt it was. How happens it that your father has let himself fall into this strait? I thought he was a cleverer man.”
“There must be a traitor somewhere,” said Reginald. “My father has taken the oath of allegiance; he went with General Monk to meet the king on his return. I, who have never drawn sword in any other cause, hold a commission from the king in his own Guards. But some traitor has informed his majesty of what, alas! is only too true, that my father was captain of a body of troops who kept the streets at the time of the execution of his most gracious majesty, Charles I—hence his arrest.”
“Ah, that is compromising!” said the governor. “Do you know who the informant was?”
“No, I do not,” answered Reginald, “but I will make it my business to find out. There is no denying the fact that my father was on duty that day. He was arrested four days ago, and see what it has made of him! He was a strong, hale man when he came here. I ask your clemency for him.”
“It is a common case,” said the governor. “The class of men to which your father belongs cannot stand this place. I will do what I can. He has caught jail fever. Put him in yonder chair.”
The keeper and Reginald obeyed, the old man talking and jabbering all the time.
Reginald stood before the governor, who continued: “You see, we cannot put him back into the public room, and there is not a free cell. You may believe me or not as you choose, the prison is literally swarming. Knight,” he said, addressing the keeper, “is there any hole you can give the colonel to lie in until I can get him removed?”
“There is the cell at the end of the right-hand corridor, where that madman was confined; he died yesterday. His body was thrown out to-day, but the cell has not been cleaned yet; it is not fit to put even a dog into.”
“Let it be done immediately,” said the governor. “Let fresh straw be laid down and the colonel carried thither. I give him into your hands, Knight. I think you will find it worth your while to treat him well,” he added, with a glance at Reginald.
“I have promised him a hundred crowns; I do not care if I make it two hundred,” answered the young man.
“Sir,” said Knight, “I thank you. May I leave the gentleman here whilst I see to the cleaning of that dog’s kennel?”
The governor nodded.
Worn out, the colonel’s head fell on his breast; he was in a sort of coma.
“I’ll write a letter,” said the governor, “which you may take to the Secretary of State, or, if you prefer it, to the king himself. If you can get an audience, that might be better. If your father is really to be prosecuted, he must be removed from this prison to Aldersgate.”
“I do not think he will be removed anywhere except fro his last resting-place,” said Reginald.
“Tut, tut! men do not die so easily,” said the governor. “That is our strong point. I will represent that if the colonel is left here he will certainly die, and then who would pay the fine, which will be the least thing imposed upon him? The king’s exchequer, they say, is empty, and there is nothing to be got out of a dead dog; therefore, you see, it is to their interest to keep him alive. Rest assured they will nurse him with the utmost tenderness, so that, if he be hanged, he may be hanged alive, and his lands forfeited to the crown. If he dies now, you will inherit; you have committed no misdemeanour. On the contrary, you are the king’s man, and they cannot, in all decency, prosecute you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” said Reginald, with evident disgust. “Write the letter for me, sir, and I will carry it.”
The governor scrawled a few lines, folded it, and gave it to Reginald.
“I think you will find that serve your purpose,” he said.
“May I send clean linen and clothes for my father?” asked Reginald. “He cannot remain as he is.”
“I should advise you to send nothing, but to bring everything,” said the governor; “otherwise I greatly fear he will not benefit much. This is a den of thieves and robbers.”
Reginald hesitated for a moment, then he said:
“And my mother! When she knows I have found my father, nothing will keep her away.”
The governor shrugged his shoulders.
“Then you must bring her, that is all,” he said. “Knight will let you in the back way. Your father will not be so bad to look at when he is in his new cell. Now you must be gone; I have given you more time, young man, than I have favoured anyone with for months. Look through that window in the wall and you will see the crowd waiting to interview me.”
“I am more than grateful to you, sir,” said Reginald.
“All right, all right!” answered the governor, holding out his hand. “We will try to pull him through; not that it will be easy, I warn you.”
“I fear not,” answered Reginald; “nevertheless I thank you, sir,” and, bowing to the governor, he turned round to where his father still sat in a deep, heavy slumber: his face was crimson, his hands, as Reginald felt them, were burning.
“I have cleaned the place up as best I could, sir. Shall we take him there at once?” said Knight, coming up.
“Yes,” said Reginald shortly; and between them they carried the colonel down two or three long passages, lined on either side with cells. At the very end there was an open door, showing a cell of about eight feet square. Upon the ground in one corner was a heap of straw, which, with a table and a chair, both riveted to the wall, and a basin, completed the furniture.
“I found this here thing in the corner of the public room where the gentleman has been lying. I don’t know how it has escaped the eyes of his late companions, but it has. I got it and brought it here. He will want it,” said Knight.
Reginald recognized his father’s cloak, so they wrapped him up in it and laid him in the straw which was strewn on the damp floor.
“Look here, man,” said Reginald, “I must go. I have pressing business. Here are the hundred crowns I promised you, and for every week he stays here and you care for him decently, you shall have as much again. I shall be back in a couple of hours with sheets and bedding, and all that is necessary for his comfort. You must fetch the doctor, and whatever he orders that you must provide.”
“Very good, sir, I understand,” said Knight. “But I have other duties, you know; I cannot be always here.”
“Pass them over to someone else. I’ll pay, as paying is the order of the day. Do you agree?”
“I should be a fool not to,” answered Knight. “I’ll see to the old man; you shall have nothing to complain of.” And with that half-promise Reginald was obliged to be satisfied. With one more look at his father he went out.
Knight followed him, closing and locking the door.
“You will lose your way unless I take you out,” he said to Reginald. “You had better not come in at the front gate in future.”
So saying he guided him into a small courtyard, which was evidently seldom used. In it was a huge mastiff, which walked to and fro, snarling and growling. He sprang forward to meet the two men, and would have flown at Reginald if Knight had not caught him by the collar.
“Speak to him, caress him, then in future he will never hurt you,” he said. “When you come back, bring him food; you must be friends.”
Reginald had a great liking for all animals. He spoke to the mastiff, which, after a few minutes’ inspection, sniffed around, and suffered him to stroke him.
“That’s all right,” said Knight, satisfied.
Taking a key off a bunch at his side he opened a side gate, and Reginald passed out into the street opposite the Old Bailey.
“You have only to ring that bell when you return,” he said, pointing to a long iron chain by the door. “I shall answer.”
Reginald nodded, and went forth with a heavy heart, feeling as if years had passed over his head since he penetrated within the mighty walls which separated the prison of Newgate and its inmates from the outside world.